"A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man\n\n\nby\n\nJames Joyce\n\n\n<p>\n_\"Et ignotas animum dimittit in artes.\"\nOvid, Metamorphoses, VIII., 18._\n</p>\n\nChapter 1\n\n\nOnce upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming\ndown along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road\nmet a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo...\n\nHis father told him that story: his father looked at him through a\nglass: he had a hairy face.\n\nHe was baby tuckoo. The moocow came down the road where Betty Byrne\nlived: she sold lemon platt.\n\n    O, the wild rose blossoms\n    On the little green place.\n\nHe sang that song. That was his song.\n\n    O, the green wothe botheth.\n\nWhen you wet the bed first it is warm then it gets cold. His mother put\non the oilsheet. That had the queer smell.\n\nHis mother had a nicer smell than his father. She played on the piano\nthe sailor's hornpipe for him to dance. He danced:\n\n    Tralala lala,\n    Tralala tralaladdy,\n    Tralala lala,\n    Tralala lala.\n\nUncle Charles and Dante clapped. They were older than his father and\nmother but uncle Charles was older than Dante.\n\nDante had two brushes in her press. The brush with the maroon velvet\nback was for Michael Davitt and the brush with the green velvet back\nwas for Parnell. Dante gave him a cachou every time he brought her a\npiece of tissue paper.\n\nThe Vances lived in number seven. They had a different father and\nmother. They were Eileen's father and mother. When they were grown up\nhe was going to marry Eileen. He hid under the table. His mother said:\n\n--O, Stephen will apologize.\n\nDante said:\n\n--O, if not, the eagles will come and pull out his eyes.--\n\n    Pull out his eyes,\n    Apologize,\n    Apologize,\n    Pull out his eyes.\n    Apologize,\n    Pull out his eyes,\n    Pull out his eyes,\n    Apologize.\n\n* * * * *\n\nThe wide playgrounds were swarming with boys. All were shouting and the\nprefects urged them on with strong cries. The evening air was pale and\nchilly and after every charge and thud of the footballers the greasy\nleather orb flew like a heavy bird through the grey light. He kept on\nthe fringe of his line, out of sight of his prefect, out of the reach\nof the rude feet, feigning to run now and then. He felt his body small\nand weak amid the throng of the players and his eyes were weak and\nwatery. Rody Kickham was not like that: he would be captain of the\nthird line all the fellows said.\n\nRody Kickham was a decent fellow but Nasty Roche was a stink. Rody\nKickham had greaves in his number and a hamper in the refectory. Nasty\nRoche had big hands. He called the Friday pudding dog-in-the-blanket.\nAnd one day he had asked:\n\n--What is your name?\n\nStephen had answered: Stephen Dedalus.\n\nThen Nasty Roche had said:\n\n--What kind of a name is that?\n\nAnd when Stephen had not been able to answer Nasty Roche had asked:\n\n--What is your father?\n\nStephen had answered:\n\n--A gentleman.\n\nThen Nasty Roche had asked:\n\n--Is he a magistrate?\n\nHe crept about from point to point on the fringe of his line, making\nlittle runs now and then. But his hands were bluish with cold. He kept\nhis hands in the side pockets of his belted grey suit. That was a belt\nround his pocket. And belt was also to give a fellow a belt. One day a\nfellow said to Cantwell:\n\n--I'd give you such a belt in a second.\n\nCantwell had answered:\n\n--Go and fight your match. Give Cecil Thunder a belt. I'd like to see\nyou. He'd give you a toe in the rump for yourself.\n\nThat was not a nice expression. His mother had told him not to speak\nwith the rough boys in the college. Nice mother! The first day in the\nhall of the castle when she had said goodbye she had put up her veil\ndouble to her nose to kiss him: and her nose and eyes were red. But he\nhad pretended not to see that she was going to cry. She was a nice\nmother but she was not so nice when she cried. And his father had given\nhim two five-shilling pieces for pocket money. And his father had told\nhim if he wanted anything to write home to him and, whatever he did,\nnever to peach on a fellow. Then at the door of the castle the rector\nhad shaken hands with his father and mother, his soutane fluttering in\nthe breeze, and the car had driven off with his father and mother on\nit. They had cried to him from the car, waving their hands:\n\n--Goodbye, Stephen, goodbye!\n\n--Goodbye, Stephen, goodbye!\n\nHe was caught in the whirl of a scrimmage and, fearful of the flashing\neyes and muddy boots, bent down to look through the legs. The fellows\nwere struggling and groaning and their legs were rubbing and kicking\nand stamping. Then Jack Lawton's yellow boots dodged out the ball and\nall the other boots and legs ran after. He ran after them a little way\nand then stopped. It was useless to run on. Soon they would be going\nhome for the holidays. After supper in the study hall he would change\nthe number pasted up inside his desk from seventy-seven to seventy-six.\n\nIt would be better to be in the study hall than out there in the cold.\nThe sky was pale and cold but there were lights in the castle. He\nwondered from which window Hamilton Rowan had thrown his hat on the\nha-ha and had there been flowerbeds at that time under the windows. One\nday when he had been called to the castle the butler had shown him the\nmarks of the soldiers' slugs in the wood of the door and had given him\na piece of shortbread that the community ate. It was nice and warm to\nsee the lights in the castle. It was like something in a book. Perhaps\nLeicester Abbey was like that. And there were nice sentences in Doctor\nCornwell's Spelling Book. They were like poetry but they were only\nsentences to learn the spelling from.\n\n\n    Wolsey died in Leicester Abbey\n    Where the abbots buried him.\n    Canker is a disease of plants,\n    Cancer one of animals.\n\n\nIt would be nice to lie on the hearthrug before the fire, leaning his\nhead upon his hands, and think on those sentences. He shivered as if he\nhad cold slimy water next his skin. That was mean of Wells to shoulder\nhim into the square ditch because he would not swop his little snuff\nbox for Wells's seasoned hacking chestnut, the conqueror of forty. How\ncold and slimy the water had been! A fellow had once seen a big rat\njump into the scum. Mother was sitting at the fire with Dante waiting\nfor Brigid to bring in the tea. She had her feet on the fender and her\njewelly slippers were so hot and they had such a lovely warm smell!\nDante knew a lot of things. She had taught him where the Mozambique\nChannel was and what was the longest river in America and what was the\nname of the highest mountain in the moon. Father Arnall knew more than\nDante because he was a priest but both his father and uncle Charles\nsaid that Dante was a clever woman and a well-read woman. And when\nDante made that noise after dinner and then put up her hand to her\nmouth: that was heartburn.\n\nA voice cried far out on the playground:\n\n--All in!\n\nThen other voices cried from the lower and third lines:\n\n--All in! All in!\n\nThe players closed around, flushed and muddy, and he went among them,\nglad to go in. Rody Kickham held the ball by its greasy lace. A fellow\nasked him to give it one last: but he walked on without even answering\nthe fellow. Simon Moonan told him not to because the prefect was\nlooking. The fellow turned to Simon Moonan and said:\n\n--We all know why you speak. You are McGlade's suck.\n\nSuck was a queer word. The fellow called Simon Moonan that name because\nSimon Moonan used to tie the prefect's false sleeves behind his back\nand the prefect used to let on to be angry. But the sound was ugly.\nOnce he had washed his hands in the lavatory of the Wicklow Hotel and\nhis father pulled the stopper up by the chain after and the dirty water\nwent down through the hole in the basin. And when it had all gone down\nslowly the hole in the basin had made a sound like that: suck. Only\nlouder.\n\nTo remember that and the white look of the lavatory made him feel cold\nand then hot. There were two cocks that you turned and water came out:\ncold and hot. He felt cold and then a little hot: and he could see the\nnames printed on the cocks. That was a very queer thing.\n\nAnd the air in the corridor chilled him too. It was queer and wettish.\nBut soon the gas would be lit and in burning it made a light noise like\na little song. Always the same: and when the fellows stopped talking in\nthe playroom you could hear it.\n\nIt was the hour for sums. Father Arnall wrote a hard sum on the board\nand then said:\n\n--Now then, who will win? Go ahead, York! Go ahead, Lancaster!\n\nStephen tried his best, but the sum was too hard and he felt confused.\nThe little silk badge with the white rose on it that was pinned on the\nbreast of his jacket began to flutter. He was no good at sums, but he\ntried his best so that York might not lose. Father Arnall's face looked\nvery black, but he was not in a wax: he was laughing. Then Jack Lawton\ncracked his fingers and Father Arnall looked at his copybook and said:\n\n--Right. Bravo Lancaster! The red rose wins. Come on now, York! Forge\nahead!\n\nJack Lawton looked over from his side. The little silk badge with the\nred rose on it looked very rich because he had a blue sailor top on.\nStephen felt his own face red too, thinking of all the bets about who\nwould get first place in elements, Jack Lawton or he. Some weeks Jack\nLawton got the card for first and some weeks he got the card for first.\nHis white silk badge fluttered and fluttered as he worked at the next\nsum and heard Father Arnall's voice. Then all his eagerness passed away\nand he felt his face quite cool. He thought his face must be white\nbecause it felt so cool. He could not get out the answer for the sum\nbut it did not matter. White roses and red roses: those were beautiful\ncolours to think of. And the cards for first place and second place and\nthird place were beautiful colours too: pink and cream and lavender.\nLavender and cream and pink roses were beautiful to think of. Perhaps a\nwild rose might be like those colours and he remembered the song about\nthe wild rose blossoms on the little green place. But you could not\nhave a green rose. But perhaps somewhere in the world you could.\n\nThe bell rang and then the classes began to file out of the rooms and\nalong the corridors towards the refectory. He sat looking at the two\nprints of butter on his plate but could not eat the damp bread. The\ntablecloth was damp and limp. But he drank off the hot weak tea which\nthe clumsy scullion, girt with a white apron, poured into his cup. He\nwondered whether the scullion's apron was damp too or whether all white\nthings were cold and damp. Nasty Roche and Saurin drank cocoa that\ntheir people sent them in tins. They said they could not drink the tea;\nthat it was hogwash. Their fathers were magistrates, the fellows said.\n\nAll the boys seemed to him very strange. They had all fathers and\nmothers and different clothes and voices. He longed to be at home and\nlay his head on his mother's lap. But he could not: and so he longed\nfor the play and study and prayers to be over and to be in bed.\n\nHe drank another cup of hot tea and Fleming said:\n\n--What's up? Have you a pain or what's up with you?\n\n--I don't know, Stephen said.\n\n--Sick in your breadbasket, Fleming said, because your face looks\nwhite. It will go away.\n\n--O yes, Stephen said.\n\nBut he was not sick there. He thought that he was sick in his heart if\nyou could be sick in that place. Fleming was very decent to ask him. He\nwanted to cry. He leaned his elbows on the table and shut and opened\nthe flaps of his ears. Then he heard the noise of the refectory every\ntime he opened the flaps of his ears. It made a roar like a train at\nnight. And when he closed the flaps the roar was shut off like a train\ngoing into a tunnel. That night at Dalkey the train had roared like\nthat and then, when it went into the tunnel, the roar stopped. He\nclosed his eyes and the train went on, roaring and then stopping;\nroaring again, stopping. It was nice to hear it roar and stop and then\nroar out of the tunnel again and then stop.\n\nThen the higher line fellows began to come down along the matting in\nthe middle of the refectory, Paddy Rath and Jimmy Magee and the\nSpaniard who was allowed to smoke cigars and the little Portuguese who\nwore the woolly cap. And then the lower line tables and the tables of\nthe third line. And every single fellow had a different way of walking.\n\nHe sat in a corner of the playroom pretending to watch a game of\ndominoes and once or twice he was able to hear for an instant the\nlittle song of the gas. The prefect was at the door with some boys and\nSimon Moonan was knotting his false sleeves. He was telling them\nsomething about Tullabeg.\n\nThen he went away from the door and Wells came over to Stephen and\nsaid:\n\n--Tell us, Dedalus, do you kiss your mother before you go to bed?\n\nStephen answered:\n\n--I do.\n\nWells turned to the other fellows and said:\n\n--O, I say, here's a fellow says he kisses his mother every night\nbefore he goes to bed.\n\nThe other fellows stopped their game and turned round, laughing.\nStephen blushed under their eyes and said:\n\n--I do not.\n\nWells said:\n\n--O, I say, here's a fellow says he doesn't kiss his mother before he\ngoes to bed.\n\nThey all laughed again. Stephen tried to laugh with them. He felt his\nwhole body hot and confused in a moment. What was the right answer to\nthe question? He had given two and still Wells laughed. But Wells must\nknow the right answer for he was in third of grammar. He tried to think\nof Wells's mother but he did not dare to raise his eyes to Wells's\nface. He did not like Wells's face. It was Wells who had shouldered him\ninto the square ditch the day before because he would not swop his\nlittle snuff box for Wells's seasoned hacking chestnut, the conqueror\nof forty. It was a mean thing to do; all the fellows said it was. And\nhow cold and slimy the water had been! And a fellow had once seen a big\nrat jump plop into the scum.\n\nThe cold slime of the ditch covered his whole body; and, when the bell\nrang for study and the lines filed out of the playrooms, he felt the\ncold air of the corridor and staircase inside his clothes. He still\ntried to think what was the right answer. Was it right to kiss his\nmother or wrong to kiss his mother? What did that mean, to kiss? You\nput your face up like that to say good night and then his mother put\nher face down. That was to kiss. His mother put her lips on his cheek;\nher lips were soft and they wetted his cheek; and they made a tiny\nlittle noise: kiss. Why did people do that with their two faces?\n\nSitting in the study hall he opened the lid of his desk and changed the\nnumber pasted up inside from seventy-seven to seventy-six. But the\nChristmas vacation was very far away: but one time it would come\nbecause the earth moved round always.\n\nThere was a picture of the earth on the first page of his geography: a\nbig ball in the middle of clouds. Fleming had a box of crayons and one\nnight during free study he had coloured the earth green and the clouds\nmaroon. That was like the two brushes in Dante's press, the brush with\nthe green velvet back for Parnell and the brush with the maroon velvet\nback for Michael Davitt. But he had not told Fleming to colour them\nthose colours. Fleming had done it himself.\n\nHe opened the geography to study the lesson; but he could not learn the\nnames of places in America. Still they were all different places that\nhad different names. They were all in different countries and the\ncountries were in continents and the continents were in the world and\nthe world was in the universe.\n\nHe turned to the flyleaf of the geography and read what he had written\nthere: himself, his name and where he was.\n\n\n    Stephen Dedalus\n    Class of Elements\n    Clongowes Wood College\n    Sallins\n    County Kildare\n    Ireland\n    Europe\n    The World\n    The Universe\n\n\nThat was in his writing: and Fleming one night for a cod had written on\nthe opposite page:\n\n\n    Stephen Dedalus is my name,\n    Ireland is my nation.\n    Clongowes is my dwellingplace\n    And heaven my expectation.\n\n\nHe read the verses backwards but then they were not poetry. Then he\nread the flyleaf from the bottom to the top till he came to his own\nname. That was he: and he read down the page again. What was after the\nuniverse?\n\nNothing. But was there anything round the universe to show where it\nstopped before the nothing place began?\n\nIt could not be a wall; but there could be a thin thin line there all\nround everything. It was very big to think about everything and\neverywhere. Only God could do that. He tried to think what a big\nthought that must be; but he could only think of God. God was God's\nname just as his name was Stephen. DIEU was the French for God and that\nwas God's name too; and when anyone prayed to God and said DIEU then\nGod knew at once that it was a French person that was praying. But,\nthough there were different names for God in all the different\nlanguages in the world and God understood what all the people who\nprayed said in their different languages, still God remained always the\nsame God and God's real name was God.\n\nIt made him very tired to think that way. It made him feel his head\nvery big. He turned over the flyleaf and looked wearily at the green\nround earth in the middle of the maroon clouds. He wondered which was\nright, to be for the green or for the maroon, because Dante had ripped\nthe green velvet back off the brush that was for Parnell one day with\nher scissors and had told him that Parnell was a bad man. He wondered\nif they were arguing at home about that. That was called politics.\nThere were two sides in it: Dante was on one side and his father and Mr\nCasey were on the other side but his mother and uncle Charles were on\nno side. Every day there was something in the paper about it.\n\nIt pained him that he did not know well what politics meant and that he\ndid not know where the universe ended. He felt small and weak. When\nwould he be like the fellows in poetry and rhetoric? They had big\nvoices and big boots and they studied trigonometry. That was very far\naway. First came the vacation and then the next term and then vacation\nagain and then again another term and then again the vacation. It was\nlike a train going in and out of tunnels and that was like the noise of\nthe boys eating in the refectory when you opened and closed the flaps\nof the ears. Term, vacation; tunnel, out; noise, stop. How far away it\nwas! It was better to go to bed to sleep. Only prayers in the chapel\nand then bed. He shivered and yawned. It would be lovely in bed after\nthe sheets got a bit hot. First they were so cold to get into. He\nshivered to think how cold they were first. But then they got hot and\nthen he could sleep. It was lovely to be tired. He yawned again. Night\nprayers and then bed: he shivered and wanted to yawn. It would be\nlovely in a few minutes. He felt a warm glow creeping up from the cold\nshivering sheets, warmer and warmer till he felt warm all over, ever so\nwarm and yet he shivered a little and still wanted to yawn.\n\nThe bell rang for night prayers and he filed out of the study hall\nafter the others and down the staircase and along the corridors to the\nchapel. The corridors were darkly lit and the chapel was darkly lit.\nSoon all would be dark and sleeping. There was cold night air in the\nchapel and the marbles were the colour the sea was at night. The sea\nwas cold day and night: but it was colder at night. It was cold and\ndark under the seawall beside his father's house. But the kettle would\nbe on the hob to make punch.\n\nThe prefect of the chapel prayed above his head and his memory knew the\nresponses:\n\n\n    O Lord open our lips\n    And our mouths shall announce Thy praise.\n    Incline unto our aid, O God!\n    O Lord make haste to help us!\n\n\nThere was a cold night smell in the chapel. But it was a holy smell. It\nwas not like the smell of the old peasants who knelt at the back of the\nchapel at Sunday mass. That was a smell of air and rain and turf and\ncorduroy. But they were very holy peasants. They breathed behind him on\nhis neck and sighed as they prayed. They lived in Clane, a fellow said:\nthere were little cottages there and he had seen a woman standing at\nthe half-door of a cottage with a child in her arms as the cars had\ncome past from Sallins. It would be lovely to sleep for one night in\nthat cottage before the fire of smoking turf, in the dark lit by the\nfire, in the warm dark, breathing the smell of the peasants, air and\nrain and turf and corduroy. But O, the road there between the trees\nwas dark! You would be lost in the dark. It made him afraid to think\nof how it was.\n\nHe heard the voice of the prefect of the chapel saying the last\nprayers. He prayed it too against the dark outside under the trees.\n\n\n  VISIT, WE BESEECH THEE, O LORD, THIS HABITATION AND DRIVE\n  AWAY FROM IT ALL THE SNARES OF THE ENEMY. MAY THY HOLY\n  ANGELS DWELL HEREIN TO PRESERVE US IN PEACE AND MAY THY\n  BLESSINGS BE ALWAYS UPON US THROUGH CHRIST OUR LORD.\n  AMEN.\n\n\nHis fingers trembled as he undressed himself in the dormitory. He told\nhis fingers to hurry up. He had to undress and then kneel and say his\nown prayers and be in bed before the gas was lowered so that he might\nnot go to hell when he died. He rolled his stockings off and put on his\nnightshirt quickly and knelt trembling at his bedside and repeated his\nprayers quickly, fearing that the gas would go down. He felt his\nshoulders shaking as he murmured:\n\n    God bless my father and my mother and spare them to me!\n    God bless my little brothers and sisters and spare them to me!\n    God bless Dante and Uncle Charles and spare them to me!\n\n\nHe blessed himself and climbed quickly into bed and, tucking the end of\nthe nightshirt under his feet, curled himself together under the cold\nwhite sheets, shaking and trembling. But he would not go to hell when\nhe died; and the shaking would stop. A voice bade the boys in the\ndormitory good night. He peered out for an instant over the coverlet\nand saw the yellow curtains round and before his bed that shut him off\non all sides. The light was lowered quietly.\n\nThe prefect's shoes went away. Where? Down the staircase and along the\ncorridors or to his room at the end? He saw the dark. Was it true about\nthe black dog that walked there at night with eyes as big as\ncarriage-lamps? They said it was the ghost of a murderer. A long shiver\nof fear flowed over his body. He saw the dark entrance hall of the\ncastle. Old servants in old dress were in the ironing-room above the\nstaircase. It was long ago. The old servants were quiet. There was a\nfire there, but the hall was still dark. A figure came up the staircase\nfrom the hall. He wore the white cloak of a marshal; his face was pale\nand strange; he held his hand pressed to his side. He looked out of\nstrange eyes at the old servants. They looked at him and saw their\nmaster's face and cloak and knew that he had received his death-wound.\nBut only the dark was where they looked: only dark silent air. Their\nmaster had received his death-wound on the battlefield of Prague far\naway over the sea. He was standing on the field; his hand was pressed\nto his side; his face was pale and strange and he wore the white cloak\nof a marshal.\n\nO how cold and strange it was to think of that! All the dark was cold\nand strange. There were pale strange faces there, great eyes like\ncarriage-lamps. They were the ghosts of murderers, the figures of\nmarshals who had received their death-wound on battlefields far away\nover the sea. What did they wish to say that their faces were so\nstrange?\n\n\nVISIT, WE BESEECH THEE, O LORD, THIS HABITATION AND DRIVE AWAY FROM IT\nALL...\n\n\nGoing home for the holidays! That would be lovely: the fellows had told\nhim. Getting up on the cars in the early wintry morning outside the\ndoor of the castle. The cars were rolling on the gravel. Cheers for the\nrector!\n\nHurray! Hurray! Hurray!\n\nThe cars drove past the chapel and all caps were raised. They drove\nmerrily along the country roads. The drivers pointed with their whips\nto Bodenstown. The fellows cheered. They passed the farmhouse\nof the Jolly Farmer. Cheer after cheer after cheer. Through Clane they\ndrove, cheering and cheered. The peasant women stood at the half-doors,\nthe men stood here and there. The lovely smell there was in the wintry\nair: the smell of Clane: rain and wintry air and turf smouldering and\ncorduroy.\n\nThe train was full of fellows: a long long chocolate train with cream\nfacings. The guards went to and fro opening, closing, locking,\nunlocking the doors. They were men in dark blue and silver; they had\nsilvery whistles and their keys made a quick music: click, click:\nclick, click.\n\nAnd the train raced on over the flat lands and past the Hill of Allen.\nThe telegraph poles were passing, passing. The train went on and on. It\nknew. There were lanterns in the hall of his father's house and ropes\nof green branches. There were holly and ivy round the pierglass and\nholly and ivy, green and red, twined round the chandeliers. There were\nred holly and green ivy round the old portraits on the walls. Holly and\nivy for him and for Christmas.\n\nLovely...\n\nAll the people. Welcome home, Stephen! Noises of welcome. His mother\nkissed him. Was that right? His father was a marshal now: higher than a\nmagistrate. Welcome home, Stephen!\n\nNoises...\n\nThere was a noise of curtain-rings running back along the rods, of\nwater being splashed in the basins. There was a noise of rising and\ndressing and washing in the dormitory: a noise of clapping of hands as\nthe prefect went up and down telling the fellows to look sharp. A pale\nsunlight showed the yellow curtains drawn back, the tossed beds. His\nbed was very hot and his face and body were very hot.\n\nHe got up and sat on the side of his bed. He was weak. He tried to pull\non his stocking. It had a horrid rough feel. The sunlight was queer and\ncold.\n\nFleming said:\n\n--Are you not well?\n\nHe did not know; and Fleming said:\n\n--Get back into bed. I'll tell McGlade you're not well.\n\n--He's sick.\n\n--Who is?\n\n--Tell McGlade.\n\n--Get back into bed.\n\n--Is he sick?\n\nA fellow held his arms while he loosened the stocking clinging to his\nfoot and climbed back into the hot bed.\n\nHe crouched down between the sheets, glad of their tepid glow. He heard\nthe fellows talk among themselves about him as they dressed for mass.\nIt was a mean thing to do, to shoulder him into the square ditch, they\nwere saying.\n\nThen their voices ceased; they had gone. A voice at his bed said:\n\n--Dedalus, don't spy on us, sure you won't?\n\nWells's face was there. He looked at it and saw that Wells was afraid.\n\n--I didn't mean to. Sure you won't?\n\nHis father had told him, whatever he did, never to peach on a fellow.\nHe shook his head and answered no and felt glad.\n\nWells said:\n\n--I didn't mean to, honour bright. It was only for cod. I'm sorry.\n\nThe face and the voice went away. Sorry because he was afraid. Afraid\nthat it was some disease. Canker was a disease of plants and cancer one\nof animals: or another different. That was a long time ago then out on\nthe playgrounds in the evening light, creeping from point to point on\nthe fringe of his line, a heavy bird flying low through the grey light.\nLeicester Abbey lit up. Wolsey died there. The abbots buried him\nthemselves.\n\nIt was not Wells's face, it was the prefect's. He was not foxing. No,\nno: he was sick really. He was not foxing. And he felt the prefect's\nhand on his forehead; and he felt his forehead warm and damp against\nthe prefect's cold damp hand. That was the way a rat felt, slimy and\ndamp and cold. Every rat had two eyes to look out of. Sleek slimy\ncoats, little little feet tucked up to jump, black slimy eyes to look\nout of. They could understand how to jump. But the minds of rats could\nnot understand trigonometry. When they were dead they lay on their\nsides. Their coats dried then. They were only dead things.\n\nThe prefect was there again and it was his voice that was saying that\nhe was to get up, that Father Minister had said he was to get up and\ndress and go to the infirmary. And while he was dressing himself as\nquickly as he could the prefect said:\n\n--We must pack off to Brother Michael because we have the\ncollywobbles!\n\nHe was very decent to say that. That was all to make him laugh. But he\ncould not laugh because his cheeks and lips were all shivery: and then\nthe prefect had to laugh by himself.\n\nThe prefect cried:\n\n--Quick march! Hayfoot! Strawfoot!\n\nThey went together down the staircase and along the corridor and past\nthe bath. As he passed the door he remembered with a vague fear the\nwarm turf-coloured bogwater, the warm moist air, the noise of plunges,\nthe smell of the towels, like medicine.\n\nBrother Michael was standing at the door of the infirmary and from the\ndoor of the dark cabinet on his right came a smell like medicine. That\ncame from the bottles on the shelves. The prefect spoke to Brother\nMichael and Brother Michael answered and called the prefect sir. He had\nreddish hair mixed with grey and a queer look. It was queer that he\nwould always be a brother. It was queer too that you could not call him\nsir because he was a brother and had a different kind of look. Was he\nnot holy enough or why could he not catch up on the others?\n\nThere were two beds in the room and in one bed there was a fellow: and\nwhen they went in he called out:\n\n--Hello! It's young Dedalus! What's up?\n\n--The sky is up, Brother Michael said.\n\nHe was a fellow out of the third of grammar and, while Stephen was\nundressing, he asked Brother Michael to bring him a round of buttered\ntoast.\n\n--Ah, do! he said.\n\n--Butter you up! said Brother Michael. You'll get your walking papers\nin the morning when the doctor comes.\n\n--Will I? the fellow said. I'm not well yet.\n\nBrother Michael repeated:\n\n--You'll get your walking papers. I tell you.\n\nHe bent down to rake the fire. He had a long back like the long back of\na tramhorse. He shook the poker gravely and nodded his head at the\nfellow out of third of grammar.\n\nThen Brother Michael went away and after a while the fellow out of\nthird of grammar turned in towards the wall and fell asleep.\n\nThat was the infirmary. He was sick then. Had they written home to tell\nhis mother and father? But it would be quicker for one of the priests\nto go himself to tell them. Or he would write a letter for the priest\nto bring.\n\n\n    Dear Mother,\n\n    I am sick. I want to go home. Please come and take me home.\n    I am in the infirmary.\n\n    Your fond son,\n    Stephen\n\n\nHow far away they were! There was cold sunlight outside the window. He\nwondered if he would die. You could die just the same on a sunny day.\nHe might die before his mother came. Then he would have a dead mass in\nthe chapel like the way the fellows had told him it was when Little had\ndied. All the fellows would be at the mass, dressed in black, all with\nsad faces. Wells too would be there but no fellow would look at him.\nThe rector would be there in a cope of black and gold and there would\nbe tall yellow candles on the altar and round the catafalque. And they\nwould carry the coffin out of the chapel slowly and he would be buried\nin the little graveyard of the community off the main avenue of limes.\nAnd Wells would be sorry then for what he had done. And the bell would\ntoll slowly.\n\nHe could hear the tolling. He said over to himself the song that Brigid\nhad taught him.\n\n\n    Dingdong! The castle bell!\n    Farewell, my mother!\n    Bury me in the old churchyard\n    Beside my eldest brother.\n    My coffin shall be black,\n    Six angels at my back,\n    Two to sing and two to pray\n    And two to carry my soul away.\n\n\nHow beautiful and sad that was! How beautiful the words were where they\nsaid BURY ME IN THE OLD CHURCHYARD! A tremor passed over his body. How\nsad and how beautiful! He wanted to cry quietly but not for himself:\nfor the words, so beautiful and sad, like music. The bell! The bell!\nFarewell! O farewell!\n\nThe cold sunlight was weaker and Brother Michael was standing at his\nbedside with a bowl of beef-tea. He was glad for his mouth was hot and\ndry. He could hear them playing in the playgrounds. And the day was\ngoing on in the college just as if he were there.\n\nThen Brother Michael was going away and the fellow out of the third of\ngrammar told him to be sure and come back and tell him all the news in\nthe paper. He told Stephen that his name was Athy and that his father\nkept a lot of racehorses that were spiffing jumpers and that his father\nwould give a good tip to Brother Michael any time he wanted it because\nBrother Michael was very decent and always told him the news out of the\npaper they got every day up in the castle. There was every kind of news\nin the paper: accidents, shipwrecks, sports, and politics.\n\n--Now it is all about politics in the papers, he said. Do your people\ntalk about that too?\n\n--Yes, Stephen said.\n\n--Mine too, he said.\n\nThen he thought for a moment and said:\n\n--You have a queer name, Dedalus, and I have a queer name too, Athy.\nMy name is the name of a town. Your name is like Latin.\n\nThen he asked:\n\n--Are you good at riddles?\n\nStephen answered:\n\n--Not very good.\n\nThen he said:\n\n--Can you answer me this one? Why is the county of Kildare like the\nleg of a fellow's breeches?\n\nStephen thought what could be the answer and then said:\n\n--I give it up.\n\n--Because there is a thigh in it, he said. Do you see the joke? Athy\nis the town in the county Kildare and a thigh is the other thigh.\n\n--Oh, I see, Stephen said.\n\n--That's an old riddle, he said.\n\nAfter a moment he said:\n\n--I say!\n\n--What? asked Stephen.\n\n--You know, he said, you can ask that riddle another way.\n\n--Can you? said Stephen.\n\n--The same riddle, he said. Do you know the other way to ask it?\n\n--No, said Stephen.\n\n--Can you not think of the other way? he said.\n\nHe looked at Stephen over the bedclothes as he spoke. Then he lay back\non the pillow and said:\n\n--There is another way but I won't tell you what it is.\n\nWhy did he not tell it? His father, who kept the racehorses, must be a\nmagistrate too like Saurin's father and Nasty Roche's father. He\nthought of his own father, of how he sang songs while his mother played\nand of how he always gave him a shilling when he asked for sixpence and\nhe felt sorry for him that he was not a magistrate like the other boys'\nfathers. Then why was he sent to that place with them? But\nhis father had told him that he would be no stranger there because his\ngranduncle had presented an address to the liberator there fifty years\nbefore. You could know the people of that time by their old dress. It\nseemed to him a solemn time: and he wondered if that was the time when\nthe fellows in Clongowes wore blue coats with brass buttons and yellow\nwaistcoats and caps of rabbitskin and drank beer like grown-up people\nand kept greyhounds of their own to course the hares with.\n\nHe looked at the window and saw that the daylight had grown weaker.\nThere would be cloudy grey light over the playgrounds. There was no\nnoise on the playgrounds. The class must be doing the themes or perhaps\nFather Arnall was reading out of the book.\n\nIt was queer that they had not given him any medicine. Perhaps Brother\nMichael would bring it back when he came. They said you got stinking\nstuff to drink when you were in the infirmary. But he felt better now\nthan before. It would be nice getting better slowly. You could get a\nbook then. There was a book in the library about Holland. There were\nlovely foreign names in it and pictures of strange looking cities and\nships. It made you feel so happy.\n\nHow pale the light was at the window! But that was nice. The fire rose\nand fell on the wall. It was like waves. Someone had put coal on and he\nheard voices. They were talking. It was the noise of the waves. Or the\nwaves were talking among themselves as they rose and fell.\n\nHe saw the sea of waves, long dark waves rising and falling, dark under\nthe moonless night. A tiny light twinkled at the pierhead where the\nship was entering: and he saw a multitude of people gathered by the\nwaters' edge to see the ship that was entering their harbour. A tall\nman stood on the deck, looking out towards the flat dark land: and by\nthe light at the pierhead he saw his face, the sorrowful face of\nBrother Michael.\n\nHe saw him lift his hand towards the people and heard him say in a loud\nvoice of sorrow over the waters:\n\n--He is dead. We saw him lying upon the catafalque. A wail of sorrow\nwent up from the people.\n\n--Parnell! Parnell! He is dead!\n\nThey fell upon their knees, moaning in sorrow.\n\nAnd he saw Dante in a maroon velvet dress and with a green velvet\nmantle hanging from her shoulders walking proudly and silently past the\npeople who knelt by the water's edge.\n\n\n* * * * *\n\n\nA great fire, banked high and red, flamed in the grate and under the\nivy-twined branches of the chandelier the Christmas table was spread.\nThey had come home a little late and still dinner was not ready: but it\nwould be ready in a jiffy his mother had said. They were waiting for\nthe door to open and for the servants to come in, holding the big\ndishes covered with their heavy metal covers.\n\nAll were waiting: uncle Charles, who sat far away in the shadow of the\nwindow, Dante and Mr Casey, who sat in the easy-chairs at either side\nof the hearth, Stephen, seated on a chair between them, his feet\nresting on the toasted boss. Mr Dedalus looked at himself in the\npierglass above the mantelpiece, waxed out his moustache ends and then,\nparting his coat-tails, stood with his back to the glowing fire: and\nstill from time to time he withdrew a hand from his coat-tail to wax\nout one of his moustache ends. Mr Casey leaned his head to one side\nand, smiling, tapped the gland of his neck with his fingers. And\nStephen smiled too for he knew now that it was not true that Mr Casey\nhad a purse of silver in his throat. He smiled to think how the silvery\nnoise which Mr Casey used to make had deceived him. And when he had\ntried to open Mr Casey's hand to see if the purse of silver was hidden\nthere he had seen that the fingers could not be straightened out: and\nMr Casey had told him that he had got those three cramped fingers\nmaking a birthday present for Queen Victoria. Mr Casey tapped the gland\nof his neck and smiled at Stephen with sleepy eyes: and Mr Dedalus said\nto him:\n\n--Yes. Well now, that's all right. O, we had a good walk, hadn't we,\nJohn? Yes... I wonder if there's any likelihood of dinner this evening.\nYes... O, well now, we got a good breath of ozone round the Head today. Ay,\nbedad.\n\nHe turned to Dante and said:\n\n--You didn't stir out at all, Mrs Riordan?\n\nDante frowned and said shortly:\n\n--No.\n\nMr Dedalus dropped his coat-tails and went over to the sideboard. He\nbrought forth a great stone jar of whisky from the locker and filled\nthe decanter slowly, bending now and then to see how much he had poured\nin. Then replacing the jar in the locker he poured a little of the\nwhisky into two glasses, added a little water and came back with them\nto the fireplace.\n\n--A thimbleful, John, he said, just to whet your appetite.\n\nMr Casey took the glass, drank, and placed it near him on the\nmantelpiece. Then he said:\n\n--Well, I can't help thinking of our friend Christopher manufacturing...\n\nHe broke into a fit of laughter and coughing and added:\n\n--...manufacturing that champagne for those fellows.\n\nMr Dedalus laughed loudly.\n\n--Is it Christy? he said. There's more cunning in one of those warts\non his bald head than in a pack of jack foxes.\n\nHe inclined his head, closed his eyes, and, licking his lips profusely,\nbegan to speak with the voice of the hotel keeper.\n\n--And he has such a soft mouth when he's speaking to you, don't you\nknow. He's very moist and watery about the dewlaps, God bless him.\n\nMr Casey was still struggling through his fit of coughing and laughter.\nStephen, seeing and hearing the hotel keeper through his father's face\nand voice, laughed.\n\nMr Dedalus put up his eyeglass and, staring down at him, said quietly\nand kindly:\n\n--What are you laughing at, you little puppy, you?\n\nThe servants entered and placed the dishes on the table. Mrs Dedalus\nfollowed and the places were arranged.\n\n--Sit over, she said.\n\nMr Dedalus went to the end of the table and said:\n\n--Now, Mrs Riordan, sit over. John, sit you down, my hearty.\n\nHe looked round to where uncle Charles sat and said:\n\n--Now then, sir, there's a bird here waiting for you.\n\nWhen all had taken their seats he laid his hand on the cover and then\nsaid quickly, withdrawing it:\n\n--Now, Stephen.\n\nStephen stood up in his place to say the grace before meals:\n\n\nBless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts which through\nThy bounty we are about to receive through Christ our\nLord. Amen.\n\n\nAll blessed themselves and Mr Dedalus with a sigh of pleasure lifted\nfrom the dish the heavy cover pearled around the edge with glistening\ndrops.\n\nStephen looked at the plump turkey which had lain, trussed and\nskewered, on the kitchen table. He knew that his father had paid a\nguinea for it in Dunn's of D'Olier Street and that the man had prodded\nit often at the breastbone to show how good it was: and he remembered\nthe man's voice when he had said:\n\n--Take that one, sir. That's the real Ally Daly.\n\nWhy did Mr Barrett in Clongowes call his pandybat a turkey? But\nClongowes was far away: and the warm heavy smell of turkey and ham and\ncelery rose from the plates and dishes and the great fire was banked\nhigh and red in the grate and the green ivy and red holly made you feel\nso happy and when dinner was ended the big plum pudding would be\ncarried in, studded with peeled almonds and sprigs of holly, with\nbluish fire running around it and a little green flag flying from the\ntop.\n\nIt was his first Christmas dinner and he thought of his little brothers\nand sisters who were waiting in the nursery, as he had often waited,\ntill the pudding came. The deep low collar and the Eton jacket made him\nfeel queer and oldish: and that morning when his mother had brought him\ndown to the parlour, dressed for mass, his father had cried. That was\nbecause he was thinking of his own father. And uncle Charles had said\nso too.\n\nMr Dedalus covered the dish and began to eat hungrily. Then he said:\n\n--Poor old Christy, he's nearly lopsided now with roguery.\n\n--Simon, said Mrs Dedalus, you haven't given Mrs Riordan any sauce.\n\nMr Dedalus seized the sauceboat.\n\n--Haven't I? he cried. Mrs Riordan, pity the poor blind. Dante covered\nher plate with her hands and said:\n\n--No, thanks.\n\nMr Dedalus turned to uncle Charles.\n\n--How are you off, sir?\n\n--Right as the mail, Simon.\n\n--You, John?\n\n--I'm all right. Go on yourself.\n\n--Mary? Here, Stephen, here's something to make your hair curl.\n\nHe poured sauce freely over Stephen's plate and set the boat again on\nthe table. Then he asked uncle Charles was it tender. Uncle Charles\ncould not speak because his mouth was full; but he nodded that it was.\n\n--That was a good answer our friend made to the canon. What? said Mr\nDedalus.\n\n--I didn't think he had that much in him, said Mr Casey.\n\n--I'LL PAY YOUR DUES, FATHER, WHEN YOU CEASE TURNING THE HOUSE OF GOD\nINTO A POLLING-BOOTH.\n\n--A nice answer, said Dante, for any man calling himself a catholic to\ngive to his priest.\n\n--They have only themselves to blame, said Mr Dedalus suavely. If they\ntook a fool's advice they would confine their attention to religion.\n\n--It is religion, Dante said. They are doing their duty in warning the\npeople.\n\n--We go to the house of God, Mr Casey said, in all humility to pray to\nour Maker and not to hear election addresses.\n\n--It is religion, Dante said again. They are right. They must direct\ntheir flocks.\n\n--And preach politics from the altar, is it? asked Mr Dedalus.\n\n--Certainly, said Dante. It is a question of public morality. A priest\nwould not be a priest if he did not tell his flock what is right and\nwhat is wrong.\n\nMrs Dedalus laid down her knife and fork, saying:\n\n--For pity sake and for pity sake let us have no political discussion\non this day of all days in the year.\n\n--Quite right, ma'am, said uncle Charles. Now, Simon, that's quite\nenough now. Not another word now.\n\n--Yes, yes, said Mr Dedalus quickly.\n\nHe uncovered the dish boldly and said:\n\n--Now then, who's for more turkey?\n\nNobody answered. Dante said:\n\n--Nice language for any catholic to use!\n\n--Mrs Riordan, I appeal to you, said Mrs Dedalus, to let the matter\ndrop now.\n\nDante turned on her and said:\n\n--And am I to sit here and listen to the pastors of my church being\nflouted?\n\n--Nobody is saying a word against them, said Mr Dedalus, so long as\nthey don't meddle in politics.\n\n--The bishops and priests of Ireland have spoken, said Dante, and they\nmust be obeyed.\n\n--Let them leave politics alone, said Mr Casey, or the people may\nleave their church alone.\n\n--You hear? said Dante, turning to Mrs Dedalus.\n\n--Mr Casey! Simon! said Mrs Dedalus, let it end now.\n\n--Too bad! Too bad! said uncle Charles.\n\n--What? cried Mr Dedalus. Were we to desert him at the bidding of the\nEnglish people?\n\n--He was no longer worthy to lead, said Dante. He was a public sinner.\n\n--We are all sinners and black sinners, said Mr Casey coldly.\n\n--WOE BE TO THE MAN BY WHOM THE SCANDAL COMETH! said Mrs Riordan. IT\nWOULD BE BETTER FOR HIM THAT A MILLSTONE WERE TIED ABOUT HIS NECK AND\nTHAT HE WERE CAST INTO THE DEPTHS OF THE SEA RATHER THAN THAT HE SHOULD\nSCANDALIZE ONE OF THESE, MY LEAST LITTLE ONES. That is the language of\nthe Holy Ghost.\n\n--And very bad language if you ask me, said Mr Dedalus coolly.\n\n--Simon! Simon! said uncle Charles. The boy.\n\n--Yes, yes, said Mr Dedalus. I meant about the... I was thinking about the\nbad language of the railway porter. Well now, that's all right. Here,\nStephen, show me your plate, old chap. Eat away now. Here.\n\nHe heaped up the food on Stephen's plate and served uncle Charles and\nMr Casey to large pieces of turkey and splashes of sauce. Mrs Dedalus\nwas eating little and Dante sat with her hands in her lap. She was red\nin the face. Mr Dedalus rooted with the carvers at the end of the dish\nand said:\n\n--There's a tasty bit here we call the pope's nose. If any lady or\ngentleman...\n\nHe held a piece of fowl up on the prong of the carving fork. Nobody\nspoke. He put it on his own plate, saying:\n\n--Well, you can't say but you were asked. I think I had better eat it\nmyself because I'm not well in my health lately.\n\nHe winked at Stephen and, replacing the dish-cover, began to eat again.\n\nThere was a silence while he ate. Then he said:\n\n--Well now, the day kept up fine after all. There were plenty of\nstrangers down too.\n\nNobody spoke. He said again:\n\n--I think there were more strangers down than last Christmas.\n\nHe looked round at the others whose faces were bent towards their\nplates and, receiving no reply, waited for a moment and said bitterly:\n\n--Well, my Christmas dinner has been spoiled anyhow.\n\n--There could be neither luck nor grace, Dante said, in a house where\nthere is no respect for the pastors of the church.\n\nMr Dedalus threw his knife and fork noisily on his plate.\n\n--Respect! he said. Is it for Billy with the lip or for the tub of\nguts up in Armagh? Respect!\n\n--Princes of the church, said Mr Casey with slow scorn.\n\n--Lord Leitrim's coachman, yes, said Mr Dedalus.\n\n--They are the Lord's anointed, Dante said. They are an honour to their\ncountry.\n\n--Tub of guts, said Mr Dedalus coarsely. He has a handsome face, mind\nyou, in repose. You should see that fellow lapping up his bacon and\ncabbage of a cold winter's day. O Johnny!\n\nHe twisted his features into a grimace of heavy bestiality and made a\nlapping noise with his lips.\n\n--Really, Simon, you should not speak that way before Stephen. It's\nnot right.\n\n--O, he'll remember all this when he grows up, said Dante hotly--the\nlanguage he heard against God and religion and priests in his own home.\n\n--Let him remember too, cried Mr Casey to her from across the table,\nthe language with which the priests and the priests' pawns broke\nParnell's heart and hounded him into his grave. Let him remember that\ntoo when he grows up.\n\n--Sons of bitches! cried Mr Dedalus. When he was down they turned on\nhim to betray him and rend him like rats in a sewer. Low-lived dogs!\nAnd they look it! By Christ, they look it!\n\n--They behaved rightly, cried Dante. They obeyed their bishops and\ntheir priests. Honour to them!\n\n--Well, it is perfectly dreadful to say that not even for one day in\nthe year, said Mrs Dedalus, can we be free from these dreadful\ndisputes!\n\nUncle Charles raised his hands mildly and said:\n\n--Come now, come now, come now! Can we not have our opinions whatever\nthey are without this bad temper and this bad language? It is too bad\nsurely.\n\nMrs Dedalus spoke to Dante in a low voice but Dante said loudly:\n\n--I will not say nothing. I will defend my church and my religion when\nit is insulted and spit on by renegade catholics.\n\nMr Casey pushed his plate rudely into the middle of the table and,\nresting his elbows before him, said in a hoarse voice to his host:\n\n--Tell me, did I tell you that story about a very famous spit?\n\n--You did not, John, said Mr Dedalus.\n\n--Why then, said Mr Casey, it is a most instructive story. It happened\nnot long ago in the county Wicklow where we are now.\n\nHe broke off and, turning towards Dante, said with quiet indignation:\n\n--And I may tell you, ma'am, that I, if you mean me, am no renegade\ncatholic. I am a catholic as my father was and his father before him\nand his father before him again, when we gave up our lives rather than\nsell our faith.\n\n--The more shame to you now, Dante said, to speak as you do.\n\n--The story, John, said Mr Dedalus smiling. Let us have the story\nanyhow.\n\n--Catholic indeed! repeated Dante ironically. The blackest protestant\nin the land would not speak the language I have heard this evening.\n\nMr Dedalus began to sway his head to and fro, crooning like a country\nsinger.\n\n--I am no protestant, I tell you again, said Mr Casey, flushing.\n\nMr Dedalus, still crooning and swaying his head, began to sing in a\ngrunting nasal tone:\n\n\n  O, come all you Roman catholics\n  That never went to mass.\n\n\nHe took up his knife and fork again in good humour and set to eating,\nsaying to Mr Casey:\n\n--Let us have the story, John. It will help us to digest.\n\nStephen looked with affection at Mr Casey's face which stared across\nthe table over his joined hands. He liked to sit near him at the fire,\nlooking up at his dark fierce face. But his dark eyes were never fierce\nand his slow voice was good to listen to. But why was he then against\nthe priests? Because Dante must be right then. But he had heard his\nfather say that she was a spoiled nun and that she had come out of the\nconvent in the Alleghanies when her brother had got the money from the\nsavages for the trinkets and the chainies. Perhaps that made her severe\nagainst Parnell. And she did not like him to play with Eileen because\nEileen was a protestant and when she was young she knew children that\nused to play with protestants and the protestants used to make fun of\nthe litany of the Blessed Virgin. TOWER OF IVORY, they used to say,\nHOUSE OF GOLD! How could a woman be a tower of ivory or a house of\ngold? Who was right then? And he remembered the evening in the\ninfirmary in Clongowes, the dark waters, the light at the pierhead and\nthe moan of sorrow from the people when they had heard.\n\nEileen had long white hands. One evening when playing tig she had put\nher hands over his eyes: long and white and thin and cold and soft.\nThat was ivory: a cold white thing. That was the meaning of TOWER OF\nIVORY.\n\n--The story is very short and sweet, Mr Casey said. It was one day\ndown in Arklow, a cold bitter day, not long before the chief died. May\nGod have mercy on him!\n\nHe closed his eyes wearily and paused. Mr Dedalus took a bone from his\nplate and tore some meat from it with his teeth, saying:\n\n--Before he was killed, you mean.\n\nMr Casey opened his eyes, sighed and went on:\n\n--It was down in Arklow one day. We were down there at a meeting and\nafter the meeting was over we had to make our way to the railway\nstation through the crowd. Such booing and baaing, man, you never\nheard. They called us all the names in the world. Well there was one\nold lady, and a drunken old harridan she was surely, that paid all her\nattention to me. She kept dancing along beside me in the mud bawling\nand screaming into my face: PRIEST-HUNTER! THE PARIS FUNDS! MR FOX!\nKITTY O'SHEA!\n\n--And what did you do, John? asked Mr Dedalus.\n\n--I let her bawl away, said Mr Casey. It was a cold day and to keep up\nmy heart I had (saving your presence, ma'am) a quid of Tullamore in my\nmouth and sure I couldn't say a word in any case because my mouth was\nfull of tobacco juice.\n\n--Well, John?\n\n--Well. I let her bawl away, to her heart's content, KITTY O'SHEA and\nthe rest of it till at last she called that lady a name that I won't\nsully this Christmas board nor your ears, ma'am, nor my own lips by\nrepeating.\n\nHe paused. Mr Dedalus, lifting his head from the bone, asked:\n\n--And what did you do, John?\n\n--Do! said Mr Casey. She stuck her ugly old face up at me when she\nsaid it and I had my mouth full of tobacco juice. I bent down to her\nand PHTH! says I to her like that.\n\nHe turned aside and made the act of spitting.\n\n--PHTH! says I to her like that, right into her eye.\n\nHe clapped his hand to his eye and gave a hoarse scream of pain.\n\n--O JESUS, MARY AND JOSEPH! says she. I'M BLINDED! I'M BLINDED AND\nDROWNDED!\n\nHe stopped in a fit of coughing and laughter, repeating:\n\n--I'M BLINDED ENTIRELY.\n\nMr Dedalus laughed loudly and lay back in his chair while uncle Charles\nswayed his head to and fro.\n\nDante looked terribly angry and repeated while they laughed:\n\n--Very nice! Ha! Very nice!\n\nIt was not nice about the spit in the woman's eye.\n\nBut what was the name the woman had called Kitty O'Shea that Mr Casey\nwould not repeat? He thought of Mr Casey walking through the crowds of\npeople and making speeches from a wagonette. That was what he had been\nin prison for and he remembered that one night Sergeant O'Neill had\ncome to the house and had stood in the hall, talking in a low voice\nwith his father and chewing nervously at the chinstrap of his cap. And\nthat night Mr Casey had not gone to Dublin by train but a car had come\nto the door and he had heard his father say something about the\nCabinteely road.\n\nHe was for Ireland and Parnell and so was his father: and so was Dante\ntoo for one night at the band on the esplanade she had hit a gentleman\non the head with her umbrella because he had taken off his hat when the\nband played GOD SAVE THE QUEEN at the end.\n\nMr Dedalus gave a snort of contempt.\n\n--Ah, John, he said. It is true for them. We are an unfortunate\npriest-ridden race and always were and always will be till the end of\nthe chapter.\n\nUncle Charles shook his head, saying:\n\n--A bad business! A bad business!\n\nMr Dedalus repeated:\n\n--A priest-ridden Godforsaken race!\n\nHe pointed to the portrait of his grandfather on the wall to his right.\n\n--Do you see that old chap up there, John? he said. He was a good\nIrishman when there was no money in the job. He was condemned to death\nas a whiteboy. But he had a saying about our clerical friends, that he\nwould never let one of them put his two feet under his mahogany.\n\nDante broke in angrily:\n\n--If we are a priest-ridden race we ought to be proud of it! They are the\napple of God's eye. TOUCH THEM NOT, says Christ, FOR THEY ARE THE APPLE\nOF MY EYE.\n\n--And can we not love our country then? asked Mr Casey. Are we not to\nfollow the man that was born to lead us?\n\n--A traitor to his country! replied Dante. A traitor, an adulterer!\nThe priests were right to abandon him. The priests were always the true\nfriends of Ireland.\n\n--Were they, faith? said Mr Casey.\n\nHe threw his fist on the table and, frowning angrily, protruded one\nfinger after another.\n\n--Didn't the bishops of Ireland betray us in the time of the union\nwhen Bishop Lanigan presented an address of loyalty to the Marquess\nCornwallis? Didn't the bishops and priests sell the aspirations of\ntheir country in 1829 in return for catholic emancipation? Didn't they\ndenounce the fenian movement from the pulpit and in the confession box?\nAnd didn't they dishonour the ashes of Terence Bellew MacManus?\n\nHis face was glowing with anger and Stephen felt the glow rise to his\nown cheek as the spoken words thrilled him. Mr Dedalus uttered a guffaw\nof coarse scorn.\n\n--O, by God, he cried, I forgot little old Paul Cullen! Another apple\nof God's eye!\n\nDante bent across the table and cried to Mr Casey:\n\n--Right! Right! They were always right! God and morality and religion\ncome first.\n\nMrs Dedalus, seeing her excitement, said to her:\n\n--Mrs Riordan, don't excite yourself answering them.\n\n--God and religion before everything! Dante cried. God and religion\nbefore the world.\n\nMr Casey raised his clenched fist and brought it down on the table with\na crash.\n\n--Very well then, he shouted hoarsely, if it comes to that, no God for\nIreland!\n\n--John! John! cried Mr Dedalus, seizing his guest by the coat sleeve.\n\nDante stared across the table, her cheeks shaking. Mr Casey struggled\nup from his chair and bent across the table towards her, scraping the\nair from before his eyes with one hand as though he were tearing aside\na cobweb.\n\n--No God for Ireland! he cried. We have had too much God In Ireland.\nAway with God!\n\n--Blasphemer! Devil! screamed Dante, starting to her feet and almost\nspitting in his face.\n\nUncle Charles and Mr Dedalus pulled Mr Casey back into his chair again,\ntalking to him from both sides reasonably. He stared before him out of\nhis dark flaming eyes, repeating:\n\n--Away with God, I say!\n\nDante shoved her chair violently aside and left the table, upsetting\nher napkin-ring which rolled slowly along the carpet and came to rest\nagainst the foot of an easy-chair. Mrs Dedalus rose quickly and\nfollowed her towards the door. At the door Dante turned round violently\nand shouted down the room, her cheeks flushed and quivering with rage:\n\n--Devil out of hell! We won! We crushed him to death! Fiend!\n\nThe door slammed behind her.\n\nMr Casey, freeing his arms from his holders, suddenly bowed his head on\nhis hands with a sob of pain.\n\n--Poor Parnell! he cried loudly. My dead king!\n\nHe sobbed loudly and bitterly.\n\nStephen, raising his terror-stricken face, saw that his father's eyes\nwere full of tears.\n\n\n* * * * *\n\n\nThe fellows talked together in little groups.\n\nOne fellow said:\n\n--They were caught near the Hill of Lyons.\n\n--Who caught them?\n\n--Mr Gleeson and the minister. They were on a car. The same fellow\nadded:\n\n--A fellow in the higher line told me.\n\nFleming asked:\n\n--But why did they run away, tell us?\n\n--I know why, Cecil Thunder said. Because they had fecked cash out of\nthe rector's room.\n\n--Who fecked it?\n\n--Kickham's brother. And they all went shares in it.\n\n--But that was stealing. How could they have done that?\n\n--A fat lot you know about it, Thunder! Wells said. I know why they\nscut.\n\n--Tell us why.\n\n--I was told not to, Wells said.\n\n--O, go on, Wells, all said. You might tell us. We won't let it out.\n\nStephen bent forward his head to hear. Wells looked round to see if\nanyone was coming. Then he said secretly:\n\n--You know the altar wine they keep in the press in the sacristy?\n\n--Yes.\n\n--Well, they drank that and it was found out who did it by the smell.\nAnd that's why they ran away, if you want to know.\n\nAnd the fellow who had spoken first said:\n\n--Yes, that's what I heard too from the fellow in the higher line.\n\nThe fellows all were silent. Stephen stood among them, afraid to speak,\nlistening. A faint sickness of awe made him feel weak. How could they\nhave done that? He thought of the dark silent sacristy. There were dark\nwooden presses there where the crimped surplices lay quietly folded. It\nwas not the chapel but still you had to speak under your breath. It was\na holy place. He remembered the summer evening he had been there to be\ndressed as boatbearer, the evening of the Procession to the little\naltar in the wood. A strange and holy place. The boy that held the\ncenser had swung it lifted by the middle chain to keep the coals\nlighting. That was called charcoal: and it had burned quietly as the\nfellow had swung it gently and had given off a weak sour smell. And\nthen when all were vested he had stood holding out the boat to the\nrector and the rector had put a spoonful of incense in it and it had\nhissed on the red coals.\n\nThe fellows were talking together in little groups here and there on\nthe playground. The fellows seemed to him to have grown smaller: that\nwas because a sprinter had knocked him down the day before, a fellow\nout of second of grammar. He had been thrown by the fellow's machine\nlightly on the cinder path and his spectacles had been broken in three\npieces and some of the grit of the cinders had gone into his mouth.\n\nThat was why the fellows seemed to him smaller and farther away and the\ngoalposts so thin and far and the soft grey sky so high up. But there\nwas no play on the football grounds for cricket was coming: and some\nsaid that Barnes would be prof and some said it would be Flowers. And\nall over the playgrounds they were playing rounders and bowling\ntwisters and lobs. And from here and from there came the sounds of the\ncricket bats through the soft grey air. They said: pick, pack, pock,\npuck: little drops of water in a fountain slowly falling in the\nbrimming bowl.\n\nAthy, who had been silent, said quietly:\n\n--You are all wrong.\n\nAll turned towards him eagerly.\n\n--Why?\n\n--Do you know?\n\n--Who told you?\n\n--Tell us, Athy.\n\nAthy pointed across the playground to where Simon Moonan was walking by\nhimself kicking a stone before him.\n\n--Ask him, he said.\n\nThe fellows looked there and then said:\n\n--Why him?\n\n--Is he in it?\n\nAthy lowered his voice and said:\n\n--Do you know why those fellows scut? I will tell you but you must not\nlet on you know.\n\n--Tell us, Athy. Go on. You might if you know.\n\nHe paused for a moment and then said mysteriously:\n\n--They were caught with Simon Moonan and Tusker Boyle in the square one\nnight.\n\nThe fellows looked at him and asked:\n\n--Caught?\n\n--What doing?\n\nAthy said:\n\n--Smugging.\n\nAll the fellows were silent: and Athy said:\n\n--And that's why.\n\nStephen looked at the faces of the fellows but they were all looking\nacross the playground. He wanted to ask somebody about it. What did\nthat mean about the smugging in the square? Why did the five fellows\nout of the higher line run away for that? It was a joke, he thought.\nSimon Moonan had nice clothes and one night he had shown him a ball of\ncreamy sweets that the fellows of the football fifteen had rolled down\nto him along the carpet in the middle of the refectory when he was at\nthe door. It was the night of the match against the Bective Rangers;\nand the ball was made just like a red and green apple only it opened\nand it was full of the creamy sweets. And one day Boyle had said that\nan elephant had two tuskers instead of two tusks and that was why he\nwas called Tusker Boyle but some fellows called him Lady Boyle because\nhe was always at his nails, paring them.\n\nEileen had long thin cool white hands too because she was a girl. They\nwere like ivory; only soft. That was the meaning of TOWER OF IVORY but\nprotestants could not understand it and made fun of it. One day he had\nstood beside her looking into the hotel grounds. A waiter was running\nup a trail of bunting on the flagstaff and a fox terrier was scampering\nto and fro on the sunny lawn. She had put her hand into his pocket\nwhere his hand was and he had felt how cool and thin and soft her hand\nwas. She had said that pockets were funny things to have: and then all\nof a sudden she had broken away and had run laughing down the sloping\ncurve of the path. Her fair hair had streamed out behind her like gold\nin the sun. TOWER OF IVORY. HOUSE OF GOLD. By thinking of things you\ncould understand them.\n\nBut why in the square? You went there when you wanted to do something.\nIt was all thick slabs of slate and water trickled all day out of tiny\npinholes and there was a queer smell of stale water there. And behind\nthe door of one of the closets there was a drawing in red pencil of a\nbearded man in a Roman dress with a brick in each hand and underneath\nwas the name of the drawing:\n\n\nBalbus was building a wall.\n\n\nSome fellow had drawn it there for a cod. It had a funny face but it\nwas very like a man with a beard. And on the wall of another closet\nthere was written in backhand in beautiful writing:\n\n\nJulius Caesar wrote The Calico Belly.\n\n\nPerhaps that was why they were there because it was a place where some\nfellows wrote things for cod. But all the same it was queer what Athy\nsaid and the way he said it. It was not a cod because they had run\naway. He looked with the others across the playground and began to feel\nafraid.\n\nAt last Fleming said:\n\n--And we are all to be punished for what other fellows did?\n\n--I won't come back, see if I do, Cecil Thunder said. Three days' silence\nin the refectory and sending us up for six and eight every minute.\n\n--Yes, said Wells. And old Barrett has a new way of twisting the note\nso that you can't open it and fold it again to see how many ferulae you\nare to get. I won't come back too.\n\n--Yes, said Cecil Thunder, and the prefect of studies was in second of\ngrammar this morning.\n\n--Let us get up a rebellion, Fleming said. Will we?\n\nAll the fellows were silent. The air was very silent and you could hear\nthe cricket bats but more slowly than before: pick, pock.\n\nWells asked:\n\n--What is going to be done to them?\n\n--Simon Moonan and Tusker are going to be flogged, Athy said, and the\nfellows in the higher line got their choice of flogging or being\nexpelled.\n\n--And which are they taking? asked the fellow who had spoken first.\n\n--All are taking expulsion except Corrigan, Athy answered. He's going\nto be flogged by Mr Gleeson.\n\n--I know why, Cecil Thunder said. He is right and the other fellows\nare wrong because a flogging wears off after a bit but a fellow that\nhas been expelled from college is known all his life on account of it.\nBesides Gleeson won't flog him hard.\n\n--It's best of his play not to, Fleming said.\n\n--I wouldn't like to be Simon Moonan and Tusker, Cecil Thunder said.\nBut I don't believe they will be flogged. Perhaps they will be sent up\nfor twice nine.\n\n--No, no, said Athy. They'll both get it on the vital spot. Wells\nrubbed himself and said in a crying voice:\n\n--Please, sir, let me off!\n\nAthy grinned and turned up the sleeves of his jacket, saying:\n\n    It can't be helped;\n    It must be done.\n    So down with your breeches\n    And out with your bum.\n\nThe fellows laughed; but he felt that they were a little afraid. In the\nsilence of the soft grey air he heard the cricket bats from here and\nfrom there: pock. That was a sound to hear but if you were hit then you\nwould feel a pain. The pandybat made a sound too but not like that. The\nfellows said it was made of whalebone and leather with lead inside: and\nhe wondered what was the pain like. There were different kinds of\nsounds. A long thin cane would have a high whistling sound and he\nwondered what was that pain like. It made him shivery to think of it\nand cold: and what Athy said too. But what was there to laugh at in it?\nIt made him shivery: but that was because you always felt like a shiver\nwhen you let down your trousers. It was the same in the bath when you\nundressed yourself. He wondered who had to let them down, the master or\nthe boy himself. O how could they laugh about it that way?\n\nHe looked at Athy's rolled-up sleeves and knuckly inky hands. He had\nrolled up his sleeves to show how Mr Gleeson would roll up his sleeves.\nBut Mr Gleeson had round shiny cuffs and clean white wrists and fattish\nwhite hands and the nails of them were long and pointed. Perhaps he\npared them too like Lady Boyle. But they were terribly long and pointed\nnails. So long and cruel they were, though the white fattish hands were\nnot cruel but gentle. And though he trembled with cold and fright to\nthink of the cruel long nails and of the high whistling sound of the cane\nand of the chill you felt at the end of your shirt when you undressed\nyourself yet he felt a feeling of queer quiet pleasure inside him to think\nof the white fattish hands, clean and strong and gentle. And he thought of\nwhat Cecil Thunder had said: that Mr Gleeson would not flog Corrigan hard.\nAnd Fleming had said he would not because it was best of his play not\nto. But that was not why\n\nA voice from far out on the playground cried:\n\n--All in!\n\nAnd other voices cried:\n\n--All in! All in!\n\nDuring the writing lesson he sat with his arms folded, listening to the\nslow scraping of the pens. Mr Harford went to and fro making little\nsigns in red pencil and sometimes sitting beside the boy to show him\nhow to hold his pen. He had tried to spell out the headline for himself\nthough he knew already what it was for it was the last of the book.\nZEAL WITHOUT PRUDENCE IS LIKE A SHIP ADRIFT. But the lines of the\nletters were like fine invisible threads and it was only by closing his\nright eye tight and staring out of the left eye that he could make out\nthe full curves of the capital.\n\nBut Mr Harford was very decent and never got into a wax. All the other\nmasters got into dreadful waxes. But why were they to suffer for what\nfellows in the higher line did? Wells had said that they had drunk some\nof the altar wine out of the press in the sacristy and that it had been\nfound out who had done it by the smell. Perhaps they had stolen a\nmonstrance to run away with and sell it somewhere. That must have been\na terrible sin, to go in there quietly at night, to open the dark press\nand steal the flashing gold thing into which God was put on the altar\nin the middle of flowers and candles at benediction while the incense\nwent up in clouds at both sides as the fellow swung the censer and\nDominic Kelly sang the first part by himself in the choir. But God was\nnot in it of course when they stole it. But still it was a strange and\na great sin even to touch it. He thought of it with deep awe; a\nterrible and strange sin: it thrilled him to think of it in the silence\nwhen the pens scraped lightly. But to drink the altar wine out of the\npress and be found out by the smell was a sin too: but it was not\nterrible and strange. It only made you feel a little sickish on account\nof the smell of the wine. Because on the day when he had made his first\nholy communion in the chapel he had shut his eyes and opened his mouth\nand put out his tongue a little: and when the rector had stooped down\nto give him the holy communion he had smelt a faint winy smell off the\nrector's breath after the wine of the mass. The word was beautiful:\nwine. It made you think of dark purple because the grapes were dark\npurple that grew in Greece outside houses like white temples. But the\nfaint smell of the rector's breath had made him feel a sick feeling on\nthe morning of his first communion. The day of your first communion was\nthe happiest day of your life. And once a lot of generals had asked\nNapoleon what was the happiest day of his life. They thought he would\nsay the day he won some great battle or the day he was made an emperor.\nBut he said:\n\n--Gentlemen, the happiest day of my life was the day on which I made\nmy first holy communion.\n\nFather Arnall came in and the Latin lesson began and he remained still,\nleaning on the desk with his arms folded. Father Arnall gave out the\ntheme-books and he said that they were scandalous and that they were\nall to be written out again with the corrections at once. But the worst\nof all was Fleming's theme because the pages were stuck together by a\nblot: and Father Arnall held it up by a corner and said it was an\ninsult to any master to send him up such a theme. Then he asked Jack\nLawton to decline the noun MARE and Jack Lawton stopped at the ablative\nsingular and could not go on with the plural.\n\n--You should be ashamed of yourself, said Father Arnall sternly. You,\nthe leader of the class!\n\nThen he asked the next boy and the next and the next. Nobody knew.\nFather Arnall became very quiet, more and more quiet as each boy tried\nto answer it and could not. But his face was black-looking and\nhis eyes were staring though his voice was so quiet. Then he asked\nFleming and Fleming said that the word had no plural. Father Arnall\nsuddenly shut the book and shouted at him:\n\n--Kneel out there in the middle of the class. You are one of the\nidlest boys I ever met. Copy out your themes again the rest of you.\n\nFleming moved heavily out of his place and knelt between the two last\nbenches. The other boys bent over their theme-books and began to write.\nA silence filled the classroom and Stephen, glancing timidly at Father\nArnall's dark face, saw that it was a little red from the wax he was in.\n\nWas that a sin for Father Arnall to be in a wax or was he allowed to\nget into a wax when the boys were idle because that made them study\nbetter or was he only letting on to be in a wax? It was because he was\nallowed, because a priest would know what a sin was and would not do\nit. But if he did it one time by mistake what would he do to go to\nconfession? Perhaps he would go to confession to the minister. And if\nthe minister did it he would go to the rector: and the rector to the\nprovincial: and the provincial to the general of the jesuits. That was\ncalled the order: and he had heard his father say that they were all\nclever men. They could all have become high-up people in the world if\nthey had not become jesuits. And he wondered what Father Arnall and\nPaddy Barrett would have become and what Mr McGlade and Mr Gleeson\nwould have become if they had not become jesuits. It was hard to think\nwhat because you would have to think of them in a different way with\ndifferent coloured coats and trousers and with beards and moustaches\nand different kinds of hats.\n\nThe door opened quietly and closed. A quick whisper ran through the\nclass: the prefect of studies. There was an instant of dead silence and\nthen the loud crack of a pandybat on the last desk. Stephen's heart\nleapt up in fear.\n\n--Any boys want flogging here, Father Arnall? cried the prefect of\nstudies. Any lazy idle loafers that want flogging in this class?\n\nHe came to the middle of the class and saw Fleming on his knees.\n\n--Hoho! he cried. Who is this boy? Why is he on his knees? What is\nyour name, boy?\n\n--Fleming, sir.\n\n--Hoho, Fleming! An idler of course. I can see it in your eye. Why is\nhe on his knees, Father Arnall?\n\n--He wrote a bad Latin theme, Father Arnall said, and he missed all\nthe questions in grammar.\n\n--Of course he did! cried the prefect of studies, of course he did! A\nborn idler! I can see it in the corner of his eye.\n\nHe banged his pandybat down on the desk and cried:\n\n--Up, Fleming! Up, my boy!\n\nFleming stood up slowly.\n\n--Hold out! cried the prefect of studies.\n\nFleming held out his hand. The pandybat came down on it with a loud\nsmacking sound: one, two, three, four, five, six.\n\n--Other hand!\n\nThe pandybat came down again in six loud quick smacks.\n\n--Kneel down! cried the prefect of studies.\n\nFleming knelt down, squeezing his hands under his armpits, his face\ncontorted with pain; but Stephen knew how hard his hands were because\nFleming was always rubbing rosin into them. But perhaps he was in great\npain for the noise of the pandybat was terrible. Stephen's heart was\nbeating and fluttering.\n\n--At your work, all of you! shouted the prefect of studies. We want no\nlazy idle loafers here, lazy idle little schemers. At your work, I tell\nyou. Father Dolan will be in to see you every day. Father Dolan will be\nin tomorrow.\n\nHe poked one of the boys in the side with his pandybat, saying:\n\n--You, boy! When will Father Dolan be in again?\n\n--Tomorrow, sir, said Tom Furlong's voice.\n\n--Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, said the prefect of studies.\nMake up your minds for that. Every day Father Dolan. Write away. You,\nboy, who are you?\n\nStephen's heart jumped suddenly.\n\n--Dedalus, sir.\n\n--Why are you not writing like the others?\n\n--I...my...\n\nHe could not speak with fright.\n\n--Why is he not writing, Father Arnall?\n\n--He broke his glasses, said Father Arnall, and I exempted him from\nwork.\n\n--Broke? What is this I hear? What is this? Your name is! said the\nprefect of studies.\n\n--Dedalus, sir.\n\n--Out here, Dedalus. Lazy little schemer. I see schemer in your face.\nWhere did you break your glasses?\n\nStephen stumbled into the middle of the class, blinded by fear and haste.\n\n--Where did you break your glasses? repeated the prefect of studies.\n\n--The cinder-path, sir.\n\n--Hoho! The cinder-path! cried the prefect of studies. I know that trick.\n\nStephen lifted his eyes in wonder and saw for a moment Father Dolan's\nwhite-grey not young face, his baldy white-grey head with fluff at the\nsides of it, the steel rims of his spectacles and his no-coloured eyes\nlooking through the glasses. Why did he say he knew that trick?\n\n--Lazy idle little loafer! cried the prefect of studies. Broke my\nglasses! An old schoolboy trick! Out with your hand this moment!\n\nStephen closed his eyes and held out in the air his trembling hand with\nthe palm upwards. He felt the prefect of studies touch it for a moment\nat the fingers to straighten it and then the swish of the sleeve of the\nsoutane as the pandybat was lifted to strike. A hot burning stinging\ntingling blow like the loud crack of a broken stick made his trembling\nhand crumple together like a leaf in the fire: and at the sound and the\npain scalding tears were driven into his eyes. His whole body was shaking\nwith fright, his arm was shaking and his crumpled burning livid hand shook\nlike a loose leaf in the air. A cry sprang to his lips, a prayer to be let\noff. But though the tears scalded his eyes and his limbs quivered with\npain and fright he held back the hot tears and the cry that scalded his\nthroat.\n\n--Other hand! shouted the prefect of studies.\n\nStephen drew back his maimed and quivering right arm and held out his\nleft hand. The soutane sleeve swished again as the pandybat was lifted\nand a loud crashing sound and a fierce maddening tingling burning pain\nmade his hand shrink together with the palms and fingers in a livid\nquivering mass. The scalding water burst forth from his eyes and,\nburning with shame and agony and fear, he drew back his shaking arm in\nterror and burst out into a whine of pain. His body shook with a palsy\nof fright and in shame and rage he felt the scalding cry come from his\nthroat and the scalding tears falling out of his eyes and down his\nflaming cheeks.\n\n--Kneel down, cried the prefect of studies.\n\nStephen knelt down quickly pressing his beaten hands to his sides. To\nthink of them beaten and swollen with pain all in a moment made him\nfeel so sorry for them as if they were not his own but someone else's\nthat he felt sorry for. And as he knelt, calming the last sobs in his\nthroat and feeling the burning tingling pain pressed into his sides, he\nthought of the hands which he had held out in the air with the palms up\nand of the firm touch of the prefect of studies when he had steadied\nthe shaking fingers and of the beaten swollen reddened mass of palm and\nfingers that shook helplessly in the air.\n\n--Get at your work, all of you, cried the prefect of studies from the\ndoor. Father Dolan will be in every day to see if any boy, any lazy\nidle little loafer wants flogging. Every day. Every day.\n\nThe door closed behind him.\n\nThe hushed class continued to copy out the themes. Father Arnall rose\nfrom his seat and went among them, helping the boys with gentle words\nand telling them the mistakes they had made. His voice was very gentle\nand soft. Then he returned to his seat and said to Fleming and Stephen:\n\n--You may return to your places, you two.\n\nFleming and Stephen rose and, walking to their seats, sat down.\nStephen, scarlet with shame, opened a book quickly with one weak hand\nand bent down upon it, his face close to the page.\n\nIt was unfair and cruel because the doctor had told him not to read\nwithout glasses and he had written home to his father that morning to\nsend him a new pair. And Father Arnall had said that he need not study\ntill the new glasses came. Then to be called a schemer before the class\nand to be pandied when he always got the card for first or second and\nwas the leader of the Yorkists! How could the prefect of studies know\nthat it was a trick? He felt the touch of the prefect's fingers as they\nhad steadied his hand and at first he had thought he was going to shake\nhands with him because the fingers were soft and firm: but then in an\ninstant he had heard the swish of the soutane sleeve and the crash. It\nwas cruel and unfair to make him kneel in the middle of the class then:\nand Father Arnall had told them both that they might return to their\nplaces without making any difference between them. He listened to\nFather Arnall's low and gentle voice as he corrected the themes.\nPerhaps he was sorry now and wanted to be decent. But it was unfair and\ncruel. The prefect of studies was a priest but that was cruel and\nunfair. And his white-grey face and the no-coloured eyes behind the\nsteel-rimmed spectacles were cruel looking because he had steadied the\nhand first with his firm soft fingers and that was to hit it better and\nlouder.\n\n--It's a stinking mean thing, that's what it is, said Fleming in the\ncorridor as the classes were passing out in file to the refectory, to\npandy a fellow for what is not his fault.\n\n--You really broke your glasses by accident, didn't you? Nasty Roche\nasked.\n\nStephen felt his heart filled by Fleming's words and did not answer.\n\n--Of course he did! said Fleming. I wouldn't stand it. I'd go up and\ntell the rector on him.\n\n--Yes, said Cecil Thunder eagerly, and I saw him lift the pandy-bat\nover his shoulder and he's not allowed to do that.\n\n--Did they hurt you much? Nasty Roche asked.\n\n--Very much, Stephen said.\n\n--I wouldn't stand it, Fleming repeated, from Baldyhead or any other\nBaldyhead. It's a stinking mean low trick, that's what it is. I'd go\nstraight up to the rector and tell him about it after dinner.\n\n--Yes, do. Yes, do, said Cecil Thunder.\n\n--Yes, do. Yes, go up and tell the rector on him, Dedalus, said Nasty\nRoche, because he said that he'd come in tomorrow again and pandy you.\n\n--Yes, yes. Tell the rector, all said.\n\nAnd there were some fellows out of second of grammar listening and one\nof them said:\n\n--The senate and the Roman people declared that Dedalus had been\nwrongly punished.\n\nIt was wrong; it was unfair and cruel; and, as he sat in the refectory,\nhe suffered time after time in memory the same humiliation until he\nbegan to wonder whether it might not really be that there was something\nin his face which made him look like a schemer and he wished he had a\nlittle mirror to see. But there could not be; and it was unjust and\ncruel and unfair.\n\nHe could not eat the blackish fish fritters they got on Wednesdays in\nlent and one of his potatoes had the mark of the spade in it. Yes, he\nwould do what the fellows had told him. He would go up and tell the\nrector that he had been wrongly punished. A thing like that had been\ndone before by somebody in history, by some great person whose head was\nin the books of history. And the rector would declare that he had been\nwrongly punished because the senate and the Roman people always\ndeclared that the men who did that had been wrongly punished. Those\nwere the great men whose names were in Richmal Magnall's Questions.\nHistory was all about those men and what they did and that was what\nPeter Parley's Tales about Greece and Rome were all about. Peter Parley\nhimself was on the first page in a picture. There was a road over a\nheath with grass at the side and little bushes: and Peter Parley had a\nbroad hat like a protestant minister and a big stick and he was walking\nfast along the road to Greece and Rome.\n\nIt was easy what he had to do. All he had to do was when the dinner was\nover and he came out in his turn to go on walking but not out to the\ncorridor but up the staircase on the right that led to the castle. He\nhad nothing to do but that: to turn to the right and walk fast up the\nstaircase and in half a minute he would be in the low dark narrow\ncorridor that led through the castle to the rector's room. And every\nfellow had said that it was unfair, even the fellow out of second of\ngrammar who had said that about the senate and the Roman people.\n\nWhat would happen?\n\nHe heard the fellows of the higher line stand up at the top of the\nrefectory and heard their steps as they came down the matting: Paddy\nRath and Jimmy Magee and the Spaniard and the Portuguese and the fifth\nwas big Corrigan who was going to be flogged by Mr Gleeson. That was\nwhy the prefect of studies had called him a schemer and pandied him for\nnothing: and, straining his weak eyes, tired with the tears, he watched\nbig Corrigan's broad shoulders and big hanging black head passing in the\nfile. But he had done something and besides Mr Gleeson would not flog him\nhard: and he remembered how big Corrigan looked in the bath. He had skin\nthe same colour as the turf-coloured bogwater in the shallow end of the\nbath and when he walked along the side his feet slapped loudly on the wet\ntiles and at every step his thighs shook a little because he was fat.\n\nThe refectory was half empty and the fellows were still passing out in\nfile. He could go up the staircase because there was never a priest or\na prefect outside the refectory door. But he could not go. The rector\nwould side with the prefect of studies and think it was a schoolboy\ntrick and then the prefect of studies would come in every day the same,\nonly it would be worse because he would be dreadfully waxy at any\nfellow going up to the rector about him. The fellows had told him to go\nbut they would not go themselves. They had forgotten all about it. No,\nit was best to forget all about it and perhaps the prefect of studies\nhad only said he would come in. No, it was best to hide out of the way\nbecause when you were small and young you could often escape that way.\n\nThe fellows at his table stood up. He stood up and passed out among\nthem in the file. He had to decide. He was coming near the door. If he\nwent on with the fellows he could never go up to the rector because he\ncould not leave the playground for that. And if he went and was pandied\nall the same all the fellows would make fun and talk about young\nDedalus going up to the rector to tell on the prefect of studies.\n\nHe was walking down along the matting and he saw the door before him.\nIt was impossible: he could not. He thought of the baldy head of the\nprefect of studies with the cruel no-coloured eyes looking at him and\nhe heard the voice of the prefect of studies asking him twice what his\nname was. Why could he not remember the name when he was told the first\ntime? Was he not listening the first time or was it to make fun out of\nthe name? The great men in the history had names like that and nobody\nmade fun of them. It was his own name that he should have made fun of\nif he wanted to make fun. Dolan: it was like the name of a woman who\nwashed clothes.\n\nHe had reached the door and, turning quickly up to the right, walked up\nthe stairs and, before he could make up his mind to come back, he had\nentered the low dark narrow corridor that led to the castle. And as he\ncrossed the threshold of the door of the corridor he saw, without\nturning his head to look, that all the fellows were looking after him\nas they went filing by.\n\nHe passed along the narrow dark corridor, passing little doors that\nwere the doors of the rooms of the community. He peered in front of him\nand right and left through the gloom and thought that those must be\nportraits. It was dark and silent and his eyes were weak and tired with\ntears so that he could not see. But he thought they were the portraits\nof the saints and great men of the order who were looking down on him\nsilently as he passed: saint Ignatius Loyola holding an open book and\npointing to the words AD MAJOREM DEI GLORIAM in it; saint Francis\nXavier pointing to his chest; Lorenzo Ricci with his berretta on his\nhead like one of the prefects of the lines, the three patrons of holy\nyouth--saint Stanislaus Kostka, saint Aloysius Gonzago, and Blessed\nJohn Berchmans, all with young faces because they died when they were\nyoung, and Father Peter Kenny sitting in a chair wrapped in a big\ncloak.\n\nHe came out on the landing above the entrance hall and looked about\nhim. That was where Hamilton Rowan had passed and the marks of the\nsoldiers' slugs were there. And it was there that the old servants had\nseen the ghost in the white cloak of a marshal.\n\nAn old servant was sweeping at the end of the landing. He asked him\nwhere was the rector's room and the old servant pointed to the door at\nthe far end and looked after him as he went on to it and knocked.\n\nThere was no answer. He knocked again more loudly and his heart jumped\nwhen he heard a muffled voice say:\n\n--Come in!\n\nHe turned the handle and opened the door and fumbled for the handle of\nthe green baize door inside. He found it and pushed it open and went in.\n\nHe saw the rector sitting at a desk writing. There was a skull on the\ndesk and a strange solemn smell in the room like the old leather of\nchairs.\n\nHis heart was beating fast on account of the solemn place he was in and\nthe silence of the room: and he looked at the skull and at the rector's\nkind-looking face.\n\n--Well, my little man, said the rector, what is it?\n\nStephen swallowed down the thing in his throat and said:\n\n--I broke my glasses, sir.\n\nThe rector opened his mouth and said:\n\n--O!\n\nThen he smiled and said:\n\n--Well, if we broke our glasses we must write home for a new pair.\n\n--I wrote home, sir, said Stephen, and Father Arnall said I am not to\nstudy till they come.\n\n--Quite right! said the rector.\n\nStephen swallowed down the thing again and tried to keep his legs and\nhis voice from shaking.\n\n--But, sir--\n\n--Yes?\n\n--Father Dolan came in today and pandied me because I was not writing\nmy theme.\n\nThe rector looked at him in silence and he could feel the blood rising\nto his face and the tears about to rise to his eyes.\n\nThe rector said:\n\n--Your name is Dedalus, isn't it?\n\n--Yes, sir...\n\n--And where did you break your glasses?\n\n--On the cinder-path, sir. A fellow was coming out of the bicycle\nhouse and I fell and they got broken. I don't know the fellow's name.\n\nThe rector looked at him again in silence. Then he smiled and said:\n\n--O, well, it was a mistake; I am sure Father Dolan did not know.\n\n--But I told him I broke them, sir, and he pandied me.\n\n--Did you tell him that you had written home for a new pair? the\nrector asked.\n\n--No, sir.\n\n--O well then, said the rector, Father Dolan did not understand. You can\nsay that I excuse you from your lessons for a few days.\n\nStephen said quickly for fear his trembling would prevent him:\n\n--Yes, sir, but Father Dolan said he will come in tomorrow to pandy me\nagain for it.\n\n--Very well, the rector said, it is a mistake and I shall speak to\nFather Dolan myself. Will that do now?\n\nStephen felt the tears wetting his eyes and murmured:\n\n--O yes sir, thanks.\n\nThe rector held his hand across the side of the desk where the skull\nwas and Stephen, placing his hand in it for a moment, felt a cool moist\npalm.\n\n--Good day now, said the rector, withdrawing his hand and bowing.\n\n--Good day, sir, said Stephen.\n\nHe bowed and walked quietly out of the room, closing the doors\ncarefully and slowly.\n\nBut when he had passed the old servant on the landing and was again in\nthe low narrow dark corridor he began to walk faster and faster. Faster\nand faster he hurried on through the gloom excitedly. He bumped his\nelbow against the door at the end and, hurrying down the staircase,\nwalked quickly through the two corridors and out into the air.\n\nHe could hear the cries of the fellows on the playgrounds. He broke\ninto a run and, running quicker and quicker, ran across the cinderpath\nand reached the third line playground, panting.\n\nThe fellows had seen him running. They closed round him in a ring,\npushing one against another to hear.\n\n--Tell us! Tell us!\n\n--What did he say?\n\n--Did you go in?\n\n--What did he say?\n\n--Tell us! Tell us!\n\nHe told them what he had said and what the rector had said and, when he\nhad told them, all the fellows flung their caps spinning up into the\nair and cried:\n\n--Hurroo!\n\nThey caught their caps and sent them up again spinning sky-high and\ncried again:\n\n--Hurroo! Hurroo!\n\nThey made a cradle of their locked hands and hoisted him up among them\nand carried him along till he struggled to get free. And when he had\nescaped from them they broke away in all directions, flinging their\ncaps again into the air and whistling as they went spinning up and\ncrying:\n\n--Hurroo!\n\nAnd they gave three groans for Baldyhead Dolan and three cheers for\nConmee and they said he was the decentest rector that was ever in\nClongowes.\n\nThe cheers died away in the soft grey air. He was alone. He was happy\nand free; but he would not be anyway proud with Father Dolan. He would\nbe very quiet and obedient: and he wished that he could do something\nkind for him to show him that he was not proud.\n\nThe air was soft and grey and mild and evening was coming. There was\nthe smell of evening in the air, the smell of the fields in the country\nwhere they digged up turnips to peel them and eat them when they went\nout for a walk to Major Barton's, the smell there was in the little\nwood beyond the pavilion where the gallnuts were.\n\nThe fellows were practising long shies and bowling lobs and slow\ntwisters. In the soft grey silence he could hear the bump of the balls:\nand from here and from there through the quiet air the sound of the\ncricket bats: pick, pack, pock, puck: like drops of water in a fountain\nfalling softly in the brimming bowl.\n\n\n\n\nChapter 2\n\n\nUncle Charles smoked such black twist that at last his nephew suggested\nto him to enjoy his morning smoke in a little outhouse at the end of\nthe garden.\n\n--Very good, Simon. All serene, Simon, said the old man tranquilly.\nAnywhere you like. The outhouse will do me nicely: it will be more\nsalubrious.\n\n--Damn me, said Mr Dedalus frankly, if I know how you can smoke such\nvillainous awful tobacco. It's like gunpowder, by God.\n\n--It's very nice, Simon, replied the old man. Very cool and\nmollifying.\n\nEvery morning, therefore, uncle Charles repaired to his outhouse but\nnot before he had greased and brushed scrupulously his back hair and\nbrushed and put on his tall hat. While he smoked the brim of his tall\nhat and the bowl of his pipe were just visible beyond the jambs of the\nouthouse door. His arbour, as he called the reeking outhouse which he\nshared with the cat and the garden tools, served him also as a\nsounding-box: and every morning he hummed contentedly one of his\nfavourite songs: O, TWINE ME A BOWER or BLUE EYES AND GOLDEN HAIR or\nTHE GROVES OF BLARNEY while the grey and blue coils of smoke rose\nslowly from his pipe and vanished in the pure air.\n\nDuring the first part of the summer in Blackrock uncle Charles was\nStephen's constant companion. Uncle Charles was a hale old man with a\nwell tanned skin, rugged features and white side whiskers. On week days\nhe did messages between the house in Carysfort Avenue and those shops\nin the main street of the town with which the family dealt. Stephen was\nglad to go with him on these errands for uncle Charles helped him very\nliberally to handfuls of whatever was exposed in open boxes and barrels\noutside the counter. He would seize a handful of grapes and sawdust or\nthree or four American apples and thrust them generously into his\ngrandnephew's hand while the shopman smiled uneasily; and, on Stephen's\nfeigning reluctance to take them, he would frown and say:\n\n--Take them, sir. Do you hear me, sir? They're good for your bowels.\n\nWhen the order list had been booked the two would go on to the park\nwhere an old friend of Stephen's father, Mike Flynn, would be found\nseated on a bench, waiting for them. Then would begin Stephen's run\nround the park. Mike Flynn would stand at the gate near the railway\nstation, watch in hand, while Stephen ran round the track in the style\nMike Flynn favoured, his head high lifted, his knees well lifted and\nhis hands held straight down by his sides. When the morning practice\nwas over the trainer would make his comments and sometimes illustrate\nthem by shuffling along for a yard or so comically in an old pair of\nblue canvas shoes. A small ring of wonderstruck children and nursemaids\nwould gather to watch him and linger even when he and uncle Charles had\nsat down again and were talking athletics and politics. Though he had\nheard his father say that Mike Flynn had put some of the best runners\nof modern times through his hands Stephen often glanced at his\ntrainer's flabby stubble-covered face, as it bent over the long stained\nfingers through which he rolled his cigarette, and with pity at the\nmild lustreless blue eyes which would look up suddenly from the task\nand gaze vaguely into the blue distance while the long swollen fingers\nceased their rolling and grains and fibres of tobacco fell back into\nthe pouch.\n\nOn the way home uncle Charles would often pay a visit to the chapel\nand, as the font was above Stephen's reach, the old man would dip his\nhand and then sprinkle the water briskly about Stephen's clothes and on\nthe floor of the porch. While he prayed he knelt on his red\nhandkerchief and read above his breath from a thumb blackened prayer\nbook wherein catchwords were printed at the foot of every page. Stephen\nknelt at his side respecting, though he did not share, his piety. He\noften wondered what his grand-uncle prayed for so seriously. Perhaps he\nprayed for the souls in purgatory or for the grace of a happy death or\nperhaps he prayed that God might send him back a part of the big\nfortune he had squandered in Cork.\n\nOn Sundays Stephen with his father and his grand-uncle took their\nconstitutional. The old man was a nimble walker in spite of his corns\nand often ten or twelve miles of the road were covered. The little\nvillage of Stillorgan was the parting of the ways. Either they went to\nthe left towards the Dublin mountains or along the Goatstown road and\nthence into Dundrum, coming home by Sandyford. Trudging along the road\nor standing in some grimy wayside public house his elders spoke\nconstantly of the subjects nearer their hearts, of Irish politics, of\nMunster and of the legends of their own family, to all of which Stephen\nlent an avid ear. Words which he did not understand he said over and\nover to himself till he had learnt them by heart: and through them he\nhad glimpses of the real world about them. The hour when he too would\ntake part in the life of that world seemed drawing near and in secret\nhe began to make ready for the great part which he felt awaited him the\nnature of which he only dimly apprehended.\n\nHis evenings were his own; and he pored over a ragged translation of\nTHE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO. The figure of that dark avenger stood forth\nin his mind for whatever he had heard or divined in childhood of the\nstrange and terrible. At night he built up on the parlour table an\nimage of the wonderful island cave out of transfers and paper flowers\nand coloured tissue paper and strips of the silver and golden paper in\nwhich chocolate is wrapped. When he had broken up this scenery, weary\nof its tinsel, there would come to his mind the bright picture of\nMarseille, of sunny trellises, and of Mercedes.\n\nOutside Blackrock, on the road that led to the mountains, stood a small\nwhitewashed house in the garden of which grew many rosebushes: and in\nthis house, he told himself, another Mercedes lived. Both on the\noutward and on the homeward journey he measured distance by this\nlandmark: and in his imagination he lived through a long train of\nadventures, marvellous as those in the book itself, towards the close\nof which there appeared an image of himself, grown older and sadder,\nstanding in a moonlit garden with Mercedes who had so many years before\nslighted his love, and with a sadly proud gesture of refusal, saying:\n\n--Madam, I never eat muscatel grapes.\n\nHe became the ally of a boy named Aubrey Mills and founded with him a\ngang of adventurers in the avenue. Aubrey carried a whistle dangling\nfrom his buttonhole and a bicycle lamp attached to his belt while the\nothers had short sticks thrust daggerwise through theirs. Stephen, who\nhad read of Napoleon's plain style of dress, chose to remain unadorned\nand thereby heightened for himself the pleasure of taking counsel with\nhis lieutenant before giving orders. The gang made forays into the\ngardens of old maids or went down to the castle and fought a battle on\nthe shaggy weed-grown rocks, coming home after it weary stragglers with\nthe stale odours of the foreshore in their nostrils and the rank oils\nof the seawrack upon their hands and in their hair.\n\nAubrey and Stephen had a common milkman and often they drove out in the\nmilk-car to Carrickmines where the cows were at grass. While the men\nwere milking the boys would take turns in riding the tractable mare\nround the field. But when autumn came the cows were driven home from\nthe grass: and the first sight of the filthy cowyard at Stradbrook with\nits foul green puddles and clots of liquid dung and steaming bran\ntroughs, sickened Stephen's heart. The cattle which had seemed so\nbeautiful in the country on sunny days revolted him and he could not\neven look at the milk they yielded.\n\nThe coming of September did not trouble him this year for he was not to\nbe sent back to Clongowes. The practice in the park came to an end when\nMike Flynn went into hospital. Aubrey was at school and had only an\nhour or two free in the evening. The gang fell asunder and there were\nno more nightly forays or battles on the rocks. Stephen sometimes went\nround with the car which delivered the evening milk and these chilly\ndrives blew away his memory of the filth of the cowyard and he felt no\nrepugnance at seeing the cow hairs and hayseeds on the milkman's coat.\nWhenever the car drew up before a house he waited to catch a glimpse of\na well scrubbed kitchen or of a softly lighted hall and to see how the\nservant would hold the jug and how she would close the door. He thought\nit should be a pleasant life enough, driving along the roads every\nevening to deliver milk, if he had warm gloves and a fat bag of\ngingernuts in his pocket to eat from. But the same foreknowledge which\nhad sickened his heart and made his legs sag suddenly as he raced round\nthe park, the same intuition which had made him glance with mistrust at\nhis trainer's flabby stubble-covered face as it bent heavily over his long\nstained fingers, dissipated any vision of the future. In a vague way he\nunderstood that his father was in trouble and that this was the reason\nwhy he himself had not been sent back to Clongowes. For some time he\nhad felt the slight change in his house; and those changes in what he\nhad deemed unchangeable were so many slight shocks to his boyish\nconception of the world. The ambition which he felt astir at times in\nthe darkness of his soul sought no outlet. A dusk like that of the\nouter world obscured his mind as he heard the mare's hoofs clattering\nalong the tramtrack on the Rock Road and the great can swaying and\nrattling behind him.\n\nHe returned to Mercedes and, as he brooded upon her image, a strange\nunrest crept into his blood. Sometimes a fever gathered within him and\nled him to rove alone in the evening along the quiet avenue. The peace\nof the gardens and the kindly lights in the windows poured a tender\ninfluence into his restless heart. The noise of children at play\nannoyed him and their silly voices made him feel, even more keenly than\nhe had felt at Clongowes, that he was different from others. He did not\nwant to play. He wanted to meet in the real world the unsubstantial\nimage which his soul so constantly beheld. He did not know where to\nseek it or how, but a premonition which led him on told him that this\nimage would, without any overt act of his, encounter him. They would\nmeet quietly as if they had known each other and had made their tryst,\nperhaps at one of the gates or in some more secret place. They would be\nalone, surrounded by darkness and silence: and in that moment of\nsupreme tenderness he would be transfigured.\n\nHe would fade into something impalpable under her eyes and then in a\nmoment he would be transfigured. Weakness and timidity and inexperience\nwould fall from him in that magic moment.\n\n\n* * * * *\n\n\nTwo great yellow caravans had halted one morning before the door and\nmen had come tramping into the house to dismantle it. The furniture had\nbeen hustled out through the front garden which was strewn with wisps\nof straw and rope ends and into the huge vans at the gate. When all had\nbeen safely stowed the vans had set off noisily down the avenue: and\nfrom the window of the railway carriage, in which he had sat with his\nred-eyed mother, Stephen had seen them lumbering along the Merrion\nRoad.\n\nThe parlour fire would not draw that evening and Mr Dedalus rested the\npoker against the bars of the grate to attract the flame. Uncle Charles\ndozed in a corner of the half furnished uncarpeted room and near him\nthe family portraits leaned against the wall. The lamp on the table\nshed a weak light over the boarded floor, muddied by the feet of the\nvan-men. Stephen sat on a footstool beside his father listening to a\nlong and incoherent monologue. He understood little or nothing of it at\nfirst but he became slowly aware that his father had enemies and that\nsome fight was going to take place. He felt, too, that he was being\nenlisted for the fight, that some duty was being laid upon his\nshoulders. The sudden flight from the comfort and revery of Blackrock,\nthe passage through the gloomy foggy city, the thought of the bare\ncheerless house in which they were now to live made his heart heavy,\nand again an intuition, a foreknowledge of the future came to him. He\nunderstood also why the servants had often whispered together in the\nhall and why his father had often stood on the hearthrug with his back\nto the fire, talking loudly to uncle Charles who urged him to sit down\nand eat his dinner.\n\n--There's a crack of the whip left in me yet, Stephen, old chap, said\nMr Dedalus, poking at the dull fire with fierce energy. We're not dead\nyet, sonny. No, by the Lord Jesus (God forgive me) not half dead.\n\nDublin was a new and complex sensation. Uncle Charles had grown so\nwitless that he could no longer be sent out on errands and the disorder\nin settling in the new house left Stephen freer than he had been in\nBlackrock. In the beginning he contented himself with circling timidly\nround the neighbouring square or, at most, going half way down one of\nthe side streets but when he had made a skeleton map of the city in his\nmind he followed boldly one of its central lines until he reached the\ncustomhouse. He passed unchallenged among the docks and along the quays\nwondering at the multitude of corks that lay bobbing on the surface of\nthe water in a thick yellow scum, at the crowds of quay porters and the\nrumbling carts and the ill-dressed bearded policeman. The vastness and\nstrangeness of the life suggested to him by the bales of merchandise\nstocked along the walls or swung aloft out of the holds of steamers\nwakened again in him the unrest which had sent him wandering in the\nevening from garden to garden in search of Mercedes. And amid this new\nbustling life he might have fancied himself in another Marseille but that\nhe missed the bright sky and the sun-warmed trellises of the wineshops.\nA vague dissatisfaction grew up within him as he looked on the quays and\non the river and on the lowering skies and yet he continued to wander up\nand down day after day as if he really sought someone that eluded him.\n\nHe went once or twice with his mother to visit their relatives: and\nthough they passed a jovial array of shops lit up and adorned for\nChristmas his mood of embittered silence did not leave him. The causes\nof his embitterment were many, remote and near. He was angry with\nhimself for being young and the prey of restless foolish impulses,\nangry also with the change of fortune which was reshaping the world\nabout him into a vision of squalor and insincerity. Yet his anger lent\nnothing to the vision. He chronicled with patience what he saw,\ndetaching himself from it and tasting its mortifying flavour in secret.\n\nHe was sitting on the backless chair in his aunt's kitchen. A lamp with\na reflector hung on the japanned wall of the fireplace and by its light\nhis aunt was reading the evening paper that lay on her knees. She\nlooked a long time at a smiling picture that was set in it and said\nmusingly:\n\n--The beautiful Mabel Hunter!\n\nA ringletted girl stood on tiptoe to peer at the picture and said softly:\n\n--What is she in, mud?\n\n--In a pantomime, love.\n\nThe child leaned her ringletted head against her mother's sleeve,\ngazing on the picture, and murmured as if fascinated:\n\n--The beautiful Mabel Hunter!\n\nAs if fascinated, her eyes rested long upon those demurely taunting\neyes and she murmured devotedly:\n\n--Isn't she an exquisite creature?\n\nAnd the boy who came in from the street, stamping crookedly under his\nstone of coal, heard her words. He dropped his load promptly on the\nfloor and hurried to her side to see. He mauled the edges of the paper\nwith his reddened and blackened hands, shouldering her aside and\ncomplaining that he could not see.\n\nHe was sitting in the narrow breakfast room high up in the old\ndark-windowed house. The firelight flickered on the wall and beyond the\nwindow a spectral dusk was gathering upon the river. Before the fire an\nold woman was busy making tea and, as she bustled at the task, she told\nin a low voice of what the priest and the doctor had said. She told too\nof certain changes they had seen in her of late and of her odd ways and\nsayings. He sat listening to the words and following the ways of\nadventure that lay open in the coals, arches and vaults and winding\ngalleries and jagged caverns.\n\nSuddenly he became aware of something in the doorway. A skull appeared\nsuspended in the gloom of the doorway. A feeble creature like a monkey\nwas there, drawn thither by the sound of voices at the fire. A whining\nvoice came from the door asking:\n\n--Is that Josephine?\n\nThe old bustling woman answered cheerily from the fireplace:\n\n--No, Ellen, it's Stephen.\n\n--O... O, good evening, Stephen.\n\nHe answered the greeting and saw a silly smile break over the face in\nthe doorway.\n\n--Do you want anything, Ellen? asked the old woman at the fire.\n\nBut she did not answer the question and said:\n\n--I thought it was Josephine. I thought you were Josephine, Stephen.\n\nAnd, repeating this several times, she fell to laughing feebly.\n\nHe was sitting in the midst of a children's party at Harold's Cross.\nHis silent watchful manner had grown upon him and he took little part\nin the games. The children, wearing the spoils of their crackers,\ndanced and romped noisily and, though he tried to share their\nmerriment, he felt himself a gloomy figure amid the gay cocked hats and\nsunbonnets.\n\nBut when he had sung his song and withdrawn into a snug corner of the\nroom he began to taste the joy of his loneliness. The mirth, which in\nthe beginning of the evening had seemed to him false and trivial, was\nlike a soothing air to him, passing gaily by his senses, hiding from\nother eyes the feverish agitation of his blood while through the\ncircling of the dancers and amid the music and laughter her glance\ntravelled to his corner, flattering, taunting, searching, exciting his\nheart.\n\nIn the hall the children who had stayed latest were putting on their\nthings: the party was over. She had thrown a shawl about her and, as\nthey went together towards the tram, sprays of her fresh warm breath\nflew gaily above her cowled head and her shoes tapped blithely on the\nglassy road.\n\nIt was the last tram. The lank brown horses knew it and shook their\nbells to the clear night in admonition. The conductor talked with the\ndriver, both nodding often in the green light of the lamp. On the empty\nseats of the tram were scattered a few coloured tickets. No sound of\nfootsteps came up or down the road. No sound broke the peace of the\nnight save when the lank brown horses rubbed their noses together and\nshook their bells.\n\nThey seemed to listen, he on the upper step and she on the lower. She\ncame up to his step many times and went down to hers again between\ntheir phrases and once or twice stood close beside him for some moments\non the upper step, forgetting to go down, and then went down. His heart\ndanced upon her movements like a cork upon a tide. He heard what her\neyes said to him from beneath their cowl and knew that in some dim\npast, whether in life or revery, he had heard their tale before. He saw\nher urge her vanities, her fine dress and sash and long black\nstockings, and knew that he had yielded to them a thousand times. Yet a\nvoice within him spoke above the noise of his dancing heart, asking him\nwould he take her gift to which he had only to stretch out his hand.\nAnd he remembered the day when he and Eileen had stood looking into the\nhotel grounds, watching the waiters running up a trail of bunting on\nthe flagstaff and the fox terrier scampering to and fro on the sunny\nlawn and how, all of a sudden, she had broken out into a peal of\nlaughter and had run down the sloping curve of the path. Now, as then,\nhe stood listlessly in his place, seemingly a tranquil watcher of the\nscene before him.\n\n--She too wants me to catch hold of her, he thought. That's why she\ncame with me to the tram. I could easily catch hold of her when she\ncomes up to my step: nobody is looking. I could hold her and kiss her.\n\nBut he did neither: and, when he was sitting alone in the deserted\ntram, he tore his ticket into shreds and stared gloomily at the\ncorrugated footboard.\n\n\n* * * * *\n\n\nThe next day he sat at his table in the bare upper room for many hours.\nBefore him lay a new pen, a new bottle of ink and a new emerald\nexercise. From force of habit he had written at the top of the\nfirst page the initial letters of the jesuit motto: A.M.D.G. On the\nfirst line of the page appeared the title of the verses he was trying\nto write: To E-- C--. He knew it was right to begin so for he had seen\nsimilar titles in the collected poems of Lord Byron. When he had\nwritten this title and drawn an ornamental line underneath he fell into\na daydream and began to draw diagrams on the cover of the book. He saw\nhimself sitting at his table in Bray the morning after the discussion\nat the Christmas dinner table, trying to write a poem about Parnell on\nthe back of one of his father's second moiety notices. But his brain\nhad then refused to grapple with the theme and, desisting, he had\ncovered the page with the names and addresses of certain of his\nclassmates:\n\n    Roderick Kickham\n    John Lawton\n    Anthony MacSwiney\n    Simon Moonan\n\nNow it seemed as if he would fail again but, by dint of brooding on the\nincident, he thought himself into confidence. During this process all\nthose elements which he deemed common and insignificant fell out of the\nscene. There remained no trace of the tram itself nor of the tram-men\nnor of the horses: nor did he and she appear vividly. The verses told\nonly of the night and the balmy breeze and the maiden lustre of the\nmoon. Some undefined sorrow was hidden in the hearts of the\nprotagonists as they stood in silence beneath the leafless trees and\nwhen the moment of farewell had come the kiss, which had been withheld\nby one, was given by both. After this the letters L. D. S. were written\nat the foot of the page, and, having hidden the book, he went into his\nmother's bedroom and gazed at his face for a long time in the mirror of\nher dressing-table.\n\nBut his long spell of leisure and liberty was drawing to its end. One\nevening his father came home full of news which kept his tongue busy\nall through dinner. Stephen had been awaiting his father's return for\nthere had been mutton hash that day and he knew that his father would\nmake him dip his bread in the gravy. But he did not relish the hash for\nthe mention of Clongowes had coated his palate with a scum of disgust.\n\n--I walked bang into him, said Mr Dedalus for the fourth time, just at\nthe corner of the square.\n\n--Then I suppose, said Mrs Dedalus, he will be able to arrange it. I\nmean about Belvedere.\n\n--Of course he will, said Mr Dedalus. Don't I tell you he's provincial\nof the order now?\n\n--I never liked the idea of sending him to the christian brothers\nmyself, said Mrs Dedalus.\n\n--Christian brothers be damned! said Mr Dedalus. Is it with Paddy\nStink and Micky Mud? No, let him stick to the jesuits in God's name\nsince he began with them. They'll be of service to him in after years.\nThose are the fellows that can get you a position.\n\n--And they're a very rich order, aren't they, Simon?\n\n--Rather. They live well, I tell you. You saw their table at\nClongowes. Fed up, by God, like gamecocks.\n\nMr Dedalus pushed his plate over to Stephen and bade him finish what\nwas on it.\n\n--Now then, Stephen, he said, you must put your shoulder to the wheel,\nold chap. You've had a fine long holiday.\n\n--O, I'm sure he'll work very hard now, said Mrs Dedalus, especially\nwhen he has Maurice with him.\n\n--O, Holy Paul, I forgot about Maurice, said Mr Dedalus. Here,\nMaurice! Come here, you thick-headed ruffian! Do you know I'm going to\nsend you to a college where they'll teach you to spell c.a.t. cat. And\nI'll buy you a nice little penny handkerchief to keep your nose dry.\nWon't that be grand fun?\n\nMaurice grinned at his father and then at his brother.\n\nMr Dedalus screwed his glass into his eye and stared hard at both his\nsons. Stephen mumbled his bread without answering his father's gaze.\n\n--By the bye, said Mr Dedalus at length, the rector, or provincial\nrather, was telling me that story about you and Father Dolan. You're an\nimpudent thief, he said.\n\n--O, he didn't, Simon!\n\n--Not he! said Mr Dedalus. But he gave me a great account of the whole\naffair. We were chatting, you know, and one word borrowed another. And,\nby the way, who do you think he told me will get that job in the\ncorporation? But I'll tell you that after. Well, as I was saying, we\nwere chatting away quite friendly and he asked me did our friend here\nwear glasses still, and then he told me the whole story.\n\n--And was he annoyed, Simon?\n\n--Annoyed? Not he! MANLY LITTLE CHAP! he said.\n\nMr Dedalus imitated the mincing nasal tone of the provincial.\n\nFather Dolan and I, when I told them all at dinner about it, Father\nDolan and I had a great laugh over it. YOU BETTER MIND YOURSELF FATHER\nDOLAN, said I, OR YOUNG DEDALUS WILL SEND YOU UP FOR TWICE NINE. We had\na famous laugh together over it. Ha! Ha! Ha!\n\nMr Dedalus turned to his wife and interjected in his natural voice:\n\n--Shows you the spirit in which they take the boys there. O, a jesuit\nfor your life, for diplomacy!\n\nHe reassumed the provincial's voice and repeated:\n\n--I TOLD THEM ALL AT DINNER ABOUT IT AND FATHER DOLAN AND I AND ALL OF\nUS WE HAD A HEARTY LAUGH TOGETHER OVER IT. HA! HA! HA!\n\n\n* * * * *\n\n\nThe night of the Whitsuntide play had come and Stephen from the window\nof the dressing-room looked out on the small grass-plot across which\nlines of Chinese lanterns were stretched. He watched the visitors come\ndown the steps from the house and pass into the theatre. Stewards in\nevening dress, old Belvedereans, loitered in groups about the entrance\nto the theatre and ushered in the visitors with ceremony. Under the\nsudden glow of a lantern he could recognize the smiling face of a\npriest.\n\nThe Blessed Sacrament had been removed from the tabernacle and the\nfirst benches had been driven back so as to leave the dais of the altar\nand the space before it free. Against the walls stood companies of\nbarbells and Indian clubs; the dumbbells were piled in one corner: and\nin the midst of countless hillocks of gymnasium shoes and sweaters and\nsinglets in untidy brown parcels there stood the stout leather-jacketed\nvaulting horse waiting its turn to be carried up on the stage\nand set in the middle of the winning team at the end of the gymnastic\ndisplay.\n\nStephen, though in deference to his reputation for essay writing he had\nbeen elected secretary to the gymnasium, had had no part in the first\nsection of the programme but in the play which formed the second\nsection he had the chief part, that of a farcical pedagogue. He had\nbeen cast for it on account of his stature and grave manners for he was\nnow at the end of his second year at Belvedere and in number two.\n\nA score of the younger boys in white knickers and singlets came\npattering down from the stage, through the vestry and to the chapel.\nThe vestry and chapel were peopled with eager masters and boys. The\nplump bald sergeant major was testing with his foot the springboard of\nthe vaulting horse. The lean young man in a long overcoat, who was to\ngive a special display of intricate club swinging, stood near watching\nwith interest, his silver-coated clubs peeping out of his deep\nside-pockets. The hollow rattle of the wooden dumbbells was heard as\nanother team made ready to go up on the stage: and in another moment the\nexcited prefect was hustling the boys through the vestry like a flock of\ngeese, flapping the wings of his soutane nervously and crying to the\nlaggards to make haste. A little troop of Neapolitan peasants were\npractising their steps at the end of the chapel, some circling their arms\nabove their heads, some swaying their baskets of paper violets and\ncurtsying. In a dark corner of the chapel at the gospel side of the altar\na stout old lady knelt amid her copious black skirts. When she stood up a\npink-dressed figure, wearing a curly golden wig and an old-fashioned straw\nsunbonnet, with black pencilled eyebrows and cheeks delicately rouged and\npowdered, was discovered. A low murmur of curiosity ran round the chapel\nat the discovery of this girlish figure. One of the prefects, smiling and\nnodding his head, approached the dark corner and, having bowed to the\nstout old lady, said pleasantly:\n\n--Is this a beautiful young lady or a doll that you have here, Mrs\nTallon?\n\nThen, bending down to peer at the smiling painted face under the leaf\nof the bonnet, he exclaimed:\n\n--No! Upon my word I believe it's little Bertie Tallon after all!\n\nStephen at his post by the window heard the old lady and the priest\nlaugh together and heard the boys' murmurs of admiration behind him as\nthey passed forward to see the little boy who had to dance the\nsunbonnet dance by himself. A movement of impatience escaped him. He\nlet the edge of the blind fall and, stepping down from the bench on\nwhich he had been standing, walked out of the chapel.\n\nHe passed out of the schoolhouse and halted under the shed that flanked\nthe garden. From the theatre opposite came the muffled noise of the\naudience and sudden brazen clashes of the soldiers' band. The light\nspread upwards from the glass roof making the theatre seem a festive\nark, anchored among the hulks of houses, her frail cables of lanterns\nlooping her to her moorings. A side door of the theatre opened suddenly\nand a shaft of light flew across the grass plots. A sudden burst of\nmusic issued from the ark, the prelude of a waltz: and when the side\ndoor closed again the listener could hear the faint rhythm of the\nmusic. The sentiment of the opening bars, their languor and supple\nmovement, evoked the incommunicable emotion which had been the cause of\nall his day's unrest and of his impatient movement of a moment before.\nHis unrest issued from him like a wave of sound: and on the tide of\nflowing music the ark was journeying, trailing her cables of lanterns\nin her wake. Then a noise like dwarf artillery broke the movement. It\nwas the clapping that greeted the entry of the dumbbell team on the\nstage.\n\nAt the far end of the shed near the street a speck of pink light showed\nin the darkness and as he walked towards it he became aware of a faint\naromatic odour. Two boys were standing in the shelter of a doorway,\nsmoking, and before he reached them he had recognised Heron by his\nvoice.\n\n--Here comes the noble Dedalus! cried a high throaty voice. Welcome to\nour trusty friend!\n\nThis welcome ended in a soft peal of mirthless laughter as Heron\nsalaamed and then began to poke the ground with his cane.\n\n--Here I am, said Stephen, halting and glancing from Heron to his\nfriend.\n\nThe latter was a stranger to him but in the darkness, by the aid of the\nglowing cigarette tips, he could make out a pale dandyish face over\nwhich a smile was travelling slowly, a tall overcoated figure and a\nhard hat. Heron did not trouble himself about an introduction but said\ninstead:\n\n--I was just telling my friend Wallis what a lark it would be tonight\nif you took off the rector in the part of the schoolmaster. It would be\na ripping good joke.\n\nHeron made a poor attempt to imitate for his friend Wallis the rector's\npedantic bass and then, laughing at his failure, asked Stephen to do\nit.\n\n--Go on, Dedalus, he urged, you can take him off rippingly. HE THAT WILL\nNOT HEAR THE CHURCHA LET HIM BE TO THEEA AS THE HEATHENA AND THE\nPUBLICANA.\n\nThe imitation was prevented by a mild expression of anger from Wallis\nin whose mouthpiece the cigarette had become too tightly wedged.\n\n--Damn this blankety blank holder, he said, taking it from his mouth\nand smiling and frowning upon it tolerantly. It's always getting stuck\nlike that. Do you use a holder?\n\n--I don't smoke, answered Stephen.\n\n--No, said Heron, Dedalus is a model youth. He doesn't smoke and he\ndoesn't go to bazaars and he doesn't flirt and he doesn't damn anything\nor damn all.\n\nStephen shook his head and smiled in his rival's flushed and mobile\nface, beaked like a bird's. He had often thought it strange that\nVincent Heron had a bird's face as well as a bird's name. A shock of\npale hair lay on the forehead like a ruffled crest: the forehead was\nnarrow and bony and a thin hooked nose stood out between the close-set\nprominent eyes which were light and inexpressive. The rivals were\nschool friends. They sat together in class, knelt together in the\nchapel, talked together after beads over their lunches. As the fellows\nin number one were undistinguished dullards, Stephen and Heron had been\nduring the year the virtual heads of the school. It was they who went\nup to the rector together to ask for a free day or to get a fellow off.\n\n--O by the way, said Heron suddenly, I saw your governor going in.\n\nThe smile waned on Stephen's face. Any allusion made to his father by a\nfellow or by a master put his calm to rout in a moment. He waited in\ntimorous silence to hear what Heron might say next. Heron, however,\nnudged him expressively with his elbow and said:\n\n--You're a sly dog.\n\n--Why so? said Stephen.\n\n--You'd think butter wouldn't melt in your mouth said Heron. But I'm\nafraid you're a sly dog.\n\n--Might I ask you what you are talking about? said Stephen urbanely.\n\n--Indeed you might, answered Heron. We saw her, Wallis, didn't we? And\ndeucedly pretty she is too. And inquisitive! AND WHAT PART DOES STEPHEN\nTAKE, MR DEDALUS? AND WILL STEPHEN NOT SING, MR DEDALUS? Your governor\nwas staring at her through that eyeglass of his for all he was worth so\nthat I think the old man has found you out too. I wouldn't care a bit,\nby Jove. She's ripping, isn't she, Wallis?\n\n--Not half bad, answered Wallis quietly as he placed his holder once\nmore in a corner of his mouth.\n\nA shaft of momentary anger flew through Stephen's mind at these\nindelicate allusions in the hearing of a stranger. For him there was\nnothing amusing in a girl's interest and regard. All day he had thought\nof nothing but their leave-taking on the steps of the tram at Harold's\nCross, the stream of moody emotions it had made to course through him\nand the poem he had written about it. All day he had imagined a new\nmeeting with her for he knew that she was to come to the play. The old\nrestless moodiness had again filled his breast as it had done on the\nnight of the party, but had not found an outlet in verse. The growth\nand knowledge of two years of boyhood stood between then and now,\nforbidding such an outlet: and all day the stream of gloomy tenderness\nwithin him had started forth and returned upon itself in dark courses\nand eddies, wearying him in the end until the pleasantry of the prefect\nand the painted little boy had drawn from him a movement of impatience.\n\n--So you may as well admit, Heron went on, that we've fairly found you\nout this time. You can't play the saint on me any more, that's one sure\nfive.\n\nA soft peal of mirthless laughter escaped from his lips and, bending\ndown as before, he struck Stephen lightly across the calf of the leg\nwith his cane, as if in jesting reproof.\n\nStephen's moment of anger had already passed. He was neither flattered\nnor confused, but simply wished the banter to end. He scarcely resented\nwhat had seemed to him a silly indelicateness for he knew that the\nadventure in his mind stood in no danger from these words: and his face\nmirrored his rival's false smile.\n\n--Admit! repeated Heron, striking him again with his cane across the\ncalf of the leg.\n\nThe stroke was playful but not so lightly given as the first one had\nbeen. Stephen felt the skin tingle and glow slightly and almost\npainlessly; and, bowing submissively, as if to meet his companion's\njesting mood, began to recite the CONFITEOR. The episode ended well,\nfor both Heron and Wallis laughed indulgently at the irreverence.\n\nThe confession came only from Stephen's lips and, while they spoke the\nwords, a sudden memory had carried him to another scene called up, as\nif by magic, at the moment when he had noted the faint cruel dimples at\nthe corners of Heron's smiling lips and had felt the familiar stroke of\nthe cane against his calf and had heard the familiar word of\nadmonition:\n\n--Admit.\n\nIt was towards the close of his first term in the college when he was\nin number six. His sensitive nature was still smarting under the lashes\nof an undivined and squalid way of life. His soul was still disquieted\nand cast down by the dull phenomenon of Dublin. He had emerged from a\ntwo years' spell of revery to find himself in the midst of a new scene,\nevery event and figure of which affected him intimately, disheartened\nhim or allured and, whether alluring or disheartening, filled him\nalways with unrest and bitter thoughts. All the leisure which his\nschool life left him was passed in the company of subversive writers\nwhose jibes and violence of speech set up a ferment in his brain before\nthey passed out of it into his crude writings.\n\nThe essay was for him the chief labour of his week and every Tuesday,\nas he marched from home to the school, he read his fate in the\nincidents of the way, pitting himself against some figure ahead of him\nand quickening his pace to outstrip it before a certain goal was\nreached or planting his steps scrupulously in the spaces of the\npatchwork of the pathway and telling himself that he would be first and\nnot first in the weekly essay.\n\nOn a certain Tuesday the course of his triumphs was rudely broken. Mr\nTate, the English master, pointed his finger at him and said bluntly:\n\n--This fellow has heresy in his essay.\n\nA hush fell on the class. Mr Tate did not break it but dug with his\nhand between his thighs while his heavily starched linen creaked about\nhis neck and wrists. Stephen did not look up. It was a raw spring\nmorning and his eyes were still smarting and weak. He was conscious of\nfailure and of detection, of the squalor of his own mind and home, and\nfelt against his neck the raw edge of his turned and jagged collar.\n\nA short loud laugh from Mr Tate set the class more at ease.\n\n--Perhaps you didn't know that, he said.\n\n--Where? asked Stephen.\n\nMr Tate withdrew his delving hand and spread out the essay.\n\n--Here. It's about the Creator and the soul. Rrm... rrm... rrm... Ah!\nWITHOUT A POSSIBILITY OF EVER APPROACHING NEARER. That's heresy.\n\nStephen murmured:\n\n--I meant WITHOUT A POSSIBILITY OF EVER REACHING.\n\nIt was a submission and Mr Tate, appeased, folded up the essay and\npassed it across to him, saying:\n\n--O...Ah! EVER REACHING. That's another story.\n\nBut the class was not so soon appeased. Though nobody spoke to him of\nthe affair after class he could feel about him a vague general\nmalignant joy.\n\nA few nights after this public chiding he was walking with a letter\nalong the Drumcondra Road when he heard a voice cry:\n\n--Halt!\n\nHe turned and saw three boys of his own class coming towards him in the\ndusk. It was Heron who had called out and, as he marched forward\nbetween his two attendants, he cleft the air before him with a thin\ncane in time to their steps. Boland, his friend, marched beside him, a\nlarge grin on his face, while Nash came on a few steps behind, blowing\nfrom the pace and wagging his great red head.\n\nAs soon as the boys had turned into Clonliffe Road together they began\nto speak about books and writers, saying what books they were reading\nand how many books there were in their fathers' bookcases at home.\nStephen listened to them in some wonderment for Boland was the dunce\nand Nash the idler of the class. In fact, after some talk about their\nfavourite writers, Nash declared for Captain Marryat who, he said, was\nthe greatest writer.\n\n--Fudge! said Heron. Ask Dedalus. Who is the greatest writer, Dedalus?\n\nStephen noted the mockery in the question and said:\n\n--Of prose do you mean?\n\n--Yes.\n\n--Newman, I think.\n\n--Is it Cardinal Newman? asked Boland.\n\n--Yes, answered Stephen.\n\nThe grin broadened on Nash's freckled face as he turned to Stephen and\nsaid:\n\n--And do you like Cardinal Newman, Dedalus?\n\n--O, many say that Newman has the best prose style, Heron said to the\nother two in explanation, of course he's not a poet.\n\n--And who is the best poet, Heron? asked Boland.\n\n--Lord Tennyson, of course, answered Heron.\n\n--O, yes, Lord Tennyson, said Nash. We have all his poetry at home in a\nbook.\n\nAt this Stephen forgot the silent vows he had been making and burst out:\n\n--Tennyson a poet! Why, he's only a rhymester!\n\n--O, get out! said Heron. Everyone knows that Tennyson is the greatest\npoet.\n\n--And who do you think is the greatest poet? asked Boland, nudging his\nneighbour.\n\n--Byron, of course, answered Stephen.\n\nHeron gave the lead and all three joined in a scornful laugh.\n\n--What are you laughing at? asked Stephen.\n\n--You, said Heron. Byron the greatest poet! He's only a poet for\nuneducated people.\n\n--He must be a fine poet! said Boland.\n\n--You may keep your mouth shut, said Stephen, turning on him boldly.\nAll you know about poetry is what you wrote up on the slates in the\nyard and were going to be sent to the loft for.\n\nBoland, in fact, was said to have written on the slates in the yard a\ncouplet about a classmate of his who often rode home from the college\non a pony:\n\n\n  As Tyson was riding into Jerusalem\n  He fell and hurt his Alec Kafoozelum.\n\n\nThis thrust put the two lieutenants to silence but Heron went on:\n\n--In any case Byron was a heretic and immoral too.\n\n--I don't care what he was, cried Stephen hotly.\n\n--You don't care whether he was a heretic or not? said Nash.\n\n--What do you know about it? shouted Stephen. You never read a line of\nanything in your life except a trans, or Boland either.\n\n--I know that Byron was a bad man, said Boland.\n\n--Here, catch hold of this heretic, Heron called out. In a moment\nStephen was a prisoner.\n\n--Tate made you buck up the other day, Heron went on, about the heresy\nin your essay.\n\n--I'll tell him tomorrow, said Boland.\n\n--Will you? said Stephen. You'd be afraid to open your lips.\n\n--Afraid?\n\n--Ay. Afraid of your life.\n\n--Behave yourself! cried Heron, cutting at Stephen's legs with his\ncane.\n\nIt was the signal for their onset. Nash pinioned his arms behind while\nBoland seized a long cabbage stump which was lying in the gutter.\nStruggling and kicking under the cuts of the cane and the blows of the\nknotty stump Stephen was borne back against a barbed wire fence.\n\n--Admit that Byron was no good.\n\n--No.\n\n--Admit.\n\n--No.\n\n--Admit.\n\n--No. No.\n\nAt last after a fury of plunges he wrenched himself free. His\ntormentors set off towards Jones's Road, laughing and jeering at him,\nwhile he, half blinded with tears, stumbled on, clenching his fists\nmadly and sobbing.\n\nWhile he was still repeating the CONFITEOR amid the indulgent laughter\nof his hearers and while the scenes of that malignant episode were\nstill passing sharply and swiftly before his mind he wondered why he\nbore no malice now to those who had tormented him. He had not forgotten\na whit of their cowardice and cruelty but the memory of it called forth\nno anger from him. All the descriptions of fierce love and hatred which\nhe had met in books had seemed to him therefore unreal. Even that night\nas he stumbled homewards along Jones's Road he had felt that some power\nwas divesting him of that sudden-woven anger as easily as a fruit is\ndivested of its soft ripe peel.\n\nHe remained standing with his two companions at the end of the shed\nlistening idly to their talk or to the bursts of applause in the\ntheatre. She was sitting there among the others perhaps waiting for him\nto appear. He tried to recall her appearance but could not. He could\nremember only that she had worn a shawl about her head like a cowl and\nthat her dark eyes had invited and unnerved him. He wondered had he\nbeen in her thoughts as she had been in his. Then in the dark and\nunseen by the other two he rested the tips of the fingers of one hand\nupon the palm of the other hand, scarcely touching it lightly. But the\npressure of her fingers had been lighter and steadier: and suddenly the\nmemory of their touch traversed his brain and body like an invisible\nwave.\n\nA boy came towards them, running along under the shed. He was excited\nand breathless.\n\n--O, Dedalus, he cried, Doyle is in a great bake about you. You're to\ngo in at once and get dressed for the play. Hurry up, you better.\n\n--He's coming now, said Heron to the messenger with a haughty drawl,\nwhen he wants to.\n\nThe boy turned to Heron and repeated:\n\n--But Doyle is in an awful bake.\n\n--Will you tell Doyle with my best compliments that I damned his eyes?\nanswered Heron.\n\n--Well, I must go now, said Stephen, who cared little for such points\nof honour.\n\n--I wouldn't, said Heron, damn me if I would. That's no way to send\nfor one of the senior boys. In a bake, indeed! I think it's quite\nenough that you're taking a part in his bally old play.\n\nThis spirit of quarrelsome comradeship which he had observed lately in\nhis rival had not seduced Stephen from his habits of quiet obedience.\nHe mistrusted the turbulence and doubted the sincerity of such\ncomradeship which seemed to him a sorry anticipation of manhood. The\nquestion of honour here raised was, like all such questions, trivial to\nhim. While his mind had been pursuing its intangible phantoms and\nturning in irresolution from such pursuit he had heard about him the\nconstant voices of his father and of his masters, urging him to be a\ngentleman above all things and urging him to be a good catholic above all\nthings. These voices had now come to be hollow-sounding in his ears. When\nthe gymnasium had been opened he had heard another voice urging him to be\nstrong and manly and healthy and when the movement towards national\nrevival had begun to be felt in the college yet another voice had bidden\nhim be true to his country and help to raise up her language and\ntradition. In the profane world, as he foresaw, a worldly voice would bid\nhim raise up his father's fallen state by his labours and, meanwhile, the\nvoice of his school comrades urged him to be a decent fellow, to shield\nothers from blame or to beg them off and to do his best to get free days\nfor the school. And it was the din of all these hollow-sounding voices\nthat made him halt irresolutely in the pursuit of phantoms. He gave them\near only for a time but he was happy only when he was far from them,\nbeyond their call, alone or in the company of phantasmal comrades.\n\nIn the vestry a plump fresh-faced jesuit and an elderly man, in shabby\nblue clothes, were dabbling in a case of paints and chalks. The boys\nwho had been painted walked about or stood still awkwardly, touching\ntheir faces in a gingerly fashion with their furtive fingertips. In the\nmiddle of the vestry a young jesuit, who was then on a visit to the\ncollege, stood rocking himself rhythmically from the tips of his toes\nto his heels and back again, his hands thrust well forward into his\nside-pockets. His small head set off with glossy red curls and his\nnewly shaven face agreed well with the spotless decency of his soutane\nand with his spotless shoes.\n\nAs he watched this swaying form and tried to read for himself the\nlegend of the priest's mocking smile there came into Stephen's memory a\nsaying which he had heard from his father before he had been sent to\nClongowes, that you could always tell a jesuit by the style of his\nclothes. At the same moment he thought he saw a likeness between his\nfather's mind and that of this smiling well-dressed priest: and he was\naware of some desecration of the priest's office or of the vestry\nitself whose silence was now routed by loud talk and joking and its air\npungent with the smells of the gas-jets and the grease.\n\nWhile his forehead was being wrinkled and his jaws painted black and\nblue by the elderly man, he listened distractedly to the voice of the\nplump young jesuit which bade him speak up and make his points clearly.\nHe could hear the band playing THE LILY OF KILLARNEY and knew that in a\nfew moments the curtain would go up. He felt no stage fright but the\nthought of the part he had to play humiliated him. A remembrance of\nsome of his lines made a sudden flush rise to his painted cheeks. He\nsaw her serious alluring eyes watching him from among the audience and\ntheir image at once swept away his scruples, leaving his will compact.\nAnother nature seemed to have been lent him: the infection of the\nexcitement and youth about him entered into and transformed his moody\nmistrustfulness. For one rare moment he seemed to be clothed in the\nreal apparel of boyhood: and, as he stood in the wings among the other\nplayers, he shared the common mirth amid which the drop scene was\nhauled upwards by two able-bodied priests with violent jerks and all awry.\n\nA few moments after he found himself on the stage amid the garish gas\nand the dim scenery, acting before the innumerable faces of the void.\nIt surprised him to see that the play which he had known at rehearsals\nfor a disjointed lifeless thing had suddenly assumed a life of its own.\nIt seemed now to play itself, he and his fellow actors aiding it with\ntheir parts. When the curtain fell on the last scene he heard the void\nfilled with applause and, through a rift in a side scene, saw the\nsimple body before which he had acted magically deformed, the void of\nfaces breaking at all points and falling asunder into busy groups.\n\nHe left the stage quickly and rid himself of his mummery and passed out\nthrough the chapel into the college garden. Now that the play was over\nhis nerves cried for some further adventure. He hurried onwards as if\nto overtake it. The doors of the theatre were all open and the audience\nhad emptied out. On the lines which he had fancied the moorings of an\nark a few lanterns swung in the night breeze, flickering cheerlessly.\nHe mounted the steps from the garden in haste, eager that some prey\nshould not elude him, and forced his way through the crowd in the hall\nand past the two jesuits who stood watching the exodus and bowing and\nshaking hands with the visitors. He pushed onward nervously, feigning a\nstill greater haste and faintly conscious of the smiles and stares and\nnudges which his powdered head left in its wake.\n\nWhen he came out on the steps he saw his family waiting for him at the\nfirst lamp. In a glance he noted that every figure of the group was\nfamiliar and ran down the steps angrily.\n\n--I have to leave a message down in George's Street, he said to his\nfather quickly. I'll be home after you.\n\nWithout waiting for his father's questions he ran across the road and\nbegan to walk at breakneck speed down the hill. He hardly knew where he\nwas walking. Pride and hope and desire like crushed herbs in his heart\nsent up vapours of maddening incense before the eyes of his mind. He\nstrode down the hill amid the tumult of sudden-risen vapours of wounded\npride and fallen hope and baffled desire. They streamed upwards before\nhis anguished eyes in dense and maddening fumes and passed away above\nhim till at last the air was clear and cold again.\n\nA film still veiled his eyes but they burned no longer. A power, akin\nto that which had often made anger or resentment fall from him, brought\nhis steps to rest. He stood still and gazed up at the sombre porch of\nthe morgue and from that to the dark cobbled laneway at its side. He\nsaw the word LOTTS on the wall of the lane and breathed slowly the rank\nheavy air.\n\nThat is horse piss and rotted straw, he thought. It is a good odour to\nbreathe. It will calm my heart. My heart is quite calm now. I will go\nback.\n\n\n* * * * *\n\n\nStephen was once again seated beside his father in the corner of a\nrailway carriage at Kingsbridge. He was travelling with his father by\nthe night mail to Cork. As the train steamed out of the station he\nrecalled his childish wonder of years before and every event of his\nfirst day at Clongowes. But he felt no wonder now. He saw the darkening\nlands slipping away past him, the silent telegraph-poles passing his\nwindow swiftly every four seconds, the little glimmering stations,\nmanned by a few silent sentries, flung by the mail behind her and\ntwinkling for a moment in the darkness like fiery grains flung\nbackwards by a runner.\n\nHe listened without sympathy to his father's evocation of Cork and of\nscenes of his youth, a tale broken by sighs or draughts from his pocket\nflask whenever the image of some dead friend appeared in it or whenever\nthe evoker remembered suddenly the purpose of his actual visit. Stephen\nheard but could feel no pity. The images of the dead were all strangers\nto him save that of uncle Charles, an image which had lately been\nfading out of memory. He knew, however, that his father's property was\ngoing to be sold by auction, and in the manner of his own dispossession\nhe felt the world give the lie rudely to his phantasy.\n\nAt Maryborough he fell asleep. When he awoke the train had passed out\nof Mallow and his father was stretched asleep on the other seat. The\ncold light of the dawn lay over the country, over the unpeopled fields\nand the closed cottages. The terror of sleep fascinated his mind as he\nwatched the silent country or heard from time to time his father's deep\nbreath or sudden sleepy movement. The neighbourhood of unseen sleepers\nfilled him with strange dread, as though they could harm him, and he\nprayed that the day might come quickly. His prayer, addressed neither\nto God nor saint, began with a shiver, as the chilly morning breeze\ncrept through the chink of the carriage door to his feet, and ended in\na trail of foolish words which he made to fit the insistent rhythm of\nthe train; and silently, at intervals of four seconds, the\ntelegraph-poles held the galloping notes of the music between punctual\nbars. This furious music allayed his dread and, leaning against the\nwindowledge, he let his eyelids close again.\n\nThey drove in a jingle across Cork while it was still early morning and\nStephen finished his sleep in a bedroom of the Victoria Hotel. The\nbright warm sunlight was streaming through the window and he could hear\nthe din of traffic. His father was standing before the dressing-table,\nexamining his hair and face and moustache with great care, craning his\nneck across the water-jug and drawing it back sideways to see the better.\nWhile he did so he sang softly to himself with quaint accent and phrasing:\n\n\n    'Tis youth and folly\n    Makes young men marry,\n    So here, my love, I'll\n    No longer stay.\n    What can't be cured, sure,\n    Must be injured, sure,\n    So I'll go to\n    Amerikay.\n\n    My love she's handsome,\n    My love she's bony:\n    She's like good whisky\n    When it is new;\n    But when 'tis old\n    And growing cold\n    It fades and dies like\n    The mountain dew.\n\n\nThe consciousness of the warm sunny city outside his window and the\ntender tremors with which his father's voice festooned the strange sad\nhappy air, drove off all the mists of the night's ill humour from\nStephen's brain. He got up quickly to dress and, when the song had\nended, said:\n\n--That's much prettier than any of your other COME-ALL-YOUS.\n\n--Do you think so? asked Mr Dedalus.\n\n--I like it, said Stephen.\n\n--It's a pretty old air, said Mr Dedalus, twirling the points of his\nmoustache. Ah, but you should have heard Mick Lacy sing it! Poor Mick\nLacy! He had little turns for it, grace notes that he used to put in\nthat I haven't got. That was the boy who could sing a COME-ALL-YOU, if\nyou like.\n\nMr Dedalus had ordered drisheens for breakfast and during the meal he\ncross-examined the waiter for local news. For the most part they spoke\nat cross purposes when a name was mentioned, the waiter having in mind\nthe present holder and Mr Dedalus his father or perhaps his\ngrandfather.\n\n--Well, I hope they haven't moved the Queen's College anyhow, said Mr\nDedalus, for I want to show it to this youngster of mine.\n\nAlong the Mardyke the trees were in bloom. They entered the grounds of\nthe college and were led by the garrulous porter across the quadrangle.\nBut their progress across the gravel was brought to a halt after every\ndozen or so paces by some reply of the porter's.\n\n--Ah, do you tell me so? And is poor Pottlebelly dead?\n\n--Yes, sir. Dead, sir.\n\nDuring these halts Stephen stood awkwardly behind the two men, weary of\nthe subject and waiting restlessly for the slow march to begin again.\nBy the time they had crossed the quadrangle his restlessness had risen\nto fever. He wondered how his father, whom he knew for a shrewd\nsuspicious man, could be duped by the servile manners of the porter;\nand the lively southern speech which had entertained him all the\nmorning now irritated his ears.\n\nThey passed into the anatomy theatre where Mr Dedalus, the porter\naiding him, searched the desks for his initials. Stephen remained in\nthe background, depressed more than ever by the darkness and silence of\nthe theatre and by the air it wore of jaded and formal study. On the\ndesk he read the word FOETUS cut several times in the dark stained\nwood. The sudden legend startled his blood: he seemed to feel the\nabsent students of the college about him and to shrink from their\ncompany. A vision of their life, which his father's words had been\npowerless to evoke, sprang up before him out of the word cut in the\ndesk. A broad-shouldered student with a moustache was cutting in the\nletters with a jack-knife, seriously. Other students stood or sat near\nhim laughing at his handiwork. One jogged his elbow. The big student\nturned on him, frowning. He was dressed in loose grey clothes and had\ntan boots.\n\nStephen's name was called. He hurried down the steps of the theatre so\nas to be as far away from the vision as he could be and, peering\nclosely at his father's initials, hid his flushed face.\n\nBut the word and the vision capered before his eyes as he walked back\nacross the quadrangle and towards the college gate. It shocked him to\nfind in the outer world a trace of what he had deemed till then a\nbrutish and individual malady of his own mind. His monstrous reveries\ncame thronging into his memory. They too had sprung up before him,\nsuddenly and furiously, out of mere words. He had soon given in to them\nand allowed them to sweep across and abase his intellect, wondering\nalways where they came from, from what den of monstrous images, and\nalways weak and humble towards others, restless and sickened of himself\nwhen they had swept over him.\n\n--Ay, bedad! And there's the Groceries sure enough! cried Mr Dedalus.\nYou often heard me speak of the Groceries, didn't you, Stephen. Many's\nthe time we went down there when our names had been marked, a crowd of\nus, Harry Peard and little Jack Mountain and Bob Dyas and Maurice\nMoriarty, the Frenchman, and Tom O'Grady and Mick Lacy that I told you\nof this morning and Joey Corbet and poor little good-hearted Johnny\nKeevers of the Tantiles.\n\nThe leaves of the trees along the Mardyke were astir and whispering in\nthe sunlight. A team of cricketers passed, agile young men in flannels\nand blazers, one of them carrying the long green wicket-bag. In a quiet\nbystreet a German band of five players in faded uniforms and with\nbattered brass instruments was playing to an audience of street arabs\nand leisurely messenger boys. A maid in a white cap and apron was\nwatering a box of plants on a sill which shone like a slab of limestone\nin the warm glare. From another window open to the air came the sound\nof a piano, scale after scale rising into the treble.\n\nStephen walked on at his father's side, listening to stories he had\nheard before, hearing again the names of the scattered and dead\nrevellers who had been the companions of his father's youth. And a\nfaint sickness sighed in his heart.\n\nHe recalled his own equivocal position in Belvedere, a free boy, a\nleader afraid of his own authority, proud and sensitive and suspicious,\nbattling against the squalor of his life and against the riot of his\nmind. The letters cut in the stained wood of the desk stared upon him,\nmocking his bodily weakness and futile enthusiasms and making him\nloathe himself for his own mad and filthy orgies. The spittle in his\nthroat grew bitter and foul to swallow and the faint sickness climbed\nto his brain so that for a moment he closed his eyes and walked on in\ndarkness.\n\nHe could still hear his father's voice--\n\n--When you kick out for yourself, Stephen--as I daresay you will one\nof these days--remember, whatever you do, to mix with gentlemen. When\nI was a young fellow I tell you I enjoyed myself. I mixed with fine\ndecent fellows. Everyone of us could do something. One fellow had a\ngood voice, another fellow was a good actor, another could sing a good\ncomic song, another was a good oarsman or a good racket player, another\ncould tell a good story and so on. We kept the ball rolling anyhow and\nenjoyed ourselves and saw a bit of life and we were none the worse of\nit either. But we were all gentlemen, Stephen--at least I hope we were--and\nbloody good honest Irishmen too. That's the kind of fellows I want\nyou to associate with, fellows of the right kidney. I'm talking to\nyou as a friend, Stephen. I don't believe a son should be afraid of his\nfather. No, I treat you as your grandfather treated me when I was a\nyoung chap. We were more like brothers than father and son. I'll never\nforget the first day he caught me smoking. I was standing at the end of\nthe South Terrace one day with some maneens like myself and sure we\nthought we were grand fellows because we had pipes stuck in the corners\nof our mouths. Suddenly the governor passed. He didn't say a word, or\nstop even. But the next day, Sunday, we were out for a walk together\nand when we were coming home he took out his cigar case and said:--By\nthe by, Simon, I didn't know you smoked, or something like that.--Of\ncourse I tried to carry it off as best I could.--If you want a good\nsmoke, he said, try one of these cigars. An American captain made me a\npresent of them last night in Queenstown.\n\nStephen heard his father's voice break into a laugh which was almost a\nsob.\n\n--He was the handsomest man in Cork at that time, by God he was! The\nwomen used to stand to look after him in the street.\n\nHe heard the sob passing loudly down his father's throat and opened his\neyes with a nervous impulse. The sunlight breaking suddenly on his\nsight turned the sky and clouds into a fantastic world of sombre masses\nwith lakelike spaces of dark rosy light. His very brain was sick and\npowerless. He could scarcely interpret the letters of the signboards of\nthe shops. By his monstrous way of life he seemed to have put himself\nbeyond the limits of reality. Nothing moved him or spoke to him from\nthe real world unless he heard in it an echo of the infuriated cries\nwithin him. He could respond to no earthly or human appeal, dumb and\ninsensible to the call of summer and gladness and companionship,\nwearied and dejected by his father's voice. He could scarcely recognize\nas his own thoughts, and repeated slowly to himself:\n\n--I am Stephen Dedalus. I am walking beside my father whose name is\nSimon Dedalus. We are in Cork, in Ireland. Cork is a city. Our room is\nin the Victoria Hotel. Victoria and Stephen and Simon. Simon and\nStephen and Victoria. Names.\n\nThe memory of his childhood suddenly grew dim. He tried to call forth\nsome of its vivid moments but could not. He recalled only names. Dante,\nParnell, Clane, Clongowes. A little boy had been taught geography by an\nold woman who kept two brushes in her wardrobe. Then he had been sent\naway from home to a college, he had made his first communion and eaten\nslim jim out of his cricket cap and watched the firelight leaping and\ndancing on the wall of a little bedroom in the infirmary and dreamed of\nbeing dead, of mass being said for him by the rector in a black and\ngold cope, of being buried then in the little graveyard of the\ncommunity off the main avenue of limes. But he had not died then.\nParnell had died. There had been no mass for the dead in the chapel and\nno procession. He had not died but he had faded out like a film in the\nsun. He had been lost or had wandered out of existence for he no longer\nexisted. How strange to think of him passing out of existence in such a\nway, not by death but by fading out in the sun or by being lost and\nforgotten somewhere in the universe! It was strange to see his small\nbody appear again for a moment: a little boy in a grey belted suit. His\nhands were in his side-pockets and his trousers were tucked in at the\nknees by elastic bands.\n\nOn the evening of the day on which the property was sold Stephen\nfollowed his father meekly about the city from bar to bar. To the\nsellers in the market, to the barmen and barmaids, to the beggars who\nimportuned him for a lob Mr Dedalus told the same tale--that he was an\nold Corkonian, that he had been trying for thirty years to get rid of\nhis Cork accent up in Dublin and that Peter Pickackafax beside him was\nhis eldest son but that he was only a Dublin jackeen.\n\nThey had set out early in the morning from Newcombe's coffee-house,\nwhere Mr Dedalus's cup had rattled noisily against its saucer, and\nStephen had tried to cover that shameful sign of his father's drinking\nbout of the night before by moving his chair and coughing. One\nhumiliation had succeeded another--the false smiles of the market\nsellers, the curvetings and oglings of the barmaids with whom his\nfather flirted, the compliments and encouraging words of his father's\nfriends. They had told him that he had a great look of his grandfather\nand Mr Dedalus had agreed that he was an ugly likeness. They had\nunearthed traces of a Cork accent in his speech and made him admit that\nthe Lee was a much finer river than the Liffey. One of them, in order\nto put his Latin to the proof, had made him translate short passages\nfrom Dilectus and asked him whether it was correct to say: TEMPORA\nMUTANTUR NOS ET MUTAMUR IN ILLIS or TEMPORA MUTANTUR ET NOS MUTAMUR IN\nILLIS. Another, a brisk old man, whom Mr Dedalus called Johnny Cashman,\nhad covered him with confusion by asking him to say which were\nprettier, the Dublin girls or the Cork girls.\n\n--He's not that way built, said Mr Dedalus. Leave him alone. He's a\nlevel-headed thinking boy who doesn't bother his head about that kind\nof nonsense.\n\n--Then he's not his father's son, said the little old man.\n\n--I don't know, I'm sure, said Mr Dedalus, smiling complacently.\n\n--Your father, said the little old man to Stephen, was the boldest flirt\nin the City of Cork in his day. Do you know that?\n\nStephen looked down and studied the tiled floor of the bar into which\nthey had drifted.\n\n--Now don't be putting ideas into his head, said Mr Dedalus. Leave him\nto his Maker.\n\n--Yerra, sure I wouldn't put any ideas into his head. I'm old enough\nto be his grandfather. And I am a grandfather, said the little old man\nto Stephen. Do you know that?\n\n--Are you? asked Stephen.\n\n--Bedad I am, said the little old man. I have two bouncing\ngrandchildren out at Sunday's Well. Now, then! What age do you think I\nam? And I remember seeing your grandfather in his red coat riding out\nto hounds. That was before you were born.\n\n--Ay, or thought of, said Mr Dedalus.\n\n--Bedad I did, repeated the little old man. And, more than that, I can\nremember even your great-grandfather, old John Stephen Dedalus, and a\nfierce old fire-eater he was. Now, then! There's a memory for you!\n\n--That's three generations--four generations, said another of the\ncompany. Why, Johnny Cashman, you must be nearing the century.\n\n--Well, I'll tell you the truth, said the little old man. I'm just\ntwenty-seven years of age.\n\n--We're as old as we feel, Johnny, said Mr Dedalus. And just finish\nwhat you have there and we'll have another. Here, Tim or Tom or\nwhatever your name is, give us the same again here. By God, I don't\nfeel more than eighteen myself. There's that son of mine there not half\nmy age and I'm a better man than he is any day of the week.\n\n--Draw it mild now, Dedalus. I think it's time for you to take a back\nseat, said the gentleman who had spoken before.\n\n--No, by God! asserted Mr Dedalus. I'll sing a tenor song against him\nor I'll vault a five-barred gate against him or I'll run with him after\nthe hounds across the country as I did thirty years ago along with the\nKerry Boy and the best man for it.\n\n--But he'll beat you here, said the little old man, tapping his\nforehead and raising his glass to drain it.\n\n--Well, I hope he'll be as good a man as his father. That's all I can\nsay, said Mr Dedalus.\n\n--If he is, he'll do, said the little old man.\n\n--And thanks be to God, Johnny, said Mr Dedalus, that we lived so long\nand did so little harm.\n\n--But did so much good, Simon, said the little old man gravely. Thanks\nbe to God we lived so long and did so much good.\n\nStephen watched the three glasses being raised from the counter as his\nfather and his two cronies drank to the memory of their past. An abyss\nof fortune or of temperament sundered him from them. His mind seemed\nolder than theirs: it shone coldly on their strifes and happiness and\nregrets like a moon upon a younger earth. No life or youth stirred in\nhim as it had stirred in them. He had known neither the pleasure of\ncompanionship with others nor the vigour of rude male health nor filial\npiety. Nothing stirred within his soul but a cold and cruel and\nloveless lust. His childhood was dead or lost and with it his soul\ncapable of simple joys and he was drifting amid life like the barren\nshell of the moon.\n\n\n  Art thou pale for weariness\n  Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,\n  Wandering companionless...?\n\n\nHe repeated to himself the lines of Shelley's fragment. Its alternation\nof sad human ineffectiveness with vast inhuman cycles of activity\nchilled him and he forgot his own human and ineffectual grieving.\n\n\n* * * * *\n\n\nStephen's mother and his brother and one of his cousins waited at the\ncorner of quiet Foster Place while he and his father went up the steps\nand along the colonnade where the Highland sentry was parading. When\nthey had passed into the great hall and stood at the counter Stephen\ndrew forth his orders on the governor of the bank of Ireland for thirty\nand three pounds; and these sums, the moneys of his exhibition and\nessay prize, were paid over to him rapidly by the teller in notes and\nin coin respectively. He bestowed them in his pockets with feigned\ncomposure and suffered the friendly teller, to whom his father chatted,\nto take his hand across the broad counter and wish him a brilliant\ncareer in after life. He was impatient of their voices and could not\nkeep his feet at rest. But the teller still deferred the serving of\nothers to say he was living in changed times and that there was nothing\nlike giving a boy the best education that money could buy. Mr Dedalus\nlingered in the hall gazing about him and up at the roof and telling\nStephen, who urged him to come out, that they were standing in the\nhouse of commons of the old Irish parliament.\n\n--God help us! he said piously, to think of the men of those times,\nStephen, Hely Hutchinson and Flood and Henry Grattan and Charles Kendal\nBushe, and the noblemen we have now, leaders of the Irish people at\nhome and abroad. Why, by God, they wouldn't be seen dead in a ten-acre\nfield with them. No, Stephen, old chap, I'm sorry to say that they are\nonly as I roved out one fine May morning in the merry month of sweet\nJuly.\n\nA keen October wind was blowing round the bank. The three figures\nstanding at the edge of the muddy path had pinched cheeks and watery\neyes. Stephen looked at his thinly clad mother and remembered that a\nfew days before he had seen a mantle priced at twenty guineas in the\nwindows of Barnardo's.\n\n--Well that's done, said Mr Dedalus.\n\n--We had better go to dinner, said Stephen. Where?\n\n--Dinner? said Mr Dedalus. Well, I suppose we had better, what?\n\n--Some place that's not too dear, said Mrs Dedalus.\n\n--Underdone's?\n\n--Yes. Some quiet place.\n\n--Come along, said Stephen quickly. It doesn't matter about the\ndearness.\n\nHe walked on before them with short nervous steps, smiling. They tried\nto keep up with him, smiling also at his eagerness.\n\n--Take it easy like a good young fellow, said his father. We're not\nout for the half mile, are we?\n\nFor a swift season of merrymaking the money of his prizes ran through\nStephen's fingers. Great parcels of groceries and delicacies and dried\nfruits arrived from the city. Every day he drew up a bill of fare for\nthe family and every night led a party of three or four to the theatre\nto see INGOMAR or THE LADY OF LYONS. In his coat pockets he carried\nsquares of Vienna chocolate for his guests while his trousers' pocket\nbulged with masses of silver and copper coins. He bought presents for\neveryone, overhauled his room, wrote out resolutions, marshalled his\nbooks up and down their shelves, pored upon all kinds of price lists,\ndrew up a form of commonwealth for the household by which every member\nof it held some office, opened a loan bank for his family and pressed\nloans on willing borrowers so that he might have the pleasure of making\nout receipts and reckoning the interests on the sums lent. When he\ncould do no more he drove up and down the city in trams. Then the\nseason of pleasure came to an end. The pot of pink enamel paint gave out\nand the wainscot of his bedroom remained with its unfinished and\nill-plastered coat.\n\nHis household returned to its usual way of life. His mother had no\nfurther occasion to upbraid him for squandering his money. He too\nreturned to his old life at school and all his novel enterprises fell\nto pieces. The commonwealth fell, the loan bank closed its coffers and\nits books on a sensible loss, the rules of life which he had drawn\nabout himself fell into desuetude.\n\nHow foolish his aim had been! He had tried to build a break-water of\norder and elegance against the sordid tide of life without him and to\ndam up, by rules of conduct and active interest and new filial\nrelations, the powerful recurrence of the tides within him. Useless.\nFrom without as from within the waters had flowed over his barriers:\ntheir tides began once more to jostle fiercely above the crumbled mole.\n\nHe saw clearly too his own futile isolation. He had not gone one step\nnearer the lives he had sought to approach nor bridged the restless\nshame and rancour that had divided him from mother and brother and\nsister. He felt that he was hardly of the one blood with them but stood\nto them rather in the mystical kinship of fosterage, fosterchild and\nfosterbrother.\n\nHe turned to appease the fierce longings of his heart before which\neverything else was idle and alien. He cared little that he was in\nmortal sin, that his life had grown to be a tissue of subterfuge and\nfalsehood. Beside the savage desire within him to realize the\nenormities which he brooded on nothing was sacred. He bore cynically\nwith the shameful details of his secret riots in which he exulted to\ndefile with patience whatever image had attracted his eyes. By day and\nby night he moved among distorted images of the outer world. A figure\nthat had seemed to him by day demure and innocent came towards him by\nnight through the winding darkness of sleep, her face transfigured by a\nlecherous cunning, her eyes bright with brutish joy. Only the morning\npained him with its dim memory of dark orgiastic riot, its keen and\nhumiliating sense of transgression.\n\nHe returned to his wanderings. The veiled autumnal evenings led him\nfrom street to street as they had led him years before along the quiet\navenues of Blackrock. But no vision of trim front gardens or of kindly\nlights in the windows poured a tender influence upon him now. Only at\ntimes, in the pauses of his desire, when the luxury that was wasting\nhim gave room to a softer languor, the image of Mercedes traversed the\nbackground of his memory. He saw again the small white house and the\ngarden of rose-bushes on the road that led to the mountains and he\nremembered the sadly proud gesture of refusal which he was to make\nthere, standing with her in the moonlit garden after years of\nestrangement and adventure. At those moments the soft speeches of\nClaude Melnotte rose to his lips and eased his unrest. A tender\npremonition touched him of the tryst he had then looked forward to and,\nin spite of the horrible reality which lay between his hope of then and\nnow, of the holy encounter he had then imagined at which weakness and\ntimidity and inexperience were to fall from him.\n\nSuch moments passed and the wasting fires of lust sprang up again. The\nverses passed from his lips and the inarticulate cries and the unspoken\nbrutal words rushed forth from his brain to force a passage. His blood\nwas in revolt. He wandered up and down the dark slimy streets peering\ninto the gloom of lanes and doorways, listening eagerly for any sound.\nHe moaned to himself like some baffled prowling beast. He wanted to sin\nwith another of his kind, to force another being to sin with him and to\nexult with her in sin. He felt some dark presence moving irresistibly\nupon him from the darkness, a presence subtle and murmurous as a flood\nfilling him wholly with itself. Its murmur besieged his ears like the\nmurmur of some multitude in sleep; its subtle streams penetrated his\nbeing. His hands clenched convulsively and his teeth set together as he\nsuffered the agony of its penetration. He stretched out his arms in the\nstreet to hold fast the frail swooning form that eluded him and incited\nhim: and the cry that he had strangled for so long in his throat issued\nfrom his lips. It broke from him like a wail of despair from a hell of\nsufferers and died in a wail of furious entreaty, a cry for an\niniquitous abandonment, a cry which was but the echo of an obscene\nscrawl which he had read on the oozing wall of a urinal.\n\nHe had wandered into a maze of narrow and dirty streets. From the foul\nlaneways he heard bursts of hoarse riot and wrangling and the drawling\nof drunken singers. He walked onward, dismayed, wondering whether he\nhad strayed into the quarter of the Jews. Women and girls dressed in\nlong vivid gowns traversed the street from house to house. They were\nleisurely and perfumed. A trembling seized him and his eyes grew dim.\nThe yellow gas-flames arose before his troubled vision against the\nvapoury sky, burning as if before an altar. Before the doors and in the\nlighted halls groups were gathered arrayed as for some rite. He was in\nanother world: he had awakened from a slumber of centuries.\n\nHe stood still in the middle of the roadway, his heart clamouring\nagainst his bosom in a tumult. A young woman dressed in a long pink\ngown laid her hand on his arm to detain him and gazed into his face.\nShe said gaily:\n\n--Good night, Willie dear!\n\nHer room was warm and lightsome. A huge doll sat with her legs apart in\nthe copious easy-chair beside the bed. He tried to bid his tongue speak\nthat he might seem at ease, watching her as she undid her gown, noting\nthe proud conscious movements of her perfumed head.\n\nAs he stood silent in the middle of the room she came over to him and\nembraced him gaily and gravely. Her round arms held him firmly to her\nand he, seeing her face lifted to him in serious calm and feeling the\nwarm calm rise and fall of her breast, all but burst into hysterical\nweeping. Tears of joy and relief shone in his delighted eyes and his\nlips parted though they would not speak.\n\nShe passed her tinkling hand through his hair, calling him a little\nrascal.\n\n--Give me a kiss, she said.\n\nHis lips would not bend to kiss her. He wanted to be held firmly in her\narms, to be caressed slowly, slowly, slowly. In her arms he felt that\nhe had suddenly become strong and fearless and sure of himself. But his\nlips would not bend to kiss her.\n\nWith a sudden movement she bowed his head and joined her lips to his\nand he read the meaning of her movements in her frank uplifted eyes. It\nwas too much for him. He closed his eyes, surrendering himself to her,\nbody and mind, conscious of nothing in the world but the dark pressure\nof her softly parting lips. They pressed upon his brain as upon his\nlips as though they were the vehicle of a vague speech; and between\nthem he felt an unknown and timid pressure, darker than the swoon of\nsin, softer than sound or odour.\n\n\n\n\nChapter 3\n\n\nThe swift December dusk had come tumbling clownishly after its dull day\nand, as he stared through the dull square of the window of the\nschoolroom, he felt his belly crave for its food. He hoped there would\nbe stew for dinner, turnips and carrots and bruised potatoes and fat\nmutton pieces to be ladled out in thick peppered flour-fattened sauce.\nStuff it into you, his belly counselled him.\n\nIt would be a gloomy secret night. After early nightfall the yellow\nlamps would light up, here and there, the squalid quarter of the\nbrothels. He would follow a devious course up and down the streets,\ncircling always nearer and nearer in a tremor of fear and joy, until\nhis feet led him suddenly round a dark corner. The whores would be just\ncoming out of their houses making ready for the night, yawning lazily\nafter their sleep and settling the hairpins in their clusters of hair.\nHe would pass by them calmly waiting for a sudden movement of his own\nwill or a sudden call to his sin-loving soul from their soft perfumed\nflesh. Yet as he prowled in quest of that call, his senses, stultified\nonly by his desire, would note keenly all that wounded or shamed them;\nhis eyes, a ring of porter froth on a clothless table or a photograph\nof two soldiers standing to attention or a gaudy playbill; his ears,\nthe drawling jargon of greeting:\n\n--Hello, Bertie, any good in your mind?\n\n--Is that you, pigeon?\n\n--Number ten. Fresh Nelly is waiting on you.\n\n--Good night, husband! Coming in to have a short time?\n\nThe equation on the page of his scribbler began to spread out a\nwidening tail, eyed and starred like a peacock's; and, when the eyes\nand stars of its indices had been eliminated, began slowly to fold\nitself together again. The indices appearing and disappearing were eyes\nopening and closing; the eyes opening and closing were stars being born\nand being quenched. The vast cycle of starry life bore his weary mind\noutward to its verge and inward to its centre, a distant music\naccompanying him outward and inward. What music? The music came nearer\nand he recalled the words, the words of Shelley's fragment upon the\nmoon wandering companionless, pale for weariness. The stars began to\ncrumble and a cloud of fine stardust fell through space.\n\nThe dull light fell more faintly upon the page whereon another equation\nbegan to unfold itself slowly and to spread abroad its widening tail.\nIt was his own soul going forth to experience, unfolding itself sin by\nsin, spreading abroad the bale-fire of its burning stars and folding\nback upon itself, fading slowly, quenching its own lights and fires.\nThey were quenched: and the cold darkness filled chaos.\n\nA cold lucid indifference reigned in his soul. At his first violent sin\nhe had felt a wave of vitality pass out of him and had feared to find\nhis body or his soul maimed by the excess. Instead the vital wave had\ncarried him on its bosom out of himself and back again when it receded:\nand no part of body or soul had been maimed but a dark peace had been\nestablished between them. The chaos in which his ardour extinguished\nitself was a cold indifferent knowledge of himself. He had sinned\nmortally not once but many times and he knew that, while he stood in\ndanger of eternal damnation for the first sin alone, by every\nsucceeding sin he multiplied his guilt and his punishment. His days and\nworks and thoughts could make no atonement for him, the fountains of\nsanctifying grace having ceased to refresh his soul. At most, by an\nalms given to a beggar whose blessing he fled from, he might hope\nwearily to win for himself some measure of actual grace. Devotion had\ngone by the board. What did it avail to pray when he knew that his soul\nlusted after its own destruction? A certain pride, a certain awe,\nwithheld him from offering to God even one prayer at night, though he\nknew it was in God's power to take away his life while he slept and\nhurl his soul hellward ere he could beg for mercy. His pride in his own\nsin, his loveless awe of God, told him that his offence was too\ngrievous to be atoned for in whole or in part by a false homage to the\nAll-seeing and All-knowing.\n\n--Well now, Ennis, I declare you have a head and so has my stick! Do\nyou mean to say that you are not able to tell me what a surd is?\n\nThe blundering answer stirred the embers of his contempt of his\nfellows. Towards others he felt neither shame nor fear. On Sunday\nmornings as he passed the church door he glanced coldly at the\nworshippers who stood bareheaded, four deep, outside the church,\nmorally present at the mass which they could neither see nor hear.\nTheir dull piety and the sickly smell of the cheap hair-oil with which\nthey had anointed their heads repelled him from the altar they prayed\nat. He stooped to the evil of hypocrisy with others, sceptical of their\ninnocence which he could cajole so easily.\n\nOn the wall of his bedroom hung an illuminated scroll, the certificate\nof his prefecture in the college of the sodality of the Blessed Virgin\nMary. On Saturday mornings when the sodality met in the chapel to\nrecite the little office his place was a cushioned kneeling-desk at the\nright of the altar from which he led his wing of boys through the\nresponses. The falsehood of his position did not pain him. If at\nmoments he felt an impulse to rise from his post of honour and,\nconfessing before them all his unworthiness, to leave the chapel, a\nglance at their faces restrained him. The imagery of the psalms of\nprophecy soothed his barren pride. The glories of Mary held his soul\ncaptive: spikenard and myrrh and frankincense, symbolizing her royal\nlineage, her emblems, the late-flowering plant and late-blossoming\ntree, symbolizing the age-long gradual growth of her cultus among men.\nWhen it fell to him to read the lesson towards the close of the office\nhe read it in a veiled voice, lulling his conscience to its music.\n\n\nQUASI CEDRUS EXALTATA SUM IN LIBANON ET QUASI CUPRESSUS IN MONTE SION.\nQUASI PALMA EXALTATA SUM IN GADES ET QUASI PLANTATIO ROSAE IN JERICHO.\nQUASI ULIVA SPECIOSA IN CAMPIS ET QUASI PLATANUS EXALTATA SUM JUXTA\nAQUAM IN PLATEIS. SICUT CINNAMOMUM ET BALSAMUM AROMATIZANS ODOREM DEDI\nET QUASI MYRRHA ELECTA DEDI SUAVITATEM ODORIS.\n\n\nHis sin, which had covered him from the sight of God, had led him\nnearer to the refuge of sinners. Her eyes seemed to regard him with\nmild pity; her holiness, a strange light glowing faintly upon her frail\nflesh, did not humiliate the sinner who approached her. If ever he was\nimpelled to cast sin from him and to repent the impulse that moved him\nwas the wish to be her knight. If ever his soul, re-entering her\ndwelling shyly after the frenzy of his body's lust had spent itself,\nwas turned towards her whose emblem is the morning star, BRIGHT AND\nMUSICAL, TELLING OF HEAVEN AND INFUSING PEACE, it was when her names\nwere murmured softly by lips whereon there still lingered foul and\nshameful words, the savour itself of a lewd kiss.\n\nThat was strange. He tried to think how it could be. But the dusk,\ndeepening in the schoolroom, covered over his thoughts. The bell rang.\nThe master marked the sums and cuts to be done for the next lesson and\nwent out. Heron, beside Stephen, began to hum tunelessly.\n\n\nMY EXCELLENT FRIEND BOMBADOS.\n\n\nEnnis, who had gone to the yard, came back, saying:\n\n--The boy from the house is coming up for the rector.\n\nA tall boy behind Stephen rubbed his hands and said:\n\n--That's game ball. We can scut the whole hour. He won't be in till\nafter half two. Then you can ask him questions on the catechism,\nDedalus.\n\nStephen, leaning back and drawing idly on his scribbler, listened to\nthe talk about him which Heron checked from time to time by saying:\n\n--Shut up, will you. Don't make such a bally racket!\n\nIt was strange too that he found an arid pleasure in following up to\nthe end the rigid lines of the doctrines of the church and penetrating\ninto obscure silences only to hear and feel the more deeply his own\ncondemnation. The sentence of saint James which says that he who\noffends against one commandment becomes guilty of all, had seemed to him\nfirst a swollen phrase until he had begun to grope in the darkness\nof his own state. From the evil seed of lust all other deadly\nsins had sprung forth: pride in himself and contempt of others,\ncovetousness in using money for the purchase of unlawful pleasures,\nenvy of those whose vices he could not reach to and calumnious\nmurmuring against the pious, gluttonous enjoyment of food,\nthe dull glowering anger amid which he brooded upon his longing, the\nswamp of spiritual and bodily sloth in which his whole being had sunk.\n\nAs he sat in his bench gazing calmly at the rector's shrewd harsh face,\nhis mind wound itself in and out of the curious questions proposed to\nit. If a man had stolen a pound in his youth and had used that pound to\namass a huge fortune how much was he obliged to give back, the pound he\nhad stolen only or the pound together with the compound interest\naccruing upon it or all his huge fortune? If a layman in giving baptism\npour the water before saying the words is the child baptized? Is\nbaptism with a mineral water valid? How comes it that while the first\nbeatitude promises the kingdom of heaven to the poor of heart the\nsecond beatitude promises also to the meek that they shall possess the\nland? Why was the sacrament of the eucharist instituted under the two\nspecies of bread and wine if Jesus Christ be present body and blood,\nsoul and divinity, in the bread alone and in the wine alone? Does a\ntiny particle of the consecrated bread contain all the body and blood\nof Jesus Christ or a part only of the body and blood? If the wine\nchange into vinegar and the host crumble into corruption after they\nhave been consecrated, is Jesus Christ still present under their\nspecies as God and as man?\n\n--Here he is! Here he is!\n\nA boy from his post at the window had seen the rector come from the\nhouse. All the catechisms were opened and all heads bent upon them\nsilently. The rector entered and took his seat on the dais. A gentle\nkick from the tall boy in the bench behind urged Stephen to ask a\ndifficult question.\n\nThe rector did not ask for a catechism to hear the lesson from. He\nclasped his hands on the desk and said:\n\n--The retreat will begin on Wednesday afternoon in honour of saint\nFrancis Xavier whose feast day is Saturday. The retreat will go on from\nWednesday to Friday. On Friday confession will be heard all the\nafternoon after beads. If any boys have special confessors perhaps it\nwill be better for them not to change. Mass will be on Saturday morning\nat nine o'clock and general communion for the whole college. Saturday\nwill be a free day. But Saturday and Sunday being free days some boys\nmight be inclined to think that Monday is a free day also. Beware of\nmaking that mistake. I think you, Lawless, are likely to make that\nmistake.\n\n--I sir? Why, sir?\n\nA little wave of quiet mirth broke forth over the class of boys from\nthe rector's grim smile. Stephen's heart began slowly to fold and fade\nwith fear like a withering flower.\n\nThe rector went on gravely:\n\n--You are all familiar with the story of the life of saint Francis\nXavier, I suppose, the patron of your college. He came of an old and\nillustrious Spanish family and you remember that he was one of the\nfirst followers of saint Ignatius. They met in Paris where Francis\nXavier was professor of philosophy at the university. This young and\nbrilliant nobleman and man of letters entered heart and soul into the\nideas of our glorious founder and you know that he, at his own desire,\nwas sent by saint Ignatius to preach to the Indians. He is called, as\nyou know, the apostle of the Indies. He went from country to country in\nthe east, from Africa to India, from India to Japan, baptizing the\npeople. He is said to have baptized as many as ten thousand idolaters\nin one month. It is said that his right arm had grown powerless from\nhaving been raised so often over the heads of those whom he baptized.\nHe wished then to go to China to win still more souls for God but he\ndied of fever on the island of Sancian. A great saint, saint Francis\nXavier! A great soldier of God!\n\nThe rector paused and then, shaking his clasped hands before him, went\non:\n\n--He had the faith in him that moves mountains. Ten thousand souls won\nfor God in a single month! That is a true conqueror, true to the motto\nof our order: AD MAJOREM DEI GLORIAM! A saint who has great power in\nheaven, remember: power to intercede for us in our grief; power to\nobtain whatever we pray for if it be for the good of our souls; power\nabove all to obtain for us the grace to repent if we be in sin. A great\nsaint, saint Francis Xavier! A great fisher of souls!\n\nHe ceased to shake his clasped hands and, resting them against his\nforehead, looked right and left of them keenly at his listeners out of\nhis dark stern eyes.\n\nIn the silence their dark fire kindled the dusk into a tawny glow.\nStephen's heart had withered up like a flower of the desert that feels\nthe simoom coming from afar.\n\n\n* * * * *\n\n\n--REMEMBER ONLY THY LAST THINGS AND THOU SHALT NOT SIN FOR EVER--words\ntaken, my dear little brothers in Christ, from the book of\nEcclesiastes, seventh chapter, fortieth verse. In the name of the\nFather and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.\n\nStephen sat in the front bench of the chapel. Father Arnall sat at a\ntable to the left of the altar. He wore about his shoulders a heavy\ncloak; his pale face was drawn and his voice broken with rheum. The\nfigure of his old master, so strangely re-arisen, brought back to\nStephen's mind his life at Clongowes: the wide playgrounds, swarming\nwith boys; the square ditch; the little cemetery off the main avenue of\nlimes where he had dreamed of being buried; the firelight on the wall\nof the infirmary where he lay sick; the sorrowful face of Brother\nMichael. His soul, as these memories came back to him, became again a\nchild's soul.\n\n--We are assembled here today, my dear little brothers in Christ, for\none brief moment far away from the busy bustle of the outer world to\ncelebrate and to honour one of the greatest of saints, the apostle of\nthe Indies, the patron saint also of your college, saint Francis\nXavier. Year after year, for much longer than any of you, my dear\nlittle boys, can remember or than I can remember, the boys of this\ncollege have met in this very chapel to make their annual retreat\nbefore the feast day of their patron saint. Time has gone on and\nbrought with it its changes. Even in the last few years what changes\ncan most of you not remember? Many of the boys who sat in those front\nbenches a few years ago are perhaps now in distant lands, in the\nburning tropics, or immersed in professional duties or in seminaries,\nor voyaging over the vast expanse of the deep or, it may be, already\ncalled by the great God to another life and to the rendering up of\ntheir stewardship. And still as the years roll by, bringing with them\nchanges for good and bad, the memory of the great saint is honoured by\nthe boys of this college who make every year their annual retreat on\nthe days preceding the feast day set apart by our Holy Mother the\nChurch to transmit to all the ages the name and fame of one of the\ngreatest sons of catholic Spain.\n\n--Now what is the meaning of this word RETREAT and why is it allowed\non all hands to be a most salutary practice for all who desire to lead\nbefore God and in the eyes of men a truly christian life? A retreat, my\ndear boys, signifies a withdrawal for awhile from the cares of our\nlife, the cares of this workaday world, in order to examine the state\nof our conscience, to reflect on the mysteries of holy religion and to\nunderstand better why we are here in this world. During these few days\nI intend to put before you some thoughts concerning the four last\nthings. They are, as you know from your catechism, death, judgement,\nhell, and heaven. We shall try to understand them fully during these\nfew days so that we may derive from the understanding of them a lasting\nbenefit to our souls. And remember, my dear boys, that we have been\nsent into this world for one thing and for one thing alone: to do God's\nholy will and to save our immortal souls. All else is worthless. One\nthing alone is needful, the salvation of one's soul. What doth it\nprofit a man to gain the whole world if he suffer the loss of his\nimmortal soul? Ah, my dear boys, believe me there is nothing in this\nwretched world that can make up for such a loss.\n\n--I will ask you, therefore, my dear boys, to put away from your minds\nduring these few days all worldly thoughts, whether of study or\npleasure or ambition, and to give all your attention to the state of\nyour souls. I need hardly remind you that during the days of the\nretreat all boys are expected to preserve a quiet and pious demeanour\nand to shun all loud unseemly pleasure. The elder boys, of course, will\nsee that this custom is not infringed and I look especially to the\nprefects and officers of the sodality of Our Blessed Lady and of the\nsodality of the holy angels to set a good example to their\nfellow-students.\n\n--Let us try, therefore, to make this retreat in honour of saint\nFrancis with our whole heart and our whole mind. God's blessing will\nthen be upon all your year's studies. But, above and beyond all, let\nthis retreat be one to which you can look back in after years when\nmaybe you are far from this college and among very different\nsurroundings, to which you can look back with joy and thankfulness and\ngive thanks to God for having granted you this occasion of laying the\nfirst foundation of a pious honourable zealous christian life. And if,\nas may so happen, there be at this moment in these benches any poor\nsoul who has had the unutterable misfortune to lose God's holy grace\nand to fall into grievous sin, I fervently trust and pray that this\nretreat may be the turning point in the life of that soul. I pray to\nGod through the merits of His zealous servant Francis Xavier, that such\na soul may be led to sincere repentance and that the holy communion on\nsaint Francis's day of this year may be a lasting covenant between God\nand that soul. For just and unjust, for saint and sinner alike, may\nthis retreat be a memorable one.\n\n--Help me, my dear little brothers in Christ. Help me by your pious\nattention, by your own devotion, by your outward demeanour. Banish from\nyour minds all worldly thoughts and think only of the last things,\ndeath, judgement, hell, and heaven. He who remembers these things, says\nEcclesiastes, shall not sin for ever. He who remembers the last things\nwill act and think with them always before his eyes. He will live a\ngood life and die a good death, believing and knowing that, if he has\nsacrificed much in this earthly life, it will be given to him a\nhundredfold and a thousandfold more in the life to come, in the kingdom\nwithout end--a blessing, my dear boys, which I wish you from my heart,\none and all, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy\nGhost. Amen!\n\nAs he walked home with silent companions, a thick fog seemed to compass\nhis mind. He waited in stupor of mind till it should lift and reveal\nwhat it had hidden. He ate his dinner with surly appetite and when the\nmeal was over and the grease-strewn plates lay abandoned on the table,\nhe rose and went to the window, clearing the thick scum from his mouth\nwith his tongue and licking it from his lips. So he had sunk to the\nstate of a beast that licks his chaps after meat. This was the end; and\na faint glimmer of fear began to pierce the fog of his mind. He pressed\nhis face against the pane of the window and gazed out into the\ndarkening street. Forms passed this way and that through the dull\nlight. And that was life. The letters of the name of Dublin lay heavily\nupon his mind, pushing one another surlily hither and thither with slow\nboorish insistence. His soul was fattening and congealing into a gross\ngrease, plunging ever deeper in its dull fear into a sombre threatening\ndusk while the body that was his stood, listless and dishonoured,\ngazing out of darkened eyes, helpless, perturbed, and human for a\nbovine god to stare upon.\n\nThe next day brought death and judgement, stirring his soul slowly from\nits listless despair. The faint glimmer of fear became a terror of\nspirit as the hoarse voice of the preacher blew death into his soul. He\nsuffered its agony. He felt the death chill touch the extremities and\ncreep onward towards the heart, the film of death veiling the eyes, the\nbright centres of the brain extinguished one by one like lamps, the\nlast sweat oozing upon the skin, the powerlessness of the dying limbs,\nthe speech thickening and wandering and failing, the heart throbbing\nfaintly and more faintly, all but vanquished, the breath, the poor\nbreath, the poor helpless human spirit, sobbing and sighing, gurgling\nand rattling in the throat. No help! No help! He--he himself--his\nbody to which he had yielded was dying. Into the grave with it. Nail it\ndown into a wooden box, the corpse. Carry it out of the house on the\nshoulders of hirelings. Thrust it out of men's sight into a long hole\nin the ground, into the grave, to rot, to feed the mass of its creeping\nworms and to be devoured by scuttling plump-bellied rats.\n\nAnd while the friends were still standing in tears by the bedside the\nsoul of the sinner was judged. At the last moment of consciousness the\nwhole earthly life passed before the vision of the soul and, ere it had\ntime to reflect, the body had died and the soul stood terrified before\nthe judgement seat. God, who had long been merciful, would then be\njust. He had long been patient, pleading with the sinful soul,\ngiving it time to repent, sparing it yet awhile. But that time had\ngone. Time was to sin and to enjoy, time was to scoff at God and at the\nwarnings of His holy church, time was to defy His majesty, to disobey\nHis commands, to hoodwink one's fellow men, to commit sin after sin and\nto hide one's corruption from the sight of men. But that time was over.\nNow it was God's turn: and He was not to be hoodwinked or deceived.\nEvery sin would then come forth from its lurking place, the most\nrebellious against the divine will and the most degrading to our poor\ncorrupt nature, the tiniest imperfection and the most heinous atrocity.\nWhat did it avail then to have been a great emperor, a great general, a\nmarvellous inventor, the most learned of the learned? All were as one\nbefore the judgement seat of God. He would reward the good and punish\nthe wicked. One single instant was enough for the trial of a man's\nsoul. One single instant after the body's death, the soul had been\nweighed in the balance. The particular judgement was over and the soul\nhad passed to the abode of bliss or to the prison of purgatory or had\nbeen hurled howling into hell.\n\nNor was that all. God's justice had still to be vindicated before men:\nafter the particular there still remained the general judgement. The\nlast day had come. The doomsday was at hand. The stars of heaven were\nfalling upon the earth like the figs cast by the fig-tree which the\nwind has shaken. The sun, the great luminary of the universe, had\nbecome as sackcloth of hair. The moon was blood-red. The firmament was\nas a scroll rolled away. The archangel Michael, the prince of the\nheavenly host, appeared glorious and terrible against the sky. With one\nfoot on the sea and one foot on the land he blew from the arch-angelical\ntrumpet the brazen death of time. The three blasts of the\nangel filled all the universe. Time is, time was, but time shall be no\nmore. At the last blast the souls of universal humanity throng towards\nthe valley of Jehoshaphat, rich and poor, gentle and simple, wise and\nfoolish, good and wicked. The soul of every human being that has ever\nexisted, the souls of all those who shall yet be born, all the sons and\ndaughters of Adam, all are assembled on that supreme day. And lo, the\nsupreme judge is coming! No longer the lowly Lamb of God, no longer the\nmeek Jesus of Nazareth, no longer the Man of Sorrows, no longer the\nGood Shepherd, He is seen now coming upon the clouds, in great power\nand majesty, attended by nine choirs of angels, angels and archangels,\nprincipalities, powers and virtues, thrones and dominations, cherubim\nand seraphim, God Omnipotent, God Everlasting. He speaks: and His voice\nis heard even at the farthest limits of space, even in the bottomless\nabyss. Supreme Judge, from His sentence there will be and can be no\nappeal. He calls the just to His side, bidding them enter into the\nkingdom, the eternity of bliss prepared for them. The unjust He casts\nfrom Him, crying in His offended majesty: DEPART FROM ME, YE CURSED,\nINTO EVERLASTING FIRE WHICH WAS PREPARED FOR THE DEVIL AND HIS ANGELS.\nO, what agony then for the miserable sinners! Friend is torn apart from\nfriend, children are torn from their parents, husbands from their\nwives. The poor sinner holds out his arms to those who were dear to him\nin this earthly world, to those whose simple piety perhaps he made a\nmock of, to those who counselled him and tried to lead him on the right\npath, to a kind brother, to a loving sister, to the mother and father\nwho loved him so dearly. But it is too late: the just turn away from\nthe wretched damned souls which now appear before the eyes of all in\ntheir hideous and evil character. O you hypocrites, O, you whited\nsepulchres, O you who present a smooth smiling face to the world while\nyour soul within is a foul swamp of sin, how will it fare with you in\nthat terrible day?\n\nAnd this day will come, shall come, must come: the day of death and the\nday of judgement. It is appointed unto man to die and after death the\njudgement. Death is certain. The time and manner are uncertain, whether\nfrom long disease or from some unexpected accident: the Son of God\ncometh at an hour when you little expect Him. Be therefore ready every\nmoment, seeing that you may die at any moment. Death is the end of us\nall. Death and judgement, brought into the world by the sin of our\nfirst parents, are the dark portals that close our earthly existence,\nthe portals that open into the unknown and the unseen, portals through\nwhich every soul must pass, alone, unaided save by its good works,\nwithout friend or brother or parent or master to help it, alone and\ntrembling. Let that thought be ever before our minds and then we cannot\nsin. Death, a cause of terror to the sinner, is a blessed moment for\nhim who has walked in the right path, fulfilling the duties of his\nstation in life, attending to his morning and evening prayers,\napproaching the holy sacrament frequently and performing good and\nmerciful works. For the pious and believing catholic, for the just man,\ndeath is no cause of terror. Was it not Addison, the great English\nwriter, who, when on his deathbed, sent for the wicked young earl of\nWarwick to let him see how a christian can meet his end? He it is and he\nalone, the pious and believing christian, who can say in his heart:\n\n    O grave, where is thy victory?\n    O death, where is thy sting?\n\nEvery word of it was for him. Against his sin, foul and secret, the\nwhole wrath of God was aimed. The preacher's knife had probed deeply\ninto his disclosed conscience and he felt now that his soul was\nfestering in sin. Yes, the preacher was right. God's turn had come.\nLike a beast in its lair his soul had lain down in its own filth but\nthe blasts of the angel's trumpet had driven him forth from the\ndarkness of sin into the light. The words of doom cried by the angel\nshattered in an instant his presumptuous peace. The wind of the last\nday blew through his mind, his sins, the jewel-eyed harlots of his\nimagination, fled before the hurricane, squeaking like mice in their\nterror and huddled under a mane of hair.\n\nAs he crossed the square, walking homeward, the light laughter of a\ngirl reached his burning ear. The frail gay sound smote his heart more\nstrongly than a trumpet blast, and, not daring to lift his eyes, he\nturned aside and gazed, as he walked, into the shadow of the tangled\nshrubs. Shame rose from his smitten heart and flooded his whole being.\nThe image of Emma appeared before him, and under her eyes the flood of\nshame rushed forth anew from his heart. If she knew to what his mind\nhad subjected her or how his brute-like lust had torn and trampled upon\nher innocence! Was that boyish love? Was that chivalry? Was that\npoetry? The sordid details of his orgies stank under his very nostrils.\nThe soot-coated packet of pictures which he had hidden in the flue of\nthe fireplace and in the presence of whose shameless or bashful\nwantonness he lay for hours sinning in thought and deed; his monstrous\ndreams, peopled by ape-like creatures and by harlots with gleaming\njewel eyes; the foul long letters he had written in the joy of guilty\nconfession and carried secretly for days and days only to throw them\nunder cover of night among the grass in the corner of a field or\nbeneath some hingeless door in some niche in the hedges where a girl\nmight come upon them as she walked by and read them secretly. Mad! Mad!\nWas it possible he had done these things? A cold sweat broke out upon\nhis forehead as the foul memories condensed within his brain.\n\nWhen the agony of shame had passed from him he tried to raise his soul\nfrom its abject powerlessness. God and the Blessed Virgin were too far\nfrom him: God was too great and stern and the Blessed Virgin too pure\nand holy. But he imagined that he stood near Emma in a wide land and,\nhumbly and in tears, bent and kissed the elbow of her sleeve.\n\nIn the wide land under a tender lucid evening sky, a cloud drifting\nwestward amid a pale green sea of heaven, they stood together, children\nthat had erred. Their error had offended deeply God's majesty though it\nwas the error of two children; but it had not offended her whose beauty\nIS NOT LIKE EARTHLY BEAUTY, DANGEROUS TO LOOK UPON, BUT LIKE THE\nMORNING STAR WHICH IS ITS EMBLEM, BRIGHT AND MUSICAL. The eyes were\nnot offended which she turned upon him nor reproachful. She placed\ntheir hands together, hand in hand, and said, speaking to their hearts:\n\n--Take hands, Stephen and Emma. It is a beautiful evening now in\nheaven. You have erred but you are always my children. It is one heart\nthat loves another heart. Take hands together, my dear children, and\nyou will be happy together and your hearts will love each other.\n\nThe chapel was flooded by the dull scarlet light that filtered through\nthe lowered blinds; and through the fissure between the last blind and\nthe sash a shaft of wan light entered like a spear and touched the\nembossed brasses of the candlesticks upon the altar that gleamed like\nthe battle-worn mail armour of angels.\n\nRain was falling on the chapel, on the garden, on the college. It would\nrain for ever, noiselessly. The water would rise inch by inch, covering\nthe grass and shrubs, covering the trees and houses, covering the\nmonuments and the mountain tops. All life would be choked off,\nnoiselessly: birds, men, elephants, pigs, children: noiselessly\nfloating corpses amid the litter of the wreckage of the world. Forty\ndays and forty nights the rain would fall till the waters covered the\nface of the earth.\n\nIt might be. Why not?\n\n--HELL HAS ENLARGED ITS SOUL AND OPENED ITS MOUTH WITHOUT ANY\nLIMITS--words  taken, my dear little brothers in Christ Jesus, from the\nbook of Isaias, fifth chapter, fourteenth verse. In the name of the\nFather and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.\n\nThe preacher took a chainless watch from a pocket within his soutane\nand, having considered its dial for a moment in silence, placed it\nsilently before him on the table.\n\nHe began to speak in a quiet tone.\n\n--Adam and Eve, my dear boys, were, as you know, our first parents,\nand you will remember that they were created by God in order that the\nseats in heaven left vacant by the fall of Lucifer and his rebellious\nangels might be filled again. Lucifer, we are told, was a son of the\nmorning, a radiant and mighty angel; yet he fell: he fell and there\nfell with him a third part of the host of heaven: he fell and was\nhurled with his rebellious angels into hell. What his sin was we cannot\nsay. Theologians consider that it was the sin of pride, the sinful\nthought conceived in an instant: NON SERVIAM: I WILL NOT SERVE. That\ninstant was his ruin.\n\nHe offended the majesty of God by the sinful thought of one instant and\nGod cast him out of heaven into hell for ever.\n\n--Adam and Eve were then created by God and placed in Eden, in the\nplain of Damascus, that lovely garden resplendent with sunlight and\ncolour, teeming with luxuriant vegetation. The fruitful earth gave them\nher bounty: beasts and birds were their willing servants: they knew not\nthe ills our flesh is heir to, disease and poverty and death: all that\na great and generous God could do for them was done. But there was one\ncondition imposed on them by God: obedience to His word. They were not\nto eat of the fruit of the forbidden tree.\n\n--Alas, my dear little boys, they too fell. The devil, once a shining\nangel, a son of the morning, now a foul fiend came in the shape of a\nserpent, the subtlest of all the beasts of the field. He envied them.\nHe, the fallen great one, could not bear to think that man, a being of\nclay, should possess the inheritance which he by his sin had forfeited\nfor ever. He came to the woman, the weaker vessel, and poured the\npoison of his eloquence into her ear, promising her--O, the blasphemy\nof that promise!--that if she and Adam ate of the forbidden fruit they\nwould become as gods, nay as God Himself. Eve yielded to the wiles of\nthe archtempter. She ate the apple and gave it also to Adam who had not\nthe moral courage to resist her. The poison tongue of Satan had done\nits work. They fell.\n\n--And then the voice of God was heard in that garden, calling His\ncreature man to account: and Michael, prince of the heavenly host, with\na sword of flame in his hand, appeared before the guilty pair and drove\nthem forth from Eden into the world, the world of sickness and\nstriving, of cruelty and disappointment, of labour and hardship, to\nearn their bread in the sweat of their brow. But even then how merciful\nwas God! He took pity on our poor degraded parents and promised that in\nthe fullness of time He would send down from heaven One who would\nredeem them, make them once more children of God and heirs to the\nkingdom of heaven: and that One, that Redeemer of fallen man, was to be\nGod's only begotten Son, the Second Person of the Most Blessed Trinity,\nthe Eternal Word.\n\n--He came. He was born of a virgin pure, Mary the virgin mother. He\nwas born in a poor cowhouse in Judea and lived as a humble carpenter\nfor thirty years until the hour of His mission had come. And then,\nfilled with love for men, He went forth and called to men to hear the\nnew gospel.\n\n--Did they listen? Yes, they listened but would not hear. He was\nseized and bound like a common criminal, mocked at as a fool, set aside\nto give place to a public robber, scourged with five thousand lashes,\ncrowned with a crown of thorns, hustled through the streets by the\njewish rabble and the Roman soldiery, stripped of his garments and\nhanged upon a gibbet and His side was pierced with a lance and from the\nwounded body of our Lord water and blood issued continually.\n\n--Yet even then, in that hour of supreme agony, Our Merciful Redeemer had\npity for mankind. Yet even there, on the hill of Calvary, He founded\nthe holy catholic church against which, it is promised, the gates of\nhell shall not prevail. He founded it upon the rock of ages, and\nendowed it with His grace, with sacraments and sacrifice, and promised\nthat if men would obey the word of His church they would still enter\ninto eternal life; but if, after all that had been done for them, they\nstill persisted in their wickedness, there remained for them an\neternity of torment: hell.\n\nThe preacher's voice sank. He paused, joined his palms for an instant,\nparted them. Then he resumed:\n\n--Now let us try for a moment to realize, as far as we can, the nature\nof that abode of the damned which the justice of an offended God has\ncalled into existence for the eternal punishment of sinners. Hell is a\nstrait and dark and foul-smelling prison, an abode of demons and lost\nsouls, filled with fire and smoke. The straitness of this prison house\nis expressly designed by God to punish those who refused to be bound by\nHis laws. In earthly prisons the poor captive has at least some liberty\nof movement, were it only within the four walls of his cell or in the\ngloomy yard of his prison. Not so in hell. There, by reason of the\ngreat number of the damned, the prisoners are heaped together in their\nawful prison, the walls of which are said to be four thousand miles\nthick: and the damned are so utterly bound and helpless that, as a\nblessed saint, saint Anselm, writes in his book on similitudes, they\nare not even able to remove from the eye a worm that gnaws it.\n\n--They lie in exterior darkness. For, remember, the fire of hell gives\nforth no light. As, at the command of God, the fire of the Babylonian\nfurnace lost its heat but not its light, so, at the command of God, the\nfire of hell, while retaining the intensity of its heat, burns\neternally in darkness. It is a never ending storm of darkness, dark\nflames and dark smoke of burning brimstone, amid which the bodies are\nheaped one upon another without even a glimpse of air. Of all the\nplagues with which the land of the Pharaohs were smitten one plague\nalone, that of darkness, was called horrible. What name, then, shall we\ngive to the darkness of hell which is to last not for three days alone\nbut for all eternity?\n\n--The horror of this strait and dark prison is increased by its awful\nstench. All the filth of the world, all the offal and scum of the\nworld, we are told, shall run there as to a vast reeking sewer when the\nterrible conflagration of the last day has purged the world. The\nbrimstone, too, which burns there in such prodigious quantity fills all\nhell with its intolerable stench; and the bodies of the damned\nthemselves exhale such a pestilential odour that, as saint Bonaventure\nsays, one of them alone would suffice to infect the whole world. The\nvery air of this world, that pure element, becomes foul and\nunbreathable when it has been long enclosed. Consider then what must be\nthe foulness of the air of hell. Imagine some foul and putrid corpse\nthat has lain rotting and decomposing in the grave, a jelly-like mass\nof liquid corruption. Imagine such a corpse a prey to flames, devoured\nby the fire of burning brimstone and giving off dense choking fumes of\nnauseous loathsome decomposition. And then imagine this sickening\nstench, multiplied a millionfold and a millionfold again from the\nmillions upon millions of fetid carcasses massed together in the\nreeking darkness, a huge and rotting human fungus. Imagine all this,\nand you will have some idea of the horror of the stench of hell.\n\n--But this stench is not, horrible though it is, the greatest physical\ntorment to which the damned are subjected. The torment of fire is the\ngreatest torment to which the tyrant has ever subjected his fellow\ncreatures. Place your finger for a moment in the flame of a candle and\nyou will feel the pain of fire. But our earthly fire was created by God\nfor the benefit of man, to maintain in him the spark of life and to\nhelp him in the useful arts, whereas the fire of hell is of another\nquality and was created by God to torture and punish the unrepentant\nsinner. Our earthly fire also consumes more or less rapidly according\nas the object which it attacks is more or less combustible, so that\nhuman ingenuity has even succeeded in inventing chemical preparations\nto check or frustrate its action. But the sulphurous brimstone which\nburns in hell is a substance which is specially designed to burn for\never and for ever with unspeakable fury. Moreover, our earthly fire\ndestroys at the same time as it burns, so that the more intense it is\nthe shorter is its duration; but the fire of hell has this property,\nthat it preserves that which it burns, and, though it rages with\nincredible intensity, it rages for ever.\n\n--Our earthly fire again, no matter how fierce or widespread it may be,\nis always of a limited extent; but the lake of fire in hell is\nboundless, shoreless and bottomless. It is on record that the devil\nhimself, when asked the question by a certain soldier, was obliged to\nconfess that if a whole mountain were thrown into the burning ocean of\nhell it would be burned up in an instant like a piece of wax. And this\nterrible fire will not afflict the bodies of the damned only from\nwithout, but each lost soul will be a hell unto itself, the boundless\nfire raging in its very vitals. O, how terrible is the lot of those\nwretched beings! The blood seethes and boils in the veins, the brains\nare boiling in the skull, the heart in the breast glowing and bursting,\nthe bowels a red-hot mass of burning pulp, the tender eyes flaming like\nmolten balls.\n\n--And yet what I have said as to the strength and quality and\nboundlessness of this fire is as nothing when compared to its\nintensity, an intensity which it has as being the instrument chosen by\ndivine design for the punishment of soul and body alike. It is a fire\nwhich proceeds directly from the ire of God, working not of its own\nactivity but as an instrument of Divine vengeance. As the waters of\nbaptism cleanse the soul with the body, so do the fires of punishment\ntorture the spirit with the flesh. Every sense of the flesh is tortured\nand every faculty of the soul therewith: the eyes with impenetrable\nutter darkness, the nose with noisome odours, the ears with yells and\nhowls and execrations, the taste with foul matter, leprous corruption,\nnameless suffocating filth, the touch with redhot goads and spikes,\nwith cruel tongues of flame. And through the several torments of the\nsenses the immortal soul is tortured eternally in its very essence amid\nthe leagues upon leagues of glowing fires kindled in the abyss by the\noffended majesty of the Omnipotent God and fanned into everlasting and\never-increasing fury by the breath of the anger of the God-head.\n\n--Consider finally that the torment of this infernal prison is\nincreased by the company of the damned themselves. Evil company on\nearth is so noxious that the plants, as if by instinct, withdraw from\nthe company of whatsoever is deadly or hurtful to them. In hell all\nlaws are overturned--there is no thought of family or country, of\nties, of relationships. The damned howl and scream at one another,\ntheir torture and rage intensified by the presence of beings tortured\nand raging like themselves. All sense of humanity is forgotten. The\nyells of the suffering sinners fill the remotest corners of the vast\nabyss. The mouths of the damned are full of blasphemies against God and\nof hatred for their fellow sufferers and of curses against those souls\nwhich were their accomplices in sin. In olden times it was the custom\nto punish the parricide, the man who had raised his murderous hand\nagainst his father, by casting him into the depths of the sea in a sack\nin which were placed a cock, a monkey, and a serpent. The intention of\nthose law-givers who framed such a law, which seems cruel in our times,\nwas to punish the criminal by the company of hurtful and hateful\nbeasts. But what is the fury of those dumb beasts compared with the\nfury of execration which bursts from the parched lips and aching\nthroats of the damned in hell when they behold in their companions in\nmisery those who aided and abetted them in sin, those whose words sowed\nthe first seeds of evil thinking and evil living in their minds, those\nwhose immodest suggestions led them on to sin, those whose eyes tempted\nand allured them from the path of virtue. They turn upon those\naccomplices and upbraid them and curse them. But they are helpless and\nhopeless: it is too late now for repentance.\n\n--Last of all consider the frightful torment to those damned souls,\ntempters and tempted alike, of the company of the devils. These devils\nwill afflict the damned in two ways, by their presence and by their\nreproaches. We can have no idea of how horrible these devils are. Saint\nCatherine of Siena once saw a devil and she has written that, rather\nthan look again for one single instant on such a frightful monster, she\nwould prefer to walk until the end of her life along a track of red\ncoals. These devils, who were once beautiful angels, have become as\nhideous and ugly as they once were beautiful. They mock and jeer at the\nlost souls whom they dragged down to ruin. It is they, the foul demons,\nwho are made in hell the voices of conscience. Why did you sin? Why did\nyou lend an ear to the temptings of friends? Why did you turn aside\nfrom your pious practices and good works? Why did you not shun the\noccasions of sin? Why did you not leave that evil companion? Why did\nyou not give up that lewd habit, that impure habit? Why did you not\nlisten to the counsels of your confessor? Why did you not, even after\nyou had fallen the first or the second or the third or the fourth or\nthe hundredth time, repent of your evil ways and turn to God who only\nwaited for your repentance to absolve you of your sins? Now the time\nfor repentance has gone by. Time is, time was, but time shall be no more!\nTime was to sin in secrecy, to indulge in that sloth and pride, to\ncovet the unlawful, to yield to the promptings of your lower nature, to\nlive like the beasts of the field, nay worse than the beasts of the\nfield, for they, at least, are but brutes and have no reason to guide\nthem: time was, but time shall be no more. God spoke to you by so many\nvoices, but you would not hear. You would not crush out that pride and\nanger in your heart, you would not restore those ill-gotten goods, you\nwould not obey the precepts of your holy church nor attend to your\nreligious duties, you would not abandon those wicked companions, you\nwould not avoid those dangerous temptations. Such is the language of\nthose fiendish tormentors, words of taunting and of reproach, of hatred\nand of disgust. Of disgust, yes! For even they, the very devils, when\nthey sinned, sinned by such a sin as alone was compatible with such\nangelical natures, a rebellion of the intellect: and they, even they,\nthe foul devils must turn away, revolted and disgusted, from the\ncontemplation of those unspeakable sins by which degraded man outrages\nand defiles the temple of the Holy Ghost, defiles and pollutes himself.\n\n--O, my dear little brothers in Christ, may it never be our lot to\nhear that language! May it never be our lot, I say! In the last day of\nterrible reckoning I pray fervently to God that not a single soul of\nthose who are in this chapel today may be found among those miserable\nbeings whom the Great Judge shall command to depart for ever from His\nsight, that not one of us may ever hear ringing in his ears the awful\nsentence of rejection: DEPART FROM ME, YE CURSED, INTO EVERLASTING FIRE\nWHICH WAS PREPARED FOR THE DEVIL AND HIS ANGELS!\n\nHe came down the aisle of the chapel, his legs shaking and the scalp of\nhis head trembling as though it had been touched by ghostly fingers. He\npassed up the staircase and into the corridor along the walls of which\nthe overcoats and waterproofs hung like gibbeted malefactors, headless\nand dripping and shapeless. And at every step he feared that he had\nalready died, that his soul had been wrenched forth of the sheath of\nhis body, that he was plunging headlong through space.\n\nHe could not grip the floor with his feet and sat heavily at his desk,\nopening one of his books at random and poring over it. Every word for\nhim. It was true. God was almighty. God could call him now, call him as\nhe sat at his desk, before he had time to be conscious of the summons.\nGod had called him. Yes? What? Yes? His flesh shrank together as it\nfelt the approach of the ravenous tongues of flames, dried up as it\nfelt about it the swirl of stifling air. He had died. Yes. He was\njudged. A wave of fire swept through his body: the first. Again a wave.\nHis brain began to glow. Another. His brain was simmering and bubbling\nwithin the cracking tenement of the skull. Flames burst forth from his\nskull like a corolla, shrieking like voices:\n\n--Hell! Hell! Hell! Hell! Hell!\n\nVoices spoke near him:\n\n--On hell.\n\n--I suppose he rubbed it into you well.\n\n--You bet he did. He put us all into a blue funk.\n\n--That's what you fellows want: and plenty of it to make you work.\n\nHe leaned back weakly in his desk. He had not died. God had spared him\nstill. He was still in the familiar world of the school. Mr Tate and\nVincent Heron stood at the window, talking, jesting, gazing out at the\nbleak rain, moving their heads.\n\n--I wish it would clear up. I had arranged to go for a spin on the\nbike with some fellows out by Malahide. But the roads must be\nknee-deep.\n\n--It might clear up, sir.\n\nThe voices that he knew so well, the common words, the quiet of the\nclassroom when the voices paused and the silence was filled by the\nsound of softly browsing cattle as the other boys munched their lunches\ntranquilly, lulled his aching soul.\n\nThere was still time. O Mary, refuge of sinners, intercede for him! O\nVirgin Undefiled, save him from the gulf of death!\n\nThe English lesson began with the hearing of the history. Royal\npersons, favourites, intriguers, bishops, passed like mute phantoms\nbehind their veil of names. All had died: all had been judged. What did\nit profit a man to gain the whole world if he lost his soul? At last he\nhad understood: and human life lay around him, a plain of peace whereon\nant-like men laboured in brotherhood, their dead sleeping under quiet\nmounds. The elbow of his companion touched him and his heart was\ntouched: and when he spoke to answer a question of his master he heard\nhis own voice full of the quietude of humility and contrition.\n\nHis soul sank back deeper into depths of contrite peace, no longer able\nto suffer the pain of dread, and sending forth, as he sank, a faint\nprayer. Ah yes, he would still be spared; he would repent in his heart\nand be forgiven; and then those above, those in heaven, would see what\nhe would do to make up for the past: a whole life, every hour of life.\nOnly wait.\n\n--All, God! All, all!\n\nA messenger came to the door to say that confessions were being heard\nin the chapel. Four boys left the room; and he heard others passing\ndown the corridor. A tremulous chill blew round his heart, no stronger\nthan a little wind, and yet, listening and suffering silently, he\nseemed to have laid an ear against the muscle of his own heart, feeling\nit close and quail, listening to the flutter of its ventricles.\n\nNo escape. He had to confess, to speak out in words what he had done\nand thought, sin after sin. How? How?\n\n--Father, I...\n\nThe thought slid like a cold shining rapier into his tender flesh:\nconfession. But not there in the chapel of the college. He would\nconfess all, every sin of deed and thought, sincerely; but not there\namong his school companions. Far away from there in some dark place he\nwould murmur out his own shame; and he besought God humbly not to be\noffended with him if he did not dare to confess in the college chapel\nand in utter abjection of spirit he craved forgiveness mutely of the\nboyish hearts about him.\n\nTime passed.\n\nHe sat again in the front bench of the chapel. The daylight without was\nalready failing and, as it fell slowly through the dull red blinds, it\nseemed that the sun of the last day was going down and that all souls\nwere being gathered for the judgement.\n\n--I AM CAST AWAY FROM THE SIGHT OF THINE EYES: words taken, my dear\nlittle brothers in Christ, from the Book of Psalms, thirtieth chapter,\ntwenty-third verse. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the\nHoly Ghost. Amen.\n\nThe preacher began to speak in a quiet friendly tone. His face was kind\nand he joined gently the fingers of each hand, forming a frail cage by\nthe union of their tips.\n\n--This morning we endeavoured, in our reflection upon hell, to make\nwhat our holy founder calls in his book of spiritual exercises, the\ncomposition of place. We endeavoured, that is, to imagine with the\nsenses of the mind, in our imagination, the material character of that\nawful place and of the physical torments which all who are in hell endure.\nThis evening we shall consider for a few moments the nature of the\nspiritual torments of hell.\n\n--Sin, remember, is a twofold enormity. It is a base consent to the\npromptings of our corrupt nature to the lower instincts, to that which\nis gross and beast-like; and it is also a turning away from the counsel\nof our higher nature, from all that is pure and holy, from the Holy God\nHimself. For this reason mortal sin is punished in hell by two\ndifferent forms of punishment, physical and spiritual.\n\nNow of all these spiritual pains by far the greatest is the pain of\nloss, so great, in fact, that in itself it is a torment greater than\nall the others. Saint Thomas, the greatest doctor of the church, the\nangelic doctor, as he is called, says that the worst damnation consists\nin this, that the understanding of man is totally deprived of divine\nlight and his affection obstinately turned away from the goodness of\nGod. God, remember, is a being infinitely good, and therefore the loss\nof such a being must be a loss infinitely painful. In this life we have\nnot a very clear idea of what such a loss must be, but the damned in\nhell, for their greater torment, have a full understanding of that\nwhich they have lost, and understand that they have lost it through\ntheir own sins and have lost it for ever. At the very instant of death\nthe bonds of the flesh are broken asunder and the soul at once flies\ntowards God as towards the centre of her existence. Remember, my dear\nlittle boys, our souls long to be with God. We come from God, we live\nby God, we belong to God: we are His, inalienably His. God loves with a\ndivine love every human soul, and every human soul lives in that love.\nHow could it be otherwise? Every breath that we draw, every thought of\nour brain, every instant of life proceeds from God's inexhaustible\ngoodness. And if it be pain for a mother to be parted from her child,\nfor a man to be exiled from hearth and home, for friend to be sundered\nfrom friend, O think what pain, what anguish it must be for the poor\nsoul to be spurned from the presence of the supremely good and loving\nCreator Who has called that soul into existence from nothingness and\nsustained it in life and loved it with an immeasurable love. This,\nthen, to be separated for ever from its greatest good, from God, and to\nfeel the anguish of that separation, knowing full well that it is\nunchangeable: this is the greatest torment which the created soul is\ncapable of bearing, POENA DAMNI, the pain of loss.\n\nThe second pain which will afflict the souls of the damned in hell is\nthe pain of conscience. Just as in dead bodies worms are engendered by\nputrefaction, so in the souls of the lost there arises a perpetual\nremorse from the putrefaction of sin, the sting of conscience, the\nworm, as Pope Innocent the Third calls it, of the triple sting. The\nfirst sting inflicted by this cruel worm will be the memory of past\npleasures. O what a dreadful memory will that be! In the lake of\nall-devouring flame the proud king will remember the pomps of his\ncourt, the wise but wicked man his libraries and instruments of\nresearch, the lover of artistic pleasures his marbles and pictures and\nother art treasures, he who delighted in the pleasures of the table his\ngorgeous feasts, his dishes prepared with such delicacy, his choice\nwines; the miser will remember his hoard of gold, the robber his\nill-gotten wealth, the angry and revengeful and merciless murderers\ntheir deeds of blood and violence in which they revelled, the impure\nand adulterous the unspeakable and filthy pleasures in which they\ndelighted. They will remember all this and loathe themselves and their\nsins. For how miserable will all those pleasures seem to the soul\ncondemned to suffer in hellfire for ages and ages. How they will rage\nand fume to think that they have lost the bliss of heaven for the dross\nof earth, for a few pieces of metal, for vain honours, for bodily\ncomforts, for a tingling of the nerves. They will repent indeed: and\nthis is the second sting of the worm of conscience, a late and\nfruitless sorrow for sins committed. Divine justice insists that the\nunderstanding of those miserable wretches be fixed continually on the\nsins of which they were guilty, and moreover, as saint Augustine points\nout, God will impart to them His own knowledge of sin, so that sin will\nappear to them in all its hideous malice as it appears to the eyes of\nGod Himself. They will behold their sins in all their foulness and\nrepent but it will be too late and then they will bewail the good\noccasions which they neglected. This is the last and deepest and most\ncruel sting of the worm of conscience. The conscience will say: You had\ntime and opportunity to repent and would not. You were brought up\nreligiously by your parents. You had the sacraments and grace and\nindulgences of the church to aid you. You had the minister of God to\npreach to you, to call you back when you had strayed, to forgive you\nyour sins, no matter how many, how abominable, if only you had\nconfessed and repented. No. You would not. You flouted the ministers\nof holy religion, you turned your back on the confessional, you\nwallowed deeper and deeper in the mire of sin. God appealed to you,\nthreatened you, entreated you to return to Him. O, what shame, what\nmisery! The Ruler of the universe entreated you, a creature of clay, to\nlove Him Who made you and to keep His law. No. You would not. And now,\nthough you were to flood all hell with your tears if you could still\nweep, all that sea of repentance would not gain for you what a single\ntear of true repentance shed during your mortal life would have gained\nfor you. You implore now a moment of earthly life wherein to repent: in\nvain. That time is gone: gone for ever.\n\n--Such is the threefold sting of conscience, the viper which gnaws the\nvery heart's core of the wretches in hell, so that filled with hellish\nfury they curse themselves for their folly and curse the evil\ncompanions who have brought them to such ruin and curse the devils who\ntempted them in life and now mock them in eternity and even revile and\ncurse the Supreme Being Whose goodness and patience they scorned and\nslighted but Whose justice and power they cannot evade.\n\n--The next spiritual pain to which the damned are subjected is the\npain of extension. Man, in this earthly life, though he be capable of\nmany evils, is not capable of them all at once, inasmuch as one evil\ncorrects and counteracts another just as one poison frequently corrects\nanother. In hell, on the contrary, one torment, instead of\ncounteracting another, lends it still greater force: and, moreover, as\nthe internal faculties are more perfect than the external senses, so\nare they more capable of suffering. Just as every sense is afflicted\nwith a fitting torment, so is every spiritual faculty; the fancy with\nhorrible images, the sensitive faculty with alternate longing and rage,\nthe mind and understanding with an interior darkness more terrible even\nthan the exterior darkness which reigns in that dreadful prison. The\nmalice, impotent though it be, which possesses these demon souls is an\nevil of boundless extension, of limitless duration, a frightful state\nof wickedness which we can scarcely realize unless we bear in mind the\nenormity of sin and the hatred God bears to it.\n\n--Opposed to this pain of extension and yet coexistent with it we have\nthe pain of intensity. Hell is the centre of evils and, as you know,\nthings are more intense at their centres than at their remotest points.\nThere are no contraries or admixtures of any kind to temper or soften\nin the least the pains of hell. Nay, things which are good in\nthemselves become evil in hell. Company, elsewhere a source of comfort\nto the afflicted, will be there a continual torment: knowledge, so much\nlonged for as the chief good of the intellect, will there be hated\nworse than ignorance: light, so much coveted by all creatures from the\nlord of creation down to the humblest plant in the forest, will be\nloathed intensely. In this life our sorrows are either not very long or\nnot very great because nature either overcomes them by habits or puts\nan end to them by sinking under their weight. But in hell the torments\ncannot be overcome by habit, for while they are of terrible intensity\nthey are at the same time of continual variety, each pain, so to speak,\ntaking fire from another and re-endowing that which has enkindled it\nwith a still fiercer flame. Nor can nature escape from these intense\nand various tortures by succumbing to them for the soul is sustained\nand maintained in evil so that its suffering may be the greater.\nBoundless extension of torment, incredible intensity of suffering,\nunceasing variety of torture--this is what the divine majesty, so\noutraged by sinners, demands; this is what the holiness of heaven,\nslighted and set aside for the lustful and low pleasures of the corrupt\nflesh, requires; this is what the blood of the innocent Lamb of God,\nshed for the redemption of sinners, trampled upon by the vilest of the\nvile, insists upon.\n\n--Last and crowning torture of all the tortures of that awful place is\nthe eternity of hell. Eternity! O, dread and dire word. Eternity! What\nmind of man can understand it? And remember, it is an eternity of pain.\nEven though the pains of hell were not so terrible as they are, yet\nthey would become infinite, as they are destined to last for ever. But\nwhile they are everlasting they are at the same time, as you know,\nintolerably intense, unbearably extensive. To bear even the sting of an\ninsect for all eternity would be a dreadful torment. What must it be,\nthen, to bear the manifold tortures of hell for ever? For ever! For all\neternity! Not for a year or for an age but for ever. Try to imagine the\nawful meaning of this. You have often seen the sand on the seashore.\nHow fine are its tiny grains! And how many of those tiny little grains\ngo to make up the small handful which a child grasps in its play. Now\nimagine a mountain of that sand, a million miles high, reaching from\nthe earth to the farthest heavens, and a million miles broad,\nextending to remotest space, and a million miles in thickness;\nand imagine such an enormous mass of countless particles of sand\nmultiplied as often as there are leaves in the forest, drops of water\nin the mighty ocean, feathers on birds, scales on fish, hairs on\nanimals, atoms in the vast expanse of the air: and imagine that at the\nend of every million years a little bird came to that mountain and\ncarried away in its beak a tiny grain of that sand. How many millions\nupon millions of centuries would pass before that bird had carried away\neven a square foot of that mountain, how many eons upon eons of ages\nbefore it had carried away all? Yet at the end of that immense stretch\nof time not even one instant of eternity could be said to have ended.\nAt the end of all those billions and trillions of years eternity would\nhave scarcely begun. And if that mountain rose again after it had been\nall carried away, and if the bird came again and carried it all away\nagain grain by grain, and if it so rose and sank as many times as there\nare stars in the sky, atoms in the air, drops of water in the sea,\nleaves on the trees, feathers upon birds, scales upon fish, hairs upon\nanimals, at the end of all those innumerable risings and sinkings of\nthat immeasurably vast mountain not one single instant of eternity\ncould be said to have ended; even then, at the end of such a period,\nafter that eon of time the mere thought of which makes our very brain\nreel dizzily, eternity would scarcely have begun.\n\n--A holy saint (one of our own fathers I believe it was) was once\nvouchsafed a vision of hell. It seemed to him that he stood in the\nmidst of a great hall, dark and silent save for the ticking of a great\nclock. The ticking went on unceasingly; and it seemed to this saint\nthat the sound of the ticking was the ceaseless repetition of the\nwords--ever, never; ever, never. Ever to be in hell, never to be in heaven;\never to be shut off from the presence of God, never to enjoy the\nbeatific vision; ever to be eaten with flames, gnawed by vermin, goaded\nwith burning spikes, never to be free from those pains; ever to have\nthe conscience upbraid one, the memory enrage, the mind filled with\ndarkness and despair, never to escape; ever to curse and revile the\nfoul demons who gloat fiendishly over the misery of their dupes, never\nto behold the shining raiment of the blessed spirits; ever to cry out\nof the abyss of fire to God for an instant, a single instant, of\nrespite from such awful agony, never to receive, even for an instant,\nGod's pardon; ever to suffer, never to enjoy; ever to be damned, never\nto be saved; ever, never; ever, never. O, what a dreadful punishment!\nAn eternity of endless agony, of endless bodily and spiritual torment,\nwithout one ray of hope, without one moment of cessation, of agony\nlimitless in intensity, of torment infinitely varied, of torture that\nsustains eternally that which it eternally devours, of anguish that\neverlastingly preys upon the spirit while it racks the flesh, an\neternity, every instant of which is itself an eternity of woe. Such is\nthe terrible punishment decreed for those who die in mortal sin by an\nalmighty and a just God.\n\n--Yes, a just God! Men, reasoning always as men, are astonished that\nGod should mete out an everlasting and infinite punishment in the fires\nof hell for a single grievous sin. They reason thus because, blinded by\nthe gross illusion of the flesh and the darkness of human\nunderstanding, they are unable to comprehend the hideous malice of\nmortal sin. They reason thus because they are unable to comprehend that\neven venial sin is of such a foul and hideous nature that even if the\nomnipotent Creator could end all the evil and misery in the world, the\nwars, the diseases, the robberies, the crimes, the deaths, the murders,\non condition that he allowed a single venial sin to pass unpunished, a\nsingle venial sin, a lie, an angry look, a moment of wilful sloth, He,\nthe great omnipotent God could not do so because sin, be it in thought\nor deed, is a transgression of His law and God would not be God if He\ndid not punish the transgressor.\n\n--A sin, an instant of rebellious pride of the intellect, made Lucifer\nand a third part of the cohort of angels fall from their glory. A sin,\nan instant of folly and weakness, drove Adam and Eve out of Eden and\nbrought death and suffering into the world. To retrieve the\nconsequences of that sin the Only Begotten Son of God came down to\nearth, lived and suffered and died a most painful death, hanging for\nthree hours on the cross.\n\n--O, my dear little brethren in Christ Jesus, will we then offend that\ngood Redeemer and provoke His anger? Will we trample again upon that\ntorn and mangled corpse? Will we spit upon that face so full of sorrow\nand love? Will we too, like the cruel jews and the brutal soldiers,\nmock that gentle and compassionate Saviour Who trod alone for our sake\nthe awful wine-press of sorrow? Every word of sin is a wound in His\ntender side. Every sinful act is a thorn piercing His head. Every\nimpure thought, deliberately yielded to, is a keen lance transfixing that\nsacred and loving heart. No, no. It is impossible for any human being to\ndo that which offends so deeply the divine majesty, that which is punished\nby an eternity of agony, that which crucifies again the Son of God and\nmakes a mockery of Him.\n\n--I pray to God that my poor words may have availed today to confirm\nin holiness those who are in a state of grace, to strengthen the\nwavering, to lead back to the state of grace the poor soul that has\nstrayed if any such be among you. I pray to God, and do you pray with\nme, that we may repent of our sins. I will ask you now, all of you, to\nrepeat after me the act of contrition, kneeling here in this humble\nchapel in the presence of God. He is there in the tabernacle burning\nwith love for mankind, ready to comfort the afflicted. Be not afraid.\nNo matter how many or how foul the sins if you only repent of them they\nwill be forgiven you. Let no worldly shame hold you back. God is still\nthe merciful Lord who wishes not the eternal death of the sinner but\nrather that he be converted and live.\n\n--He calls you to Him. You are His. He made you out of nothing. He\nloved you as only a God can love. His arms are open to receive you even\nthough you have sinned against Him. Come to Him, poor sinner, poor vain\nand erring sinner. Now is the acceptable time. Now is the hour.\n\nThe priest rose and, turning towards the altar, knelt upon the step\nbefore the tabernacle in the fallen gloom. He waited till all in the\nchapel had knelt and every least noise was still. Then, raising his\nhead, he repeated the act of contrition, phrase by phrase, with\nfervour. The boys answered him phrase by phrase. Stephen, his tongue\ncleaving to his palate, bowed his head, praying with his heart.\n\n\n  --O my God!--\n  --O my God!--\n  --I am heartily sorry--\n  --I am heartily sorry--\n  --for having offended Thee--\n  --for having offended Thee--\n  --and I detest my sins--\n  --and I detest my sins--\n  --above every other evil--\n  --above every other evil--\n  --because they displease Thee, my God--\n  --because they displease Thee, my God--\n  --Who art so deserving--\n  --Who art so deserving--\n  --of all my love--\n  --of all my love--\n  --and I firmly purpose--\n  --and I firmly purpose--\n  --by Thy holy grace--\n  --by Thy holy grace--\n  --never more to offend Thee--\n  --never more to offend Thee--\n  --and to amend my life--\n  --and to amend my life--\n\n\n* * * * *\n\n\nHe went up to his room after dinner in order to be alone with his soul,\nand at every step his soul seemed to sigh; at every step his soul\nmounted with his feet, sighing in the ascent, through a region of\nviscid gloom.\n\nHe halted on the landing before the door and then, grasping the\nporcelain knob, opened the door quickly. He waited in fear, his soul\npining within him, praying silently that death might not touch his brow\nas he passed over the threshold, that the fiends that inhabit darkness\nmight not be given power over him. He waited still at the threshold as\nat the entrance to some dark cave. Faces were there; eyes: they waited\nand watched.\n\n--We knew perfectly well of course that though it was bound to come to\nthe light he would find considerable difficulty in endeavouring to try\nto induce himself to try to endeavour to ascertain the spiritual\nplenipotentiary and so we knew of course perfectly well--\n\nMurmuring faces waited and watched; murmurous voices filled the dark\nshell of the cave. He feared intensely in spirit and in flesh but,\nraising his head bravely, he strode into the room firmly. A doorway, a\nroom, the same room, same window. He told himself calmly that those\nwords had absolutely no sense which had seemed to rise murmurously from\nthe dark. He told himself that it was simply his room with the door\nopen.\n\nHe closed the door and, walking swiftly to the bed, knelt beside it and\ncovered his face with his hands. His hands were cold and damp and his\nlimbs ached with chill. Bodily unrest and chill and weariness beset\nhim, routing his thoughts. Why was he kneeling there like a child\nsaying his evening prayers? To be alone with his soul, to examine his\nconscience, to meet his sins face to face, to recall their times and\nmanners and circumstances, to weep over them. He could not weep. He\ncould not summon them to his memory. He felt only an ache of soul and\nbody, his whole being, memory, will, understanding, flesh, benumbed\nand weary.\n\nThat was the work of devils, to scatter his thoughts and over-cloud his\nconscience, assailing him at the gates of the cowardly and\nsin-corrupted flesh: and, praying God timidly to forgive him his\nweakness, he crawled up on to the bed and, wrapping the blankets\nclosely about him, covered his face again with his hands. He had\nsinned. He had sinned so deeply against heaven and before God that he\nwas not worthy to be called God's child.\n\nCould it be that he, Stephen Dedalus, had done those things? His\nconscience sighed in answer. Yes, he had done them, secretly, filthily,\ntime after time, and, hardened in sinful impenitence, he had dared to\nwear the mask of holiness before the tabernacle itself while his soul\nwithin was a living mass of corruption. How came it that God had not\nstruck him dead? The leprous company of his sins closed about him,\nbreathing upon him, bending over him from all sides. He strove to\nforget them in an act of prayer, huddling his limbs closer together and\nbinding down his eyelids: but the senses of his soul would not be bound\nand, though his eyes were shut fast, he saw the places where he had\nsinned and, though his ears were tightly covered, he heard. He desired\nwith all his will not to hear or see. He desired till his frame shook\nunder the strain of his desire and until the senses of his soul closed.\nThey closed for an instant and then opened. He saw.\n\nA field of stiff weeds and thistles and tufted nettle-bunches. Thick\namong the tufts of rank stiff growth lay battered canisters and clots\nand coils of solid excrement. A faint marshlight struggling upwards\nfrom all the ordure through the bristling grey-green weeds. An evil\nsmell, faint and foul as the light, curled upwards sluggishly out of\nthe canisters and from the stale crusted dung.\n\nCreatures were in the field: one, three, six: creatures were moving in\nthe field, hither and thither. Goatish creatures with human faces,\nhornybrowed, lightly bearded and grey as india-rubber. The malice of\nevil glittered in their hard eyes, as they moved hither and thither,\ntrailing their long tails behind them. A rictus of cruel malignity lit\nup greyly their old bony faces. One was clasping about his ribs a torn\nflannel waistcoat, another complained monotonously as his beard stuck\nin the tufted weeds. Soft language issued from their spittleless lips\nas they swished in slow circles round and round the field, winding\nhither and thither through the weeds, dragging their long tails amid\nthe rattling canisters. They moved in slow circles, circling closer and\ncloser to enclose, to enclose, soft language issuing from their lips,\ntheir long swishing tails besmeared with stale shite, thrusting upwards\ntheir terrific faces...\n\nHelp!\n\nHe flung the blankets from him madly to free his face and neck. That\nwas his hell. God had allowed him to see the hell reserved for his\nsins: stinking, bestial, malignant, a hell of lecherous goatish fiends.\nFor him! For him!\n\nHe sprang from the bed, the reeking odour pouring down his throat,\nclogging and revolting his entrails. Air! The air of heaven! He\nstumbled towards the window, groaning and almost fainting with\nsickness. At the washstand a convulsion seized him within; and,\nclasping his cold forehead wildly, he vomited profusely in agony.\n\nWhen the fit had spent itself he walked weakly to the window and,\nlifting the sash, sat in a corner of the embrasure and leaned his elbow\nupon the sill. The rain had drawn off; and amid the moving vapours from\npoint to point of light the city was spinning about herself a soft\ncocoon of yellowish haze. Heaven was still and faintly luminous and the\nair sweet to breathe, as in a thicket drenched with showers; and amid\npeace and shimmering lights and quiet fragrance he made a covenant with\nhis heart.\n\nHe prayed:\n\n\n--HE ONCE HAD MEANT TO COME ON EARTH IN HEAVENLY GLORY BUT WE SINNED; AND\nTHEN HE COULD NOT SAFELY VISIT US BUT WITH A SHROUDED MAJESTY AND A\nBEDIMMED RADIANCE FOR HE WAS GOD. SO HE CAME HIMSELF IN WEAKNESS NOT IN\nPOWER AND HE SENT THEE, A CREATURE IN HIS STEAD, WITH A CREATURE'S\nCOMELINESS AND LUSTRE SUITED TO OUR STATE. AND NOW THY VERY FACE AND\nFORM, DEAR MOTHER SPEAK TO US OF THE ETERNAL NOT LIKE EARTHLY BEAUTY,\nDANGEROUS TO LOOK UPON, BUT LIKE THE MORNING STAR WHICH IS THY EMBLEM,\nBRIGHT AND MUSICAL, BREATHING PURITY, TELLING OF HEAVEN AND INFUSING\nPEACE. O HARBINGER OF DAY! O LIGHT OF THE PILGRIM! LEAD US STILL AS\nTHOU HAST LED. IN THE DARK NIGHT, ACROSS THE BLEAK WILDERNESS GUIDE US\nON TO OUR LORD JESUS, GUIDE US HOME.\n\n\nHis eyes were dimmed with tears and, looking humbly up to heaven, he\nwept for the innocence he had lost.\n\nWhen evening had fallen he left the house, and the first touch of the\ndamp dark air and the noise of the door as it closed behind him made\nache again his conscience, lulled by prayer and tears. Confess!\nConfess! It was not enough to lull the conscience with a tear and a\nprayer. He had to kneel before the minister of the Holy Ghost and tell\nover his hidden sins truly and repentantly. Before he heard again the\nfootboard of the housedoor trail over the threshold as it opened to let\nhim in, before he saw again the table in the kitchen set for supper he\nwould have knelt and confessed. It was quite simple.\n\nThe ache of conscience ceased and he walked onward swiftly through the\ndark streets. There were so many flagstones on the footpath of that\nstreet and so many streets in that city and so many cities in the\nworld. Yet eternity had no end. He was in mortal sin. Even once was a\nmortal sin. It could happen in an instant. But how so quickly? By\nseeing or by thinking of seeing. The eyes see the thing, without having\nwished first to see. Then in an instant it happens. But does that part\nof the body understand or what? The serpent, the most subtle beast of\nthe field. It must understand when it desires in one instant and then\nprolongs its own desire instant after instant, sinfully. It feels and\nunderstands and desires. What a horrible thing! Who made it to be like\nthat, a bestial part of the body able to understand bestially and\ndesire bestially? Was that then he or an inhuman thing moved by a lower\nsoul? His soul sickened at the thought of a torpid snaky life feeding\nitself out of the tender marrow of his life and fattening upon the\nslime of lust. O why was that so? O why?\n\nHe cowered in the shadow of the thought, abasing himself in the awe of\nGod Who had made all things and all men. Madness. Who could think such\na thought? And, cowering in darkness and abject, he prayed mutely to\nhis guardian angel to drive away with his sword the demon that was\nwhispering to his brain.\n\nThe whisper ceased and he knew then clearly that his own soul had\nsinned in thought and word and deed wilfully through his own body.\nConfess! He had to confess every sin. How could he utter in words to\nthe priest what he had done? Must, must. Or how could he explain\nwithout dying of shame? Or how could he have done such things without\nshame? A madman! Confess! O he would indeed to be free and sinless\nagain! Perhaps the priest would know. O dear God!\n\nHe walked on and on through ill-lit streets, fearing to stand still for\na moment lest it might seem that he held back from what awaited him,\nfearing to arrive at that towards which he still turned with longing.\nHow beautiful must be a soul in the state of grace when God looked upon\nit with love!\n\nFrowsy girls sat along the curbstones before their baskets. Their dank\nhair hung trailed over their brows. They were not beautiful to see as\nthey crouched in the mire. But their souls were seen by God; and if\ntheir souls were in a state of grace they were radiant to see: and God\nloved them, seeing them.\n\nA wasting breath of humiliation blew bleakly over his soul to think of\nhow he had fallen, to feel that those souls were dearer to God than\nhis. The wind blew over him and passed on to the myriads and myriads of\nother souls on whom God's favour shone now more and now less, stars now\nbrighter and now dimmer sustained and failing. And the glimmering souls\npassed away, sustained and failing, merged in a moving breath.\nOne soul was lost; a tiny soul: his. It flickered once and went\nout, forgotten, lost. The end: black, cold, void waste.\n\nConsciousness of place came ebbing back to him slowly over a vast tract\nof time unlit, unfelt, unlived. The squalid scene composed itself\naround him; the common accents, the burning gas-jets in the shops,\nodours of fish and spirits and wet sawdust, moving men and women. An\nold woman was about to cross the street, an oilcan in her hand. He bent\ndown and asked her was there a chapel near.\n\n--A chapel, sir? Yes, sir. Church Street chapel.\n\n--Church?\n\nShe shifted the can to her other hand and directed him; and, as she\nheld out her reeking withered right hand under its fringe of shawl, he\nbent lower towards her, saddened and soothed by her voice.\n\n--Thank you.\n\n--You are quite welcome, sir.\n\nThe candles on the high altar had been extinguished but the fragrance\nof incense still floated down the dim nave. Bearded workmen with pious\nfaces were guiding a canopy out through a side door, the sacristan\naiding them with quiet gestures and words. A few of the faithful still\nlingered praying before one of the side-altars or kneeling in the\nbenches near the confessionals. He approached timidly and knelt at the\nlast bench in the body, thankful for the peace and silence and fragrant\nshadow of the church. The board on which he knelt was narrow and worn\nand those who knelt near him were humble followers of Jesus. Jesus too\nhad been born in poverty and had worked in the shop of a carpenter,\ncutting boards and planing them, and had first spoken of the kingdom of\nGod to poor fishermen, teaching all men to be meek and humble of heart.\n\nHe bowed his head upon his hands, bidding his heart be meek and humble\nthat he might be like those who knelt beside him and his prayer as\nacceptable as theirs. He prayed beside them but it was hard. His soul\nwas foul with sin and he dared not ask forgiveness with the simple\ntrust of those whom Jesus, in the mysterious ways of God, had called\nfirst to His side, the carpenters, the fishermen, poor and simple\npeople following a lowly trade, handling and shaping the wood of trees,\nmending their nets with patience.\n\nA tall figure came down the aisle and the penitents stirred; and at the\nlast moment, glancing up swiftly, he saw a long grey beard and the\nbrown habit of a capuchin. The priest entered the box and was hidden.\nTwo penitents rose and entered the confessional at either side. The\nwooden slide was drawn back and the faint murmur of a voice troubled\nthe silence.\n\nHis blood began to murmur in his veins, murmuring like a sinful city\nsummoned from its sleep to hear its doom. Little flakes of fire fell\nand powdery ashes fell softly, alighting on the houses of men. They\nstirred, waking from sleep, troubled by the heated air.\n\nThe slide was shot back. The penitent emerged from the side of the box.\nThe farther side was drawn. A woman entered quietly and deftly where\nthe first penitent had knelt. The faint murmur began again.\n\nHe could still leave the chapel. He could stand up, put one foot before\nthe other and walk out softly and then run, run, run swiftly through\nthe dark streets. He could still escape from the shame. Had it been any\nterrible crime but that one sin! Had it been murder! Little fiery\nflakes fell and touched him at all points, shameful thoughts, shameful\nwords, shameful acts. Shame covered him wholly like fine glowing ashes\nfalling continually. To say it in words! His soul, stifling and\nhelpless, would cease to be.\n\nThe slide was shot back. A penitent emerged from the farther side of\nthe box. The near slide was drawn. A penitent entered where the other\npenitent had come out. A soft whispering noise floated in vaporous\ncloudlets out of the box. It was the woman: soft whispering cloudlets,\nsoft whispering vapour, whispering and vanishing.\n\nHe beat his breast with his fist humbly, secretly under cover of the\nwooden armrest. He would be at one with others and with God. He would\nlove his neighbour. He would love God who had made and loved him. He\nwould kneel and pray with others and be happy. God would look down on\nhim and on them and would love them all.\n\nIt was easy to be good. God's yoke was sweet and light. It was better\nnever to have sinned, to have remained always a child, for God loved\nlittle children and suffered them to come to Him. It was a terrible and\na sad thing to sin. But God was merciful to poor sinners who were truly\nsorry. How true that was! That was indeed goodness.\n\nThe slide was shot to suddenly. The penitent came out. He was next. He\nstood up in terror and walked blindly into the box.\n\nAt last it had come. He knelt in the silent gloom and raised his eyes\nto the white crucifix suspended above him. God could see that he was\nsorry. He would tell all his sins. His confession would be long, long.\nEverybody in the chapel would know then what a sinner he had been. Let\nthem know. It was true. But God had promised to forgive him if he was\nsorry. He was sorry. He clasped his hands and raised them towards the\nwhite form, praying with his darkened eyes, praying with all his\ntrembling body, swaying his head to and fro like a lost creature,\npraying with whimpering lips.\n\n--Sorry! Sorry! O sorry!\n\nThe slide clicked back and his heart bounded in his breast. The face of\nan old priest was at the grating, averted from him, leaning upon a\nhand. He made the sign of the cross and prayed of the priest to bless\nhim for he had sinned. Then, bowing his head, he repeated the CONFITEOR\nin fright. At the words MY MOST GRIEVOUS FAULT he ceased, breathless.\n\n--How long is it since your last confession, my child?\n\n--A long time, father.\n\n--A month, my child?\n\n--Longer, father.\n\n--Three months, my child?\n\n--Longer, father.\n\n--Six months?\n\n--Eight months, father.\n\nHe had begun. The priest asked:\n\n--And what do you remember since that time?\n\nHe began to confess his sins: masses missed, prayers not said, lies.\n\n--Anything else, my child?\n\nSins of anger, envy of others, gluttony, vanity, disobedience.\n\n--Anything else, my child?\n\nThere was no help. He murmured:\n\n--I... committed sins of impurity, father.\n\nThe priest did not turn his head.\n\n--With yourself, my child?\n\n--And... with others.\n\n--With women, my child?\n\n--Yes, father.\n\n--Were they married women, my child?\n\nHe did not know. His sins trickled from his lips, one by one, trickled\nin shameful drops from his soul, festering and oozing like a sore, a\nsqualid stream of vice. The last sins oozed forth, sluggish, filthy.\nThere was no more to tell. He bowed his head, overcome.\n\nThe Priest was silent. Then he asked:\n\n--How old are you, my child?\n\n--Sixteen, father.\n\nThe priest passed his hand several times over his face. Then, resting\nhis forehead against his hand, he leaned towards the grating and, with\neyes still averted, spoke slowly. His voice was weary and old.\n\n--You are very young, my child, he said, and let me implore of you to\ngive up that sin. It is a terrible sin. It kills the body and it kills\nthe soul. It is the cause of many crimes and misfortunes. Give it up,\nmy child, for God's sake. It is dishonourable and unmanly. You cannot\nknow where that wretched habit will lead you or where it will come\nagainst you. As long as you commit that sin, my poor child, you will\nnever be worth one farthing to God. Pray to our mother Mary to help\nyou. She will help you, my child. Pray to Our Blessed Lady when that\nsin comes into your mind. I am sure you will do that, will you not? You\nrepent of all those sins. I am sure you do. And you will promise God\nnow that by His holy grace you will never offend Him any more by that\nwicked sin. You will make that solemn promise to God, will you not?\n\n--Yes, father.\n\nThe old and weary voice fell like sweet rain upon his quaking parching\nheart. How sweet and sad!\n\n--Do so my poor child. The devil has led you astray. Drive him back to\nhell when he tempts you to dishonour your body in that way--the foul\nspirit who hates our Lord. Promise God now that you will give up that\nsin, that wretched wretched sin.\n\nBlinded by his tears and by the light of God's mercifulness he bent his\nhead and heard the grave words of absolution spoken and saw the\npriest's hand raised above him in token of forgiveness.\n\n--God bless you, my child. Pray for me.\n\nHe knelt to say his penance, praying in a corner of the dark nave; and\nhis prayers ascended to heaven from his purified heart like perfume\nstreaming upwards from a heart of white rose.\n\nThe muddy streets were gay. He strode homeward, conscious of an\ninvisible grace pervading and making light his limbs. In spite of all\nhe had done it. He had confessed and God had pardoned him. His soul was\nmade fair and holy once more, holy and happy.\n\nIt would be beautiful to die if God so willed. It was beautiful to live\nin grace a life of peace and virtue and forbearance with others.\n\nHe sat by the fire in the kitchen, not daring to speak for happiness.\nTill that moment he had not known how beautiful and peaceful life could\nbe. The green square of paper pinned round the lamp cast down a tender\nshade. On the dresser was a plate of sausages and white pudding and on\nthe shelf there were eggs. They would be for the breakfast in the\nmorning after the communion in the college chapel. White pudding and\neggs and sausages and cups of tea. How simple and beautiful was life\nafter all! And life lay all before him.\n\nIn a dream he fell asleep. In a dream he rose and saw that it was\nmorning. In a waking dream he went through the quiet morning towards\nthe college.\n\nThe boys were all there, kneeling in their places. He knelt among them,\nhappy and shy. The altar was heaped with fragrant masses of white\nflowers; and in the morning light the pale flames of the candles among\nthe white flowers were clear and silent as his own soul.\n\nHe knelt before the altar with his classmates, holding the altar cloth\nwith them over a living rail of hands. His hands were trembling and his\nsoul trembled as he heard the priest pass with the ciborium from\ncommunicant to communicant.\n\n--CORPUS DOMINI NOSTRI.\n\nCould it be? He knelt there sinless and timid; and he would hold upon\nhis tongue the host and God would enter his purified body.\n\n--IN VITAM ETERNAM. AMEN.\n\nAnother life! A life of grace and virtue and happiness! It was true. It\nwas not a dream from which he would wake. The past was past.\n\n--CORPUS DOMINI NOSTRI.\n\nThe ciborium had come to him.\n\n\n\n\nChapter 4\n\n\nSunday was dedicated to the mystery of the Holy Trinity, Monday to the\nHoly Ghost, Tuesday to the Guardian Angels, Wednesday to saint Joseph,\nThursday to the Most Blessed Sacrament of the Altar, Friday to the\nSuffering Jesus, Saturday to the Blessed Virgin Mary.\n\nEvery morning he hallowed himself anew in the presence of some holy\nimage or mystery. His day began with an heroic offering of its every\nmoment of thought or action for the intentions of the sovereign pontiff\nand with an early mass. The raw morning air whetted his resolute piety;\nand often as he knelt among the few worshippers at the side-altar,\nfollowing with his interleaved prayer-book the murmur of the priest, he\nglanced up for an instant towards the vested figure standing in the\ngloom between the two candles, which were the old and the new\ntestaments, and imagined that he was kneeling at mass in the catacombs.\n\nHis daily life was laid out in devotional areas. By means of\nejaculations and prayers he stored up ungrudgingly for the souls in\npurgatory centuries of days and quarantines and years; yet the\nspiritual triumph which he felt in achieving with ease so many fabulous\nages of canonical penances did not wholly reward his zeal of prayer,\nsince he could never know how much temporal punishment he had remitted\nby way of suffrage for the agonizing souls; and fearful lest in the\nmidst of the purgatorial fire, which differed from the infernal only in\nthat it was not everlasting, his penance might avail no more than a\ndrop of moisture, he drove his soul daily through an increasing circle\nof works of supererogation.\n\nEvery part of his day, divided by what he regarded now as the duties of\nhis station in life, circled about its own centre of spiritual energy.\nHis life seemed to have drawn near to eternity; every thought, word,\nand deed, every instance of consciousness could be made to revibrate\nradiantly in heaven; and at times his sense of such immediate\nrepercussion was so lively that he seemed to feel his soul in devotion\npressing like fingers the keyboard of a great cash register and to see\nthe amount of his purchase start forth immediately in heaven, not as a\nnumber but as a frail column of incense or as a slender flower.\n\nThe rosaries, too, which he said constantly--for he carried his beads\nloose in his trousers' pockets that he might tell them as he walked the\nstreets--transformed themselves into coronals of flowers of such vague\nunearthly texture that they seemed to him as hueless and odourless as\nthey were nameless. He offered up each of his three daily chaplets that\nhis soul might grow strong in each of the three theological virtues, in\nfaith in the Father Who had created him, in hope in the Son Who had\nredeemed him and in love of the Holy Ghost Who had sanctified him; and\nthis thrice triple prayer he offered to the Three Persons through Mary\nin the name of her joyful and sorrowful and glorious mysteries.\n\nOn each of the seven days of the week he further prayed that one of the\nseven gifts of the Holy Ghost might descend upon his soul and drive out\nof it day by day the seven deadly sins which had defiled it in the\npast; and he prayed for each gift on its appointed day, confident that\nit would descend upon him, though it seemed strange to him at times\nthat wisdom and understanding and knowledge were so distinct in their\nnature that each should be prayed for apart from the others. Yet he\nbelieved that at some future stage of his spiritual progress this\ndifficulty would be removed when his sinful soul had been raised up\nfrom its weakness and enlightened by the Third Person of the Most\nBlessed Trinity. He believed this all the more, and with trepidation,\nbecause of the divine gloom and silence wherein dwelt the unseen\nParaclete, Whose symbols were a dove and a mighty wind, to sin against\nWhom was a sin beyond forgiveness, the eternal mysterious secret Being\nto Whom, as God, the priests offered up mass once a year, robed in the\nscarlet of the tongues of fire.\n\nThe imagery through which the nature and kinship of the Three Persons\nof the Trinity were darkly shadowed forth in the books of devotion\nwhich he read--the Father contemplating from all eternity as in a\nmirror His Divine Perfections and thereby begetting eternally the\nEternal Son and the Holy Spirit proceeding out of Father and Son from\nall eternity--were easier of acceptance by his mind by reason of their\naugust incomprehensibility than was the simple fact that God had loved\nhis soul from all eternity, for ages before he had been born into the\nworld, for ages before the world itself had existed.\n\nHe had heard the names of the passions of love and hate pronounced\nsolemnly on the stage and in the pulpit, had found them set forth\nsolemnly in books and had wondered why his soul was unable to harbour\nthem for any time or to force his lips to utter their names with\nconviction. A brief anger had often invested him but he had never been\nable to make it an abiding passion and had always felt himself passing\nout of it as if his very body were being divested with ease of some\nouter skin or peel. He had felt a subtle, dark, and murmurous presence\npenetrate his being and fire him with a brief iniquitous lust: it, too,\nhad slipped beyond his grasp leaving his mind lucid and indifferent.\nThis, it seemed, was the only love and that the only hate his soul\nwould harbour.\n\nBut he could no longer disbelieve in the reality of love, since God\nHimself had loved his individual soul with divine love from all\neternity. Gradually, as his soul was enriched with spiritual knowledge,\nhe saw the whole world forming one vast symmetrical expression of God's\npower and love. Life became a divine gift for every moment and\nsensation of which, were it even the sight of a single leaf hanging on\nthe twig of a tree, his soul should praise and thank the Giver. The\nworld for all its solid substance and complexity no longer existed for\nhis soul save as a theorem of divine power and love and universality.\nSo entire and unquestionable was this sense of the divine meaning in\nall nature granted to his soul that he could scarcely understand why it\nwas in any way necessary that he should continue to live. Yet that was\npart of the divine purpose and he dared not question its use, he above\nall others who had sinned so deeply and so foully against the divine\npurpose. Meek and abased by this consciousness of the one eternal\nomnipresent perfect reality his soul took up again her burden of\npieties, masses and prayers and sacraments and mortifications, and only\nthen for the first time since he had brooded on the great mystery of\nlove did he feel within him a warm movement like that of some newly\nborn life or virtue of the soul itself. The attitude of rapture in\nsacred art, the raised and parted hands, the parted lips and eyes as of\none about to swoon, became for him an image of the soul in prayer,\nhumiliated and faint before her Creator.\n\nBut he had been forewarned of the dangers of spiritual exaltation and\ndid not allow himself to desist from even the least or lowliest\ndevotion, striving also by constant mortification to undo the sinful\npast rather than to achieve a saintliness fraught with peril. Each of\nhis senses was brought under a rigorous discipline. In order to mortify\nthe sense of sight he made it his rule to walk in the street with\ndowncast eyes, glancing neither to right nor left and never behind him.\nHis eyes shunned every encounter with the eyes of women. From time to\ntime also he balked them by a sudden effort of the will, as by lifting\nthem suddenly in the middle of an unfinished sentence and closing the\nbook. To mortify his hearing he exerted no control over his voice which\nwas then breaking, neither sang nor whistled, and made no attempt to\nflee from noises which caused him painful nervous irritation such as\nthe sharpening of knives on the knife board, the gathering of cinders\non the fire-shovel and the twigging of the carpet. To mortify his smell\nwas more difficult as he found in himself no instinctive repugnance to\nbad odours whether they were the odours of the outdoor world, such as\nthose of dung or tar, or the odours of his own person among which he\nhad made many curious comparisons and experiments. He found in the end\nthat the only odour against which his sense of smell revolted was a\ncertain stale fishy stink like that of long-standing urine; and\nwhenever it was possible he subjected himself to this unpleasant odour.\nTo mortify the taste he practised strict habits at table, observed to\nthe letter all the fasts of the church and sought by distraction to\ndivert his mind from the savours of different foods. But it was to the\nmortification of touch he brought the most assiduous ingenuity of\ninventiveness. He never consciously changed his position in bed, sat in\nthe most uncomfortable positions, suffered patiently every itch and\npain, kept away from the fire, remained on his knees all through the\nmass except at the gospels, left part of his neck and face undried so\nthat air might sting them and, whenever he was not saying his beads,\ncarried his arms stiffly at his sides like a runner and never in his\npockets or clasped behind him.\n\nHe had no temptations to sin mortally. It surprised him however to find\nthat at the end of his course of intricate piety and self-restraint he\nwas so easily at the mercy of childish and unworthy imperfections. His\nprayers and fasts availed him little for the suppression of anger at\nhearing his mother sneeze or at being disturbed in his devotions. It\nneeded an immense effort of his will to master the impulse which urged\nhim to give outlet to such irritation. Images of the outbursts of\ntrivial anger which he had often noted among his masters, their\ntwitching mouths, close-shut lips and flushed cheeks, recurred to his\nmemory, discouraging him, for all his practice of humility, by the\ncomparison. To merge his life in the common tide of other lives was\nharder for him than any fasting or prayer and it was his constant\nfailure to do this to his own satisfaction which caused in his soul at\nlast a sensation of spiritual dryness together with a growth of doubts\nand scruples. His soul traversed a period of desolation in which the\nsacraments themselves seemed to have turned into dried-up sources. His\nconfession became a channel for the escape of scrupulous and unrepented\nimperfections. His actual reception of the eucharist did not bring him\nthe same dissolving moments of virginal self-surrender as did those\nspiritual communions made by him sometimes at the close of some visit\nto the Blessed Sacrament. The book which he used for these visits was\nan old neglected book written by saint Alphonsus Liguori, with fading\ncharacters and sere foxpapered leaves. A faded world of fervent love\nand virginal responses seemed to be evoked for his soul by the reading\nof its pages in which the imagery of the canticles was interwoven with\nthe communicant's prayers. An inaudible voice seemed to caress the\nsoul, telling her names and glories, bidding her arise as for espousal\nand come away, bidding her look forth, a spouse, from Amana and from\nthe mountains of the leopards; and the soul seemed to answer with the\nsame inaudible voice, surrendering herself: INTER UBERA MEA\nCOMMORABITUR.\n\nThis idea of surrender had a perilous attraction for his mind now that\nhe felt his soul beset once again by the insistent voices of the flesh\nwhich began to murmur to him again during his prayers and meditations.\nIt gave him an intense sense of power to know that he could, by a\nsingle act of consent, in a moment of thought, undo all that he had\ndone. He seemed to feel a flood slowly advancing towards his naked feet\nand to be waiting for the first faint timid noiseless wavelet to touch\nhis fevered skin. Then, almost at the instant of that touch, almost at\nthe verge of sinful consent, he found himself standing far away from\nthe flood upon a dry shore, saved by a sudden act of the will or a\nsudden ejaculation; and, seeing the silver line of the flood far away\nand beginning again its slow advance towards his feet, a new thrill of\npower and satisfaction shook his soul to know that he had not yielded\nnor undone all.\n\nWhen he had eluded the flood of temptation many times in this way he\ngrew troubled and wondered whether the grace which he had refused to\nlose was not being filched from him little by little. The clear\ncertitude of his own immunity grew dim and to it succeeded a vague fear\nthat his soul had really fallen unawares. It was with difficulty that\nhe won back his old consciousness of his state of grace by telling\nhimself that he had prayed to God at every temptation and that the\ngrace which he had prayed for must have been given to him inasmuch as\nGod was obliged to give it. The very frequency and violence of\ntemptations showed him at last the truth of what he had heard about the\ntrials of the saints. Frequent and violent temptations were a proof\nthat the citadel of the soul had not fallen and that the devil raged to\nmake it fall.\n\nOften when he had confessed his doubts and scruples--some momentary\ninattention at prayer, a movement of trivial anger in his soul, or a\nsubtle wilfulness in speech or act--he was bidden by his confessor to\nname some sin of his past life before absolution was given him. He\nnamed it with humility and shame and repented of it once more. It\nhumiliated and shamed him to think that he would never be freed from it\nwholly, however holily he might live or whatever virtues or perfections\nhe might attain. A restless feeling of guilt would always be present\nwith him: he would confess and repent and be absolved, confess and\nrepent again and be absolved again, fruitlessly. Perhaps that first\nhasty confession wrung from him by the fear of hell had not been good?\nPerhaps, concerned only for his imminent doom, he had not had sincere\nsorrow for his sin? But the surest sign that his confession had been\ngood and that he had had sincere sorrow for his sin was, he knew, the\namendment of his life.\n\n--I have amended my life, have I not? he asked himself.\n\n\n* * * * *\n\n\nThe director stood in the embrasure of the window, his back to the\nlight, leaning an elbow on the brown crossblind, and, as he spoke and\nsmiled, slowly dangling and looping the cord of the other blind,\nStephen stood before him, following for a moment with his eyes the\nwaning of the long summer daylight above the roofs or the slow deft\nmovements of the priestly fingers. The priest's face was in total\nshadow, but the waning daylight from behind him touched the deeply\ngrooved temples and the curves of the skull.\n\nStephen followed also with his ears the accents and intervals of the\npriest's voice as he spoke gravely and cordially of indifferent themes,\nthe vacation which had just ended, the colleges of the order abroad,\nthe transference of masters. The grave and cordial voice went on easily\nwith its tale and in the pauses Stephen felt bound to set it on again\nwith respectful questions. He knew that the tale was a prelude and his\nmind waited for the sequel. Ever since the message of summons had come\nfor him from the director his mind had struggled to find the meaning of\nthe message; and, during the long restless time he had sat in the\ncollege parlour waiting for the director to come in, his eyes had\nwandered from one sober picture to another around the walls and his\nmind wandered from one guess to another until the meaning of the\nsummons had almost become clear. Then, just as he was wishing that some\nunforeseen cause might prevent the director from coming, he had heard\nthe handle of the door turning and the swish of a soutane.\n\nThe director had begun to speak of the dominican and franciscan orders\nand of the friendship between saint Thomas and saint Bonaventure. The\ncapuchin dress, he thought, was rather too...\n\nStephen's face gave back the priest's indulgent smile and, not being\nanxious to give an opinion, he made a slight dubitative movement with\nhis lips.\n\n--I believe, continued the director, that there is some talk now among\nthe capuchins themselves of doing away with it and following the\nexample of the other franciscans.\n\n--I suppose they would retain it in the cloisters? said Stephen.\n\n--O certainly, said the director. For the cloister it is all right but\nfor the street I really think it would be better to do away with it,\ndon't you?\n\n--It must be troublesome, I imagine.\n\n--Of course it is, of course. Just imagine when I was in Belgium I\nused to see them out cycling in all kinds of weather with this thing up\nabout their knees! It was really ridiculous. LES JUPES, they call them\nin Belgium.\n\nThe vowel was so modified as to be indistinct.\n\n--What do they call them?\n\n--LES JUPES.\n\n--O!\n\nStephen smiled again in answer to the smile which he could not see on\nthe priest's shadowed face, its image or spectre only passing rapidly\nacross his mind as the low discreet accent fell upon his ear. He gazed\ncalmly before him at the waning sky, glad of the cool of the evening\nand of the faint yellow glow which hid the tiny flame kindling upon his\ncheek.\n\nThe names of articles of dress worn by women or of certain soft and\ndelicate stuffs used in their making brought always to his mind a\ndelicate and sinful perfume. As a boy he had imagined the reins by\nwhich horses are driven as slender silken bands and it shocked him to\nfeel at Stradbrooke the greasy leather of harness. It had shocked him,\ntoo, when he had felt for the first time beneath his tremulous fingers\nthe brittle texture of a woman's stocking for, retaining nothing of all\nhe read save that which seemed to him an echo or a prophecy of his own\nstate, it was only amid soft-worded phrases or within rose-soft stuffs\nthat he dared to conceive of the soul or body of a woman moving with\ntender life.\n\nBut the phrase on the priest's lips was disingenuous for he knew that a\npriest should not speak lightly on that theme. The phrase had been\nspoken lightly with design and he felt that his face was being searched\nby the eyes in the shadow. Whatever he had heard or read of the craft\nof jesuits he had put aside frankly as not borne out by his own\nexperience. His masters, even when they had not attracted him,\nhad seemed to him always intelligent and serious priests,\nathletic and high-spirited prefects. He thought of them as men\nwho washed their bodies briskly with cold water and wore clean cold\nlinen. During all the years he had lived among them in Clongowes and in\nBelvedere he had received only two pandies and, though these had been\ndealt him in the wrong, he knew that he had often escaped punishment.\nDuring all those years he had never heard from any of his masters a\nflippant word: it was they who had taught him christian doctrine and\nurged him to live a good life and, when he had fallen into grievous\nsin, it was they who had led him back to grace. Their presence had made\nhim diffident of himself when he was a muff in Clongowes and it had made\nhim diffident of himself also while he had held his equivocal position\nin Belvedere. A constant sense of this had remained with him up to the\nlast year of his school life. He had never once disobeyed or allowed\nturbulent companions to seduce him from his habit of quiet obedience;\nand, even when he doubted some statement of a master, he had never\npresumed to doubt openly. Lately some of their judgements had sounded a\nlittle childish in his ears and had made him feel a regret and pity as\nthough he were slowly passing out of an accustomed world and were\nhearing its language for the last time. One day when some boys had\ngathered round a priest under the shed near the chapel, he had heard\nthe priest say:\n\n--I believe that Lord Macaulay was a man who probably never committed\na mortal sin in his life, that is to say, a deliberate mortal sin.\n\nSome of the boys had then asked the priest if Victor Hugo were not the\ngreatest French writer. The priest had answered that Victor Hugo had\nnever written half so well when he had turned against the church as he\nhad written when he was a catholic.\n\n--But there are many eminent French critics, said the priest, who\nconsider that even Victor Hugo, great as he certainly was, had not so\npure a French style as Louis Veuillot.\n\nThe tiny flame which the priest's allusion had kindled upon Stephen's\ncheek had sunk down again and his eyes were still fixed calmly on the\ncolourless sky. But an unresting doubt flew hither and thither before\nhis mind. Masked memories passed quickly before him: he recognized\nscenes and persons yet he was conscious that he had failed to perceive\nsome vital circumstance in them. He saw himself walking about the\ngrounds watching the sports in Clongowes and eating slim jim out of his\ncricket cap. Some jesuits were walking round the cycle-track in the\ncompany of ladies. The echoes of certain expressions used in Clongowes\nsounded in remote caves of his mind.\n\nHis ears were listening to these distant echoes amid the silence of the\nparlour when he became aware that the priest was addressing him in a\ndifferent voice.\n\n--I sent for you today, Stephen, because I wished to speak to you on a\nvery important subject.\n\n--Yes, sir.\n\n--Have you ever felt that you had a vocation?\n\nStephen parted his lips to answer yes and then withheld the word\nsuddenly. The priest waited for the answer and added:\n\n--I mean, have you ever felt within yourself, in your soul, a desire\nto join the order? Think.\n\n--I have sometimes thought of it, said Stephen.\n\nThe priest let the blindcord fall to one side and, uniting his hands,\nleaned his chin gravely upon them, communing with himself.\n\n--In a college like this, he said at length, there is one boy or perhaps\ntwo or three boys whom God calls to the religious life. Such a boy is\nmarked off from his companions by his piety, by the good example he\nshows to others. He is looked up to by them; he is chosen perhaps as\nprefect by his fellow sodalists. And you, Stephen, have been such a boy\nin this college, prefect of Our Blessed Lady's sodality. Perhaps you\nare the boy in this college whom God designs to call to Himself.\n\nA strong note of pride reinforcing the gravity of the priest's voice\nmade Stephen's heart quicken in response.\n\nTo receive that call, Stephen, said the priest, is the greatest honour\nthat the Almighty God can bestow upon a man. No king or emperor on this\nearth has the power of the priest of God. No angel or archangel in\nheaven, no saint, not even the Blessed Virgin herself, has the power of\na priest of God: the power of the keys, the power to bind and to loose\nfrom sin, the power of exorcism, the power to cast out from the\ncreatures of God the evil spirits that have power over them; the power,\nthe authority, to make the great God of Heaven come down upon the altar\nand take the form of bread and wine. What an awful power, Stephen!\n\nA flame began to flutter again on Stephen's cheek as he heard in this\nproud address an echo of his own proud musings. How often had he seen\nhimself as a priest wielding calmly and humbly the awful power\nof which angels and saints stood in reverence! His soul had loved\nto muse in secret on this desire. He had seen himself, a young\nand silent-mannered priest, entering a confessional swiftly,\nascending the altarsteps, incensing, genuflecting, accomplishing\nthe vague acts of the priesthood which pleased him by reason of\ntheir semblance of reality and of their distance from it. In that\ndim life which he had lived through in his musings he had\nassumed the voices and gestures which he had noted with various\npriests. He had bent his knee sideways like such a one, he had\nshaken the thurible only slightly like such a one, his chasuble had\nswung open like that of such another as he turned to the altar again\nafter having blessed the people. And above all it had pleased him to\nfill the second place in those dim scenes of his imagining. He shrank\nfrom the dignity of celebrant because it displeased him to imagine that\nall the vague pomp should end in his own person or that the ritual\nshould assign to him so clear and final an office. He longed for the\nminor sacred offices, to be vested with the tunicle of subdeacon at\nhigh mass, to stand aloof from the altar, forgotten by the people, his\nshoulders covered with a humeral veil, holding the paten within its\nfolds or, when the sacrifice had been accomplished, to stand as deacon\nin a dalmatic of cloth of gold on the step below the celebrant, his\nhands joined and his face towards the people, and sing the chant ITE\nMISSA EST. If ever he had seen himself celebrant it was as in the\npictures of the mass in his child's massbook, in a church without\nworshippers, save for the angel of the sacrifice, at a bare altar, and\nserved by an acolyte scarcely more boyish than himself. In vague\nsacrificial or sacramental acts alone his will seemed drawn to go forth\nto encounter reality; and it was partly the absence of an appointed\nrite which had always constrained him to inaction whether he had\nallowed silence to cover his anger or pride or had suffered only an\nembrace he longed to give.\n\nHe listened in reverent silence now to the priest's appeal and through\nthe words he heard even more distinctly a voice bidding him approach,\noffering him secret knowledge and secret power. He would know then what\nwas the sin of Simon Magus and what the sin against the Holy Ghost for\nwhich there was no forgiveness. He would know obscure things, hidden\nfrom others, from those who were conceived and born children of wrath.\nHe would know the sins, the sinful longings and sinful thoughts and\nsinful acts, of others, hearing them murmured into his ears in the\nconfessional under the shame of a darkened chapel by the lips of women\nand of girls; but rendered immune mysteriously at his ordination by the\nimposition of hands, his soul would pass again uncontaminated to the\nwhite peace of the altar. No touch of sin would linger upon the hands\nwith which he would elevate and break the host; no touch of sin would\nlinger on his lips in prayer to make him eat and drink damnation to\nhimself not discerning the body of the Lord. He would hold his secret\nknowledge and secret power, being as sinless as the innocent, and he\nwould be a priest for ever according to the order of Melchisedec.\n\n--I will offer up my mass tomorrow morning, said the director, that\nAlmighty God may reveal to you His holy will. And let you, Stephen,\nmake a novena to your holy patron saint, the first martyr, who is very\npowerful with God, that God may enlighten your mind. But you must be\nquite sure, Stephen, that you have a vocation because it would be\nterrible if you found afterwards that you had none. Once a priest\nalways a priest, remember. Your catechism tells you that the sacrament\nof Holy Orders is one of those which can be received only once because\nit imprints on the soul an indelible spiritual mark which can never be\neffaced. It is before you must weigh well, not after. It is a solemn\nquestion, Stephen, because on it may depend the salvation of your\neternal soul. But we will pray to God together.\n\nHe held open the heavy hall door and gave his hand as if already to a\ncompanion in the spiritual life. Stephen passed out on to the wide\nplatform above the steps and was conscious of the caress of mild\nevening air. Towards Findlater's church a quartet of young men were\nstriding along with linked arms, swaying their heads and stepping to\nthe agile melody of their leader's concertina. The music passed in an\ninstant, as the first bars of sudden music always did, over the\nfantastic fabrics of his mind, dissolving them painlessly and\nnoiselessly as a sudden wave dissolves the sand-built turrets of\nchildren. Smiling at the trivial air he raised his eyes to the priest's\nface and, seeing in it a mirthless reflection of the sunken day,\ndetached his hand slowly which had acquiesced faintly in the\ncompanionship.\n\nAs he descended the steps the impression which effaced his troubled\nself-communion was that of a mirthless mask reflecting a sunken day\nfrom the threshold of the college. The shadow, then, of the life of the\ncollege passed gravely over his consciousness. It was a grave and\nordered and passionless life that awaited him, a life without material\ncares. He wondered how he would pass the first night in the novitiate\nand with what dismay he would wake the first morning in the dormitory.\nThe troubling odour of the long corridors of Clongowes came back to him\nand he heard the discreet murmur of the burning gasflames. At once from\nevery part of his being unrest began to irradiate. A feverish\nquickening of his pulses followed, and a din of meaningless words drove\nhis reasoned thoughts hither and thither confusedly. His lungs dilated\nand sank as if he were inhaling a warm moist unsustaining air and he\nsmelt again the moist warm air which hung in the bath in Clongowes\nabove the sluggish turf-coloured water.\n\nSome instinct, waking at these memories, stronger than education or\npiety, quickened within him at every near approach to that life, an\ninstinct subtle and hostile, and armed him against acquiescence. The\nchill and order of the life repelled him. He saw himself rising in the\ncold of the morning and filing down with the others to early mass and\ntrying vainly to struggle with his prayers against the fainting\nsickness of his stomach. He saw himself sitting at dinner with the\ncommunity of a college. What, then, had become of that deep-rooted\nshyness of his which had made him loth to eat or drink under a strange\nroof? What had come of the pride of his spirit which had always made\nhim conceive himself as a being apart in every order?\n\nThe Reverend Stephen Dedalus, S.J.\n\nHis name in that new life leaped into characters before his eyes and to\nit there followed a mental sensation of an undefined face or colour of\na face. The colour faded and became strong like a changing glow of\npallid brick red. Was it the raw reddish glow he had so often seen on\nwintry mornings on the shaven gills of the priests? The face was\neyeless and sour-favoured and devout, shot with pink tinges of\nsuffocated anger. Was it not a mental spectre of the face of one of the\njesuits whom some of the boys called Lantern Jaws and others Foxy\nCampbell?\n\nHe was passing at that moment before the jesuit house in Gardiner\nStreet and wondered vaguely which window would be his if he ever joined\nthe order. Then he wondered at the vagueness of his wonder, at the\nremoteness of his own soul from what he had hitherto imagined her\nsanctuary, at the frail hold which so many years of order and obedience\nhad of him when once a definite and irrevocable act of his threatened\nto end for ever, in time and in eternity, his freedom. The voice of the\ndirector urging upon him the proud claims of the church and the mystery\nand power of the priestly office repeated itself idly in his memory.\nHis soul was not there to hear and greet it and he knew now that the\nexhortation he had listened to had already fallen into an idle formal\ntale. He would never swing the thurible before the tabernacle as priest.\nHis destiny was to be elusive of social or religious orders. The wisdom of\nthe priest's appeal did not touch him to the quick. He was destined to\nlearn his own wisdom apart from others or to learn the wisdom of others\nhimself wandering among the snares of the world.\n\nThe snares of the world were its ways of sin. He would fall. He had not\nyet fallen but he would fall silently, in an instant. Not to fall was\ntoo hard, too hard; and he felt the silent lapse of his soul, as it\nwould be at some instant to come, falling, falling, but not yet fallen,\nstill unfallen, but about to fall.\n\nHe crossed the bridge over the stream of the Tolka and turned his eyes\ncoldly for an instant towards the faded blue shrine of the Blessed\nVirgin which stood fowl-wise on a pole in the middle of a ham-shaped\nencampment of poor cottages. Then, bending to the left, he followed the\nlane which led up to his house. The faint sour stink of rotted cabbages\ncame towards him from the kitchen gardens on the rising ground above\nthe river. He smiled to think that it was this disorder, the misrule\nand confusion of his father's house and the stagnation of vegetable\nlife, which was to win the day in his soul. Then a short laugh broke\nfrom his lips as he thought of that solitary farmhand in the kitchen\ngardens behind their house whom they had nicknamed the man with the\nhat. A second laugh, taking rise from the first after a pause, broke\nfrom him involuntarily as he thought of how the man with the hat\nworked, considering in turn the four points of the sky and then\nregretfully plunging his spade in the earth.\n\nHe pushed open the latchless door of the porch and passed through the\nnaked hallway into the kitchen. A group of his brothers and sisters was\nsitting round the table. Tea was nearly over and only the last of the\nsecond watered tea remained in the bottoms of the small glass jars and\njampots which did service for teacups. Discarded crusts and lumps of\nsugared bread, turned brown by the tea which had been poured over them,\nlay scattered on the table. Little wells of tea lay here and there on\nthe board, and a knife with a broken ivory handle was stuck through the\npith of a ravaged turnover.\n\nThe sad quiet grey-blue glow of the dying day came through the window\nand the open door, covering over and allaying quietly a sudden instinct\nof remorse in Stephen's heart. All that had been denied them had been\nfreely given to him, the eldest; but the quiet glow of evening showed\nhim in their faces no sign of rancour.\n\nHe sat near them at the table and asked where his father and mother\nwere. One answered:\n\n--Goneboro toboro lookboro atboro aboro houseboro.\n\nStill another removal! A boy named Fallon in Belvedere had often asked\nhim with a silly laugh why they moved so often. A frown of scorn\ndarkened quickly his forehead as he heard again the silly laugh of the\nquestioner.\n\nHe asked:\n\n--Why are we on the move again if it's a fair question?\n\n--Becauseboro theboro landboro lordboro willboro putboro usboro outboro.\n\nThe voice of his youngest brother from the farther side of the\nfireplace began to sing the air OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT. One by one the\nothers took up the air until a full choir of voices was singing. They\nwould sing so for hours, melody after melody, glee after glee, till the\nlast pale light died down on the horizon, till the first dark night\nclouds came forth and night fell.\n\nHe waited for some moments, listening, before he too took up the air\nwith them. He was listening with pain of spirit to the overtone of\nweariness behind their frail fresh innocent voices. Even before they\nset out on life's journey they seemed weary already of the way.\n\nHe heard the choir of voices in the kitchen echoed and multiplied\nthrough an endless reverberation of the choirs of endless generations\nof children and heard in all the echoes an echo also of the recurring\nnote of weariness and pain. All seemed weary of life even before\nentering upon it. And he remembered that Newman had heard this note\nalso in the broken lines of Virgil, GIVING UTTERANCE, LIKE THE VOICE OF\nNATURE HERSELF, TO THAT PAIN AND WEARINESS YET HOPE OF BETTER THINGS\nWHICH HAS BEEN THE EXPERIENCE OF HER CHILDREN IN EVERY TIME.\n\n\n* * * * *\n\n\nHe could wait no longer.\n\nFrom the door of Byron's public-house to the gate of Clontarf Chapel,\nfrom the gate of Clontail Chapel to the door of Byron's public-house\nand then back again to the chapel and then back again to the public-house\nhe had paced slowly at first, planting his steps scrupulously in\nthe spaces of the patchwork of the footpath, then timing their fall to\nthe fall of verses. A full hour had passed since his father had gone in\nwith Dan Crosby, the tutor, to find out for him something about the\nuniversity. For a full hour he had paced up and down, waiting: but he\ncould wait no longer.\n\nHe set off abruptly for the Bull, walking rapidly lest his father's\nshrill whistle might call him back; and in a few moments he had rounded\nthe curve at the police barrack and was safe.\n\nYes, his mother was hostile to the idea, as he had read from her\nlistless silence. Yet her mistrust pricked him more keenly than his\nfather's pride and he thought coldly how he had watched the faith which\nwas fading down in his soul ageing and strengthening in her eyes. A dim\nantagonism gathered force within him and darkened his mind as a cloud\nagainst her disloyalty and when it passed, cloud-like, leaving his mind\nserene and dutiful towards her again, he was made aware dimly and\nwithout regret of a first noiseless sundering of their lives.\n\nThe university! So he had passed beyond the challenge of the sentries\nwho had stood as guardians of his boyhood and had sought to keep him\namong them that he might be subject to them and serve their ends. Pride\nafter satisfaction uplifted him like long slow waves. The end he had\nbeen born to serve yet did not see had led him to escape by an unseen\npath and now it beckoned to him once more and a new adventure was about\nto be opened to him. It seemed to him that he heard notes of fitful\nmusic leaping upwards a tone and downwards a diminished fourth, upwards\na tone and downwards a major third, like triple-branching flames\nleaping fitfully, flame after flame, out of a midnight wood. It was an\nelfin prelude, endless and formless; and, as it grew wilder and faster,\nthe flames leaping out of time, he seemed to hear from under the boughs\nand grasses wild creatures racing, their feet pattering like rain upon\nthe leaves. Their feet passed in pattering tumult over his mind, the\nfeet of hares and rabbits, the feet of harts and hinds and antelopes,\nuntil he heard them no more and remembered only a proud cadence from\nNewman:\n\n--Whose feet are as the feet of harts and underneath the everlasting arms.\n\nThe pride of that dim image brought back to his mind the dignity of the\noffice he had refused. All through his boyhood he had mused upon that\nwhich he had so often thought to be his destiny and when the moment had\ncome for him to obey the call he had turned aside, obeying a wayward\ninstinct. Now time lay between: the oils of ordination would never\nanoint his body. He had refused. Why?\n\nHe turned seaward from the road at Dollymount and as he passed on to\nthe thin wooden bridge he felt the planks shaking with the tramp of\nheavily shod feet. A squad of christian brothers was on its way back\nfrom the Bull and had begun to pass, two by two, across the bridge.\nSoon the whole bridge was trembling and resounding. The uncouth faces\npassed him two by two, stained yellow or red or livid by the sea, and,\nas he strove to look at them with ease and indifference, a faint stain\nof personal shame and commiseration rose to his own face. Angry with\nhimself he tried to hide his face from their eyes by gazing down\nsideways into the shallow swirling water under the bridge but he still\nsaw a reflection therein of their top-heavy silk hats and humble\ntape-like collars and loosely-hanging clerical clothes.\n\n    --Brother Hickey.\n    Brother Quaid.\n    Brother MacArdle.\n    Brother Keogh.--\n\nTheir piety would be like their names, like their faces, like their\nclothes, and it was idle for him to tell himself that their humble and\ncontrite hearts, it might be, paid a far richer tribute of devotion\nthan his had ever been, a gift tenfold more acceptable than his\nelaborate adoration. It was idle for him to move himself to be generous\ntowards them, to tell himself that if he ever came to their gates,\nstripped of his pride, beaten and in beggar's weeds, that they would be\ngenerous towards him, loving him as themselves. Idle and embittering,\nfinally, to argue, against his own dispassionate certitude, that the\ncommandment of love bade us not to love our neighbour as ourselves with\nthe same amount and intensity of love but to love him as ourselves with\nthe same kind of love.\n\nHe drew forth a phrase from his treasure and spoke it softly to\nhimself:\n\n--A day of dappled seaborne clouds.\n\nThe phrase and the day and the scene harmonized in a chord. Words. Was\nit their colours? He allowed them to glow and fade, hue after hue:\nsunrise gold, the russet and green of apple orchards, azure of waves,\nthe grey-fringed fleece of clouds. No, it was not their colours: it was\nthe poise and balance of the period itself. Did he then love the\nrhythmic rise and fall of words better than their associations of\nlegend and colour? Or was it that, being as weak of sight as he was shy\nof mind, he drew less pleasure from the reflection of the glowing\nsensible world through the prism of a language many-coloured and richly\nstoried than from the contemplation of an inner world of individual\nemotions mirrored perfectly in a lucid supple periodic prose?\n\nHe passed from the trembling bridge on to firm land again. At that\ninstant, as it seemed to him, the air was chilled and, looking askance\ntowards the water, he saw a flying squall darkening and crisping\nsuddenly the tide. A faint click at his heart, a faint throb in his\nthroat told him once more of how his flesh dreaded the cold infrahuman\nodour of the sea; yet he did not strike across the downs on his left\nbut held straight on along the spine of rocks that pointed against the\nriver's mouth.\n\nA veiled sunlight lit up faintly the grey sheet of water where the\nriver was embayed. In the distance along the course of the slow-flowing\nLiffey slender masts flecked the sky and, more distant still, the dim\nfabric of the city lay prone in haze. Like a scene on some vague arras,\nold as man's weariness, the image of the seventh city of christendom\nwas visible to him across the timeless air, no older nor more weary nor\nless patient of subjection than in the days of the thingmote.\n\nDisheartened, he raised his eyes towards the slow-drifting clouds,\ndappled and seaborne. They were voyaging across the deserts of the sky,\na host of nomads on the march, voyaging high over Ireland, westward\nbound. The Europe they had come from lay out there beyond the Irish\nSea, Europe of strange tongues and valleyed and woodbegirt and\ncitadelled and of entrenched and marshalled races. He heard a confused\nmusic within him as of memories and names which he was almost conscious\nof but could not capture even for an instant; then the music seemed to\nrecede, to recede, to recede, and from each receding trail of nebulous\nmusic there fell always one longdrawn calling note, piercing like a\nstar the dusk of silence. Again! Again! Again! A voice from beyond the\nworld was calling.\n\n--Hello, Stephanos!\n\n--Here comes The Dedalus!\n\n--Ao!... Eh, give it over, Dwyer, I'm telling you, or I'll give you a stuff\nin the kisser for yourself... Ao!\n\n--Good man, Towser! Duck him!\n\n--Come along, Dedalus! Bous Stephanoumenos! Bous Stephaneforos!\n\n--Duck him! Guzzle him now, Towser!\n\n--Help! Help!... Ao!\n\nHe recognized their speech collectively before he distinguished their\nfaces. The mere sight of that medley of wet nakedness chilled him to\nthe bone. Their bodies, corpse-white or suffused with a pallid golden\nlight or rawly tanned by the sun, gleamed with the wet of the sea.\nTheir diving-stone, poised on its rude supports and rocking under their\nplunges, and the rough-hewn stones of the sloping breakwater over which\nthey scrambled in their horseplay gleamed with cold wet lustre. The\ntowels with which they smacked their bodies were heavy with cold\nseawater; and drenched with cold brine was their matted hair.\n\nHe stood still in deference to their calls and parried their banter\nwith easy words. How characterless they looked: Shuley without his deep\nunbuttoned collar, Ennis without his scarlet belt with the snaky clasp,\nand Connolly without his Norfolk coat with the flapless side-pockets!\nIt was a pain to see them, and a sword-like pain to see the signs of\nadolescence that made repellent their pitiable nakedness. Perhaps they\nhad taken refuge in number and noise from the secret dread in their\nsouls. But he, apart from them and in silence, remembered in what dread\nhe stood of the mystery of his own body.\n\n--Stephanos Dedalos! Bous Stephanoumenos! Bous Stephaneforos!\n\nTheir banter was not new to him and now it flattered his mild proud\nsovereignty. Now, as never before, his strange name seemed to him a\nprophecy. So timeless seemed the grey warm air, so fluid and impersonal\nhis own mood, that all ages were as one to him. A moment before the\nghost of the ancient kingdom of the Danes had looked forth through the\nvesture of the hazewrapped City. Now, at the name of the fabulous\nartificer, he seemed to hear the noise of dim waves and to see a winged\nform flying above the waves and slowly climbing the air. What did it\nmean? Was it a quaint device opening a page of some medieval book of\nprophecies and symbols, a hawk-like man flying sunward above the sea, a\nprophecy of the end he had been born to serve and had been following\nthrough the mists of childhood and boyhood, a symbol of the artist\nforging anew in his workshop out of the sluggish matter of the earth a\nnew soaring impalpable imperishable being?\n\nHis heart trembled; his breath came faster and a wild spirit passed\nover his limbs as though he was soaring sunward. His heart trembled in\nan ecstasy of fear and his soul was in flight. His soul was soaring in\nan air beyond the world and the body he knew was purified in a breath\nand delivered of incertitude and made radiant and commingled with the\nelement of the spirit. An ecstasy of flight made radiant his eyes and\nwild his breath and tremulous and wild and radiant his windswept limbs.\n\n--One! Two!... Look out!\n\n--Oh, Cripes, I'm drownded!\n\n--One! Two! Three and away!\n\n--The next! The next!\n\n--One!... UK!\n\n--Stephaneforos!\n\nHis throat ached with a desire to cry aloud, the cry of a hawk or eagle\non high, to cry piercingly of his deliverance to the winds. This was\nthe call of life to his soul not the dull gross voice of the world of\nduties and despair, not the inhuman voice that had called him to the\npale service of the altar. An instant of wild flight had delivered him\nand the cry of triumph which his lips withheld cleft his brain.\n\n--Stephaneforos!\n\nWhat were they now but cerements shaken from the body of death--the\nfear he had walked in night and day, the incertitude that had ringed\nhim round, the shame that had abased him within and without--cerements,\nthe linens of the grave?\n\nHis soul had arisen from the grave of boyhood, spurning her\ngrave-clothes. Yes! Yes! Yes! He would create proudly out of the\nfreedom and power of his soul, as the great artificer whose name he\nbore, a living thing, new and soaring and beautiful, impalpable,\nimperishable.\n\nHe started up nervously from the stone-block for he could no longer\nquench the flame in his blood. He felt his cheeks aflame and his throat\nthrobbing with song. There was a lust of wandering in his feet that\nburned to set out for the ends of the earth. On! On! his heart seemed\nto cry. Evening would deepen above the sea, night fall upon the plains,\ndawn glimmer before the wanderer and show him strange fields and hills\nand faces. Where?\n\nHe looked northward towards Howth. The sea had fallen below the line of\nseawrack on the shallow side of the breakwater and already the tide was\nrunning out fast along the foreshore. Already one long oval bank of\nsand lay warm and dry amid the wavelets. Here and there warm isles of\nsand gleamed above the shallow tide and about the isles and around the\nlong bank and amid the shallow currents of the beach were lightclad\nfigures, wading and delving.\n\nIn a few moments he was barefoot, his stockings folded in his pockets\nand his canvas shoes dangling by their knotted laces over his shoulders\nand, picking a pointed salt-eaten stick out of the jetsam among the\nrocks, he clambered down the slope of the breakwater.\n\nThere was a long rivulet in the strand and, as he waded slowly up its\ncourse, he wondered at the endless drift of seaweed. Emerald and black\nand russet and olive, it moved beneath the current, swaying and\nturning. The water of the rivulet was dark with endless drift and\nmirrored the high-drifting clouds. The clouds were drifting above him\nsilently and silently the seatangle was drifting below him and the grey\nwarm air was still and a new wild life was singing in his veins.\n\nWhere was his boyhood now? Where was the soul that had hung back from\nher destiny, to brood alone upon the shame of her wounds and in her\nhouse of squalor and subterfuge to queen it in faded cerements and in\nwreaths that withered at the touch? Or where was he?\n\nHe was alone. He was unheeded, happy and near to the wild heart of\nlife. He was alone and young and wilful and wildhearted, alone amid a\nwaste of wild air and brackish waters and the sea-harvest of shells and\ntangle and veiled grey sunlight and gayclad lightclad figures of\nchildren and girls and voices childish and girlish in the air.\n\nA girl stood before him in midstream, alone and still, gazing out to\nsea. She seemed like one whom magic had changed into the likeness of a\nstrange and beautiful seabird. Her long slender bare legs were delicate\nas a crane's and pure save where an emerald trail of seaweed had\nfashioned itself as a sign upon the flesh. Her thighs, fuller and\nsoft-hued as ivory, were bared almost to the hips, where the white\nfringes of her drawers were like feathering of soft white down. Her\nslate-blue skirts were kilted boldly about her waist and dovetailed\nbehind her. Her bosom was as a bird's, soft and slight, slight and soft\nas the breast of some dark-plumaged dove. But her long fair hair was\ngirlish: and girlish, and touched with the wonder of mortal beauty, her\nface.\n\nShe was alone and still, gazing out to sea; and when she felt his\npresence and the worship of his eyes her eyes turned to him in quiet\nsufferance of his gaze, without shame or wantonness. Long, long she\nsuffered his gaze and then quietly withdrew her eyes from his and bent\nthem towards the stream, gently stirring the water with her foot hither\nand thither. The first faint noise of gently moving water broke the\nsilence, low and faint and whispering, faint as the bells of sleep;\nhither and thither, hither and thither; and a faint flame trembled on\nher cheek.\n\n--Heavenly God! cried Stephen's soul, in an outburst of profane joy.\n\nHe turned away from her suddenly and set off across the strand. His\ncheeks were aflame; his body was aglow; his limbs were trembling. On\nand on and on and on he strode, far out over the sands, singing wildly\nto the sea, crying to greet the advent of the life that had cried to him.\n\nHer image had passed into his soul for ever and no word had broken the\nholy silence of his ecstasy. Her eyes had called him and his soul had\nleaped at the call. To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate\nlife out of life! A wild angel had appeared to him, the angel of mortal\nyouth and beauty, an envoy from the fair courts of life, to throw open\nbefore him in an instant of ecstasy the gates of all the ways of error\nand glory. On and on and on and on!\n\nHe halted suddenly and heard his heart in the silence. How far had he\nwalked? What hour was it?\n\nThere was no human figure near him nor any sound borne to him over the\nair. But the tide was near the turn and already the day was on the\nwane. He turned landward and ran towards the shore and, running up the\nsloping beach, reckless of the sharp shingle, found a sandy nook amid a\nring of tufted sandknolls and lay down there that the peace and silence\nof the evening might still the riot of his blood.\n\nHe felt above him the vast indifferent dome and the calm processes of\nthe heavenly bodies; and the earth beneath him, the earth that had\nborne him, had taken him to her breast.\n\nHe closed his eyes in the languor of sleep. His eyelids trembled as if\nthey felt the vast cyclic movement of the earth and her watchers,\ntrembled as if they felt the strange light of some new world. His soul\nwas swooning into some new world, fantastic, dim, uncertain as under\nsea, traversed by cloudy shapes and beings. A world, a glimmer or a\nflower? Glimmering and trembling, trembling and unfolding, a breaking\nlight, an opening flower, it spread in endless succession to itself,\nbreaking in full crimson and unfolding and fading to palest rose, leaf\nby leaf and wave of light by wave of light, flooding all the heavens\nwith its soft flushes, every flush deeper than the other.\n\nEvening had fallen when he woke and the sand and arid grasses of his\nbed glowed no longer. He rose slowly and, recalling the rapture of his\nsleep, sighed at its joy.\n\nHe climbed to the crest of the sandhill and gazed about him. Evening\nhad fallen. A rim of the young moon cleft the pale waste of skyline,\nthe rim of a silver hoop embedded in grey sand; and the tide was\nflowing in fast to the land with a low whisper of her waves, islanding\na few last figures in distant pools.\n\n\n\n\nChapter 5\n\n\nHe drained his third cup of watery tea to the dregs and set to chewing\nthe crusts of fried bread that were scattered near him, staring into\nthe dark pool of the jar. The yellow dripping had been scooped out like\na boghole and the pool under it brought back to his memory the dark\nturf-coloured water of the bath in Clongowes. The box of pawn tickets\nat his elbow had just been rifled and he took up idly one after another\nin his greasy fingers the blue and white dockets, scrawled and sanded\nand creased and bearing the name of the pledger as Daly or MacEvoy.\n\n  1 Pair Buskins.\n  1 D. Coat.\n  3 Articles and White.\n  1 Man's Pants.\n\nThen he put them aside and gazed thoughtfully at the lid of the box,\nspeckled with louse marks, and asked vaguely:\n\n--How much is the clock fast now?\n\nHis mother straightened the battered alarm clock that was lying on its\nside in the middle of the mantelpiece until its dial showed a quarter\nto twelve and then laid it once more on its side.\n\n--An hour and twenty-five minutes, she said. The right time now is\ntwenty past ten. The dear knows you might try to be in time for your\nlectures.\n\n--Fill out the place for me to wash, said Stephen.\n\n--Katey, fill out the place for Stephen to wash.\n\n--Boody, fill out the place for Stephen to wash.\n\n--I can't, I'm going for blue. Fill it out, you, Maggy.\n\nWhen the enamelled basin had been fitted into the well of the sink and\nthe old washing glove flung on the side of it he allowed his mother to\nscrub his neck and root into the folds of his ears and into the\ninterstices at the wings of his nose.\n\n--Well, it's a poor case, she said, when a university student is so\ndirty that his mother has to wash him.\n\n--But it gives you pleasure, said Stephen calmly.\n\nAn ear-splitting whistle was heard from upstairs and his mother thrust\na damp overall into his hands, saying:\n\n--Dry yourself and hurry out for the love of goodness.\n\nA second shrill whistle, prolonged angrily, brought one of the girls to\nthe foot of the staircase.\n\n--Yes, father?\n\n--Is your lazy bitch of a brother gone out yet?\n\n--Yes, father.\n\n--Sure?\n\n--Yes, father.\n\n--Hm!\n\nThe girl came back, making signs to him to be quick and go out quietly\nby the back. Stephen laughed and said:\n\n--He has a curious idea of genders if he thinks a bitch is masculine.\n\n--Ah, it's a scandalous shame for you, Stephen, said his mother, and\nyou'll live to rue the day you set your foot in that place. I know how\nit has changed you.\n\n--Good morning, everybody, said Stephen, smiling and kissing the tips\nof his fingers in adieu.\n\nThe lane behind the terrace was waterlogged and as he went down it\nslowly, choosing his steps amid heaps of wet rubbish, he heard a mad\nnun screeching in the nuns' madhouse beyond the wall.\n\n--Jesus! O Jesus! Jesus!\n\nHe shook the sound out of his ears by an angry toss of his head and\nhurried on, stumbling through the mouldering offal, his heart already\nbitten by an ache of loathing and bitterness. His father's whistle, his\nmother's mutterings, the screech of an unseen maniac were to him now so\nmany voices offending and threatening to humble the pride of his youth.\nHe drove their echoes even out of his heart with an execration; but, as\nhe walked down the avenue and felt the grey morning light falling about\nhim through the dripping trees and smelt the strange wild smell of the\nwet leaves and bark, his soul was loosed of her miseries.\n\nThe rain-laden trees of the avenue evoked in him, as always, memories\nof the girls and women in the plays of Gerhart Hauptmann; and the\nmemory of their pale sorrows and the fragrance falling from the wet\nbranches mingled in a mood of quiet joy. His morning walk across the\ncity had begun, and he foreknew that as he passed the sloblands of\nFairview he would think of the cloistral silver-veined prose of Newman;\nthat as he walked along the North Strand Road, glancing idly at the\nwindows of the provision shops, he would recall the dark humour of\nGuido Cavalcanti and smile; that as he went by Baird's stonecutting\nworks in Talbot Place the spirit of Ibsen would blow through him like a\nkeen wind, a spirit of wayward boyish beauty; and that passing a grimy\nmarine dealer's shop beyond the Liffey he would repeat the song by Ben\nJonson which begins:\n\n    I was not wearier where I lay.\n\nHis mind when wearied of its search for the essence of beauty amid the\nspectral words of Aristotle or Aquinas turned often for its pleasure to\nthe dainty songs of the Elizabethans. His mind, in the vesture of a\ndoubting monk, stood often in shadow under the windows of that age, to\nhear the grave and mocking music of the lutenists or the frank laughter\nof waist-coateers until a laugh too low, a phrase, tarnished by time,\nof chambering and false honour stung his monkish pride and drove him on\nfrom his lurking-place.\n\nThe lore which he was believed to pass his days brooding upon so that\nit had rapt him from the companionship of youth was only a garner of\nslender sentences from Aristotle's poetics and psychology and a\nSYNOPSIS PHILOSOPHIAE SCHOLASTICAE AD MENTEM DIVI THOMAE. His thinking\nwas a dusk of doubt and self-mistrust, lit up at moments by the\nlightnings of intuition, but lightnings of so clear a splendour that in\nthose moments the world perished about his feet as if it had been\nfire-consumed; and thereafter his tongue grew heavy and he met the eyes\nof others with unanswering eyes, for he felt that the spirit of beauty\nhad folded him round like a mantle and that in revery at least he had\nbeen acquainted with nobility. But when this brief pride of\nsilence upheld him no longer he was glad to find himself\nstill in the midst of common lives, passing on his way amid the squalor\nand noise and sloth of the city fearlessly and with a light heart.\n\nNear the hoardings on the canal he met the consumptive man with the\ndoll's face and the brimless hat coming towards him down the slope of\nthe bridge with little steps, tightly buttoned into his chocolate\novercoat, and holding his furled umbrella a span or two from him like a\ndivining rod. It must be eleven, he thought, and peered into a dairy to\nsee the time. The clock in the dairy told him that it was five minutes\nto five but, as he turned away, he heard a clock somewhere near him,\nbut unseen, beating eleven strokes in swift precision. He laughed as he\nheard it for it made him think of McCann, and he saw him a squat figure\nin a shooting jacket and breeches and with a fair goatee, standing in\nthe wind at Hopkins' corner, and heard him say:\n\n--Dedalus, you're an antisocial being, wrapped up in yourself. I'm\nnot. I'm a democrat and I'll work and act for social liberty and\nequality among all classes and sexes in the United States of the Europe\nof the future.\n\nEleven! Then he was late for that lecture too. What day of the week was\nit? He stopped at a newsagent's to read the headline of a placard.\nThursday. Ten to eleven, English; eleven to twelve, French; twelve to\none, physics. He fancied to himself the English lecture and felt, even\nat that distance, restless and helpless. He saw the heads of his\nclassmates meekly bent as they wrote in their notebooks the points they\nwere bidden to note, nominal definitions, essential definitions and\nexamples or dates of birth or death, chief works, a favourable and an\nunfavourable criticism side by side. His own head was unbent for his\nthoughts wandered abroad and whether he looked around the little class\nof students or out of the window across the desolate gardens of the\ngreen an odour assailed him of cheerless cellar-damp and decay. Another\nhead than his, right before him in the first benches, was poised\nsquarely above its bending fellows like the head of a priest appealing\nwithout humility to the tabernacle for the humble worshippers about\nhim. Why was it that when he thought of Cranly he could never raise\nbefore his mind the entire image of his body but only the image of the\nhead and face? Even now against the grey curtain of the morning he saw\nit before him like the phantom of a dream, the face of a severed head\nor death-mask, crowned on the brows by its stiff black upright hair as\nby an iron crown. It was a priest-like face, priest-like in its palor,\nin the wide winged nose, in the shadowings below the eyes and along the\njaws, priest-like in the lips that were long and bloodless and faintly\nsmiling; and Stephen, remembering swiftly how he had told Cranly of all\nthe tumults and unrest and longings in his soul, day after day and\nnight by night, only to be answered by his friend's listening silence,\nwould have told himself that it was the face of a guilty priest who\nheard confessions of those whom he had not power to absolve but that he\nfelt again in memory the gaze of its dark womanish eyes.\n\nThrough this image he had a glimpse of a strange dark cavern of\nspeculation but at once turned away from it, feeling that it was not\nyet the hour to enter it. But the nightshade of his friend's\nlistlessness seemed to be diffusing in the air around him a tenuous and\ndeadly exhalation and he found himself glancing from one casual word to\nanother on his right or left in stolid wonder that they had been so\nsilently emptied of instantaneous sense until every mean shop legend\nbound his mind like the words of a spell and his soul shrivelled up\nsighing with age as he walked on in a lane among heaps of dead\nlanguage. His own consciousness of language was ebbing from his brain\nand trickling into the very words themselves which set to band and\ndisband themselves in wayward rhythms:\n\n    The ivy whines upon the wall,\n    And whines and twines upon the wall,\n    The yellow ivy upon the wall,\n    Ivy, ivy up the wall.\n\nDid anyone ever hear such drivel? Lord Almighty! Who ever heard of ivy\nwhining on a wall? Yellow ivy; that was all right. Yellow ivory also.\nAnd what about ivory ivy?\n\nThe word now shone in his brain, clearer and brighter than any ivory\nsawn from the mottled tusks of elephants. IVORY, IVOIRE, AVORIO, EBUR.\nOne of the first examples that he had learnt in Latin had run:\nINDIA MITTIT EBUR; and he recalled the shrewd northern face of the\nrector who had taught him to construe the Metamorphoses of Ovid in a\ncourtly English, made whimsical by the mention of porkers and potsherds\nand chines of bacon. He had learnt what little he knew of the laws of\nLatin verse from a ragged book written by a Portuguese priest.\n\n    Contrahit orator, variant in carmine vates.\n\nThe crises and victories and secessions in Roman history were handed on\nto him in the trite words IN TANTO DISCRIMINE and he had tried to peer\ninto the social life of the city of cities through the words IMPLERE\nOLLAM DENARIORUM which the rector had rendered sonorously as the\nfilling of a pot with denaries. The pages of his time-worn Horace never\nfelt cold to the touch even when his own fingers were cold; they were\nhuman pages and fifty years before they had been turned by the human\nfingers of John Duncan Inverarity and by his brother, William Malcolm\nInverarity. Yes, those were noble names on the dusky flyleaf and, even\nfor so poor a Latinist as he, the dusky verses were as fragrant as\nthough they had lain all those years in myrtle and lavender and\nvervain; but yet it wounded him to think that he would never be but a\nshy guest at the feast of the world's culture and that the monkish\nlearning, in terms of which he was striving to forge out an esthetic\nphilosophy, was held no higher by the age he lived in than the subtle\nand curious jargons of heraldry and falconry.\n\nThe grey block of Trinity on his left, set heavily in the city's\nignorance like a dull stone set in a cumbrous ring, pulled his mind\ndownward and while he was striving this way and that to free his feet\nfrom the fetters of the reformed conscience he came upon the droll\nstatue of the national poet of Ireland.\n\nHe looked at it without anger; for, though sloth of the body and of the\nsoul crept over it like unseen vermin, over the shuffling feet and up\nthe folds of the cloak and around the servile head, it seemed humbly\nconscious of its indignity. It was a Firbolg in the borrowed cloak of a\nMilesian; and he thought of his friend Davin, the peasant student. It\nwas a jesting name between them, but the young peasant bore with it\nlightly:\n\n--Go on, Stevie, I have a hard head, you tell me. Call me what you\nwill.\n\nThe homely version of his christian name on the lips of his friend had\ntouched Stephen pleasantly when first heard for he was as formal in\nspeech with others as they were with him. Often, as he sat in Davin's\nrooms in Grantham Street, wondering at his friend's well-made boots\nthat flanked the wall pair by pair and repeating for his friend's\nsimple ear the verses and cadences of others which were the veils of\nhis own longing and dejection, the rude Firbolg mind of his listener\nhad drawn his mind towards it and flung it back again, drawing it by a\nquiet inbred courtesy of attention or by a quaint turn of old English\nspeech or by the force of its delight in rude bodily skill--for Davin\nhad sat at the feet of Michael Cusack, the Gael--repelling swiftly and\nsuddenly by a grossness of intelligence or by a bluntness of feeling or\nby a dull stare of terror in the eyes, the terror of soul of a starving\nIrish village in which the curfew was still a nightly fear.\n\nSide by side with his memory of the deeds of prowess of his uncle Mat\nDavin, the athlete, the young peasant worshipped the sorrowful legend\nof Ireland. The gossip of his fellow-students which strove to render\nthe flat life of the college significant at any cost loved to think of\nhim as a young fenian. His nurse had taught him Irish and shaped his\nrude imagination by the broken lights of Irish myth. He stood towards\nthe myth upon which no individual mind had ever drawn out a line of\nbeauty and to its unwieldy tales that divided against themselves as\nthey moved down the cycles in the same attitude as towards the Roman\ncatholic religion, the attitude of a dull-witted loyal serf. Whatsoever\nof thought or of feeling came to him from England or by way of English\nculture his mind stood armed against in obedience to a password; and of\nthe world that lay beyond England he knew only the foreign legion of\nFrance in which he spoke of serving.\n\nCoupling this ambition with the young man's humour Stephen had often\ncalled him one of the tame geese and there was even a point of\nirritation in the name pointed against that very reluctance of speech\nand deed in his friend which seemed so often to stand between Stephen's\nmind, eager of speculation, and the hidden ways of Irish life.\n\nOne night the young peasant, his spirit stung by the violent or\nluxurious language in which Stephen escaped from the cold silence of\nintellectual revolt, had called up before Stephen's mind a strange\nvision. The two were walking slowly towards Davin's rooms through the\ndark narrow streets of the poorer jews.\n\n--A thing happened to myself, Stevie, last autumn, coming on winter,\nand I never told it to a living soul and you are the first person now I\never told it to. I disremember if it was October or November. It was\nOctober because it was before I came up here to join the matriculation\nclass.\n\nStephen had turned his smiling eyes towards his friend's face,\nflattered by his confidence and won over to sympathy by the speaker's\nsimple accent.\n\n--I was away all that day from my own place over in Buttevant.\n\n--I don't know if you know where that is--at a hurling match between\nthe Croke's Own Boys and the Fearless Thurles and by God, Stevie, that\nwas the hard fight. My first cousin, Fonsy Davin, was stripped to his\nbuff that day minding cool for the Limericks but he was up with the\nforwards half the time and shouting like mad. I never will forget that\nday. One of the Crokes made a woeful wipe at him one time with his\ncaman and I declare to God he was within an aim's ace of getting it at\nthe side of his temple. Oh, honest to God, if the crook of it caught\nhim that time he was done for.\n\n--I am glad he escaped, Stephen had said with a laugh, but surely\nthat's not the strange thing that happened you?\n\n--Well, I suppose that doesn't interest you, but leastways there was\nsuch noise after the match that I missed the train home and I couldn't\nget any kind of a yoke to give me a lift for, as luck would have it,\nthere was a mass meeting that same day over in Castletownroche and\nall the cars in the country were there. So there was nothing for it\nonly to stay the night or to foot it out. Well, I started to walk\nand on I went and it was coming on night when I got into the Ballyhoura\nhills, that's better than ten miles from Kilmallock and there's a\nlong lonely road after that. You wouldn't see the sign of a christian\nhouse along the road or hear a sound. It was pitch dark almost. Once\nor twice I stopped by the way under a bush to redden my pipe and only\nfor the dew was thick I'd have stretched out there and slept. At last,\nafter a bend of the road, I spied a little cottage with a light in the\nwindow. I went up and knocked at the door. A voice asked who was\nthere and I answered I was over at the match in Buttevant and was\nwalking back and that I'd be thankful for a glass of water. After\na while a young woman opened the door and brought me out a big mug\nof milk. She was half undressed as if she was going to bed when I\nknocked and she had her hair hanging and I thought by her figure and\nby something in the look of her eyes that she must be carrying a\nchild. She kept me in talk a long while at the door, and I thought\nit strange because her breast and her shoulders were bare. She\nasked me was I tired and would I like to stop the night there.\nShe said she was all alone in the house and that her husband had\ngone that morning to Queenstown with his sister to see her off. And all\nthe time she was talking, Stevie, she had her eyes fixed on my face and\nshe stood so close to me I could hear her breathing. When I handed her\nback the mug at last she took my hand to draw me in over the threshold\nand said: 'COME IN AND STAY THE NIGHT HERE. YOU'VE NO CALL TO BE\nFRIGHTENED. THERE'S NO ONE IN IT BUT OURSELVES...' I didn't go in,\nStevie. I thanked her and went on my way again, all in a fever. At the\nfirst bend of the road I looked back and she was standing at the door.\n\nThe last words of Davin's story sang in his memory and the figure of\nthe woman in the story stood forth reflected in other figures of the\npeasant women whom he had seen standing in the doorways at Clane as the\ncollege cars drove by, as a type of her race and of his own, a bat-like\nsoul waking to the consciousness of itself in darkness and secrecy and\nloneliness and, through the eyes and voice and gesture of a woman\nwithout guile, calling the stranger to her bed.\n\nA hand was laid on his arm and a young voice cried:\n\n--Ah, gentleman, your own girl, sir! The first handsel today, gentleman.\nBuy that lovely bunch. Will you, gentleman?\n\nThe blue flowers which she lifted towards him and her young blue eyes\nseemed to him at that instant images of guilelessness, and he halted\ntill the image had vanished and he saw only her ragged dress and damp\ncoarse hair and hoydenish face.\n\n--Do, gentleman! Don't forget your own girl, sir!\n\n--I have no money, said Stephen.\n\n--Buy them lovely ones, will you, sir? Only a penny.\n\n--Did you hear what I said? asked Stephen, bending towards her. I told you\nI had no money. I tell you again now.\n\n--Well, sure, you will some day, sir, please God, the girl answered\nafter an instant.\n\n--Possibly, said Stephen, but I don't think it likely.\n\nHe left her quickly, fearing that her intimacy might turn to jibing\nand wishing to be out of the way before she offered her ware to\nanother, a tourist from England or a student of Trinity. Grafton\nStreet, along which he walked, prolonged that moment of discouraged\npoverty. In the roadway at the head of the street a slab was set to the\nmemory of Wolfe Tone and he remembered having been present with his\nfather at its laying. He remembered with bitterness that scene of\ntawdry tribute. There were four French delegates in a brake and one, a\nplump smiling young man, held, wedged on a stick, a card on which were\nprinted the words: VIVE L'IRLANDE!\n\nBut the trees in Stephen's Green were fragrant of rain and the\nrain-sodden earth gave forth its mortal odour, a faint incense rising\nupward through the mould from many hearts. The soul of the gallant\nvenal city which his elders had told him of had shrunk with time to a\nfaint mortal odour rising from the earth and he knew that in a moment\nwhen he entered the sombre college he would be conscious of a\ncorruption other than that of Buck Egan and Burnchapel Whaley.\n\nIt was too late to go upstairs to the French class. He crossed the hall\nand took the corridor to the left which led to the physics theatre. The\ncorridor was dark and silent but not unwatchful. Why did he feel that\nit was not unwatchful? Was it because he had heard that in Buck\nWhaley's time there was a secret staircase there? Or was the jesuit\nhouse extra-territorial and was he walking among aliens? The Ireland of\nTone and of Parnell seemed to have receded in space.\n\nHe opened the door of the theatre and halted in the chilly grey light\nthat struggled through the dusty windows. A figure was crouching before\nthe large grate and by its leanness and greyness he knew that it was\nthe dean of studies lighting the fire. Stephen closed the door quietly\nand approached the fireplace.\n\n--Good morning, sir! Can I help you?\n\nThe priest looked up quickly and said:\n\n--One moment now, Mr Dedalus, and you will see. There is an art in\nlighting a fire. We have the liberal arts and we have the useful arts.\nThis is one of the useful arts.\n\n--I will try to learn it, said Stephen.\n\n--Not too much coal, said the dean, working briskly at his task, that\nis one of the secrets.\n\nHe produced four candle-butts from the side-pockets of his soutane and\nplaced them deftly among the coals and twisted papers. Stephen watched\nhim in silence. Kneeling thus on the flagstone to kindle the fire and\nbusied with the disposition of his wisps of paper and candle-butts he\nseemed more than ever a humble server making ready the place of\nsacrifice in an empty temple, a levite of the Lord. Like a levite's\nrobe of plain linen the faded worn soutane draped the kneeling figure\nof one whom the canonicals or the bell-bordered ephod would irk and\ntrouble. His very body had waxed old in lowly service of the Lord--in\ntending the fire upon the altar, in bearing tidings secretly, in\nwaiting upon worldlings, in striking swiftly when bidden--and yet had\nremained ungraced by aught of saintly or of prelatic beauty. Nay, his\nvery soul had waxed old in that service without growing towards light\nand beauty or spreading abroad a sweet odour of her sanctity--a\nmortified will no more responsive to the thrill of its obedience than\nwas to the thrill of love or combat his ageing body, spare and sinewy,\ngreyed with a silver-pointed down.\n\nThe dean rested back on his hunkers and watched the sticks catch.\nStephen, to fill the silence, said:\n\n--I am sure I could not light a fire.\n\n--You are an artist, are you not, Mr Dedalus? said the dean, glancing\nup and blinking his pale eyes. The object of the artist is the creation\nof the beautiful. What the beautiful is is another question.\n\nHe rubbed his hands slowly and drily over the difficulty.\n\n--Can you solve that question now? he asked.\n\n--Aquinas, answered Stephen, says PULCRA SUNT QUAE VISA PLACENT.\n\n--This fire before us, said the dean, will be pleasing to the eye.\nWill it therefore be beautiful?\n\n--In so far as it is apprehended by the sight, which I suppose means\nhere esthetic intellection, it will be beautiful. But Aquinas also says\nBONUM EST IN QUOD TENDIT APPETITUS. In so far as it satisfies the\nanimal craving for warmth fire is a good. In hell, however, it is an\nevil.\n\n--Quite so, said the dean, you have certainly hit the nail on the head.\n\nHe rose nimbly and went towards the door, set it ajar and said:\n\n--A draught is said to be a help in these matters.\n\nAs he came back to the hearth, limping slightly but with a brisk step,\nStephen saw the silent soul of a jesuit look out at him from the pale\nloveless eyes. Like Ignatius he was lame but in his eyes burned no\nspark of Ignatius's enthusiasm. Even the legendary craft of the\ncompany, a craft subtler and more secret than its fabled books of\nsecret subtle wisdom, had not fired his soul with the energy of\napostleship. It seemed as if he used the shifts and lore and cunning of\nthe world, as bidden to do, for the greater glory of God, without joy\nin their handling or hatred of that in them which was evil but turning\nthem, with a firm gesture of obedience back upon themselves and for all\nthis silent service it seemed as if he loved not at all the master and\nlittle, if at all, the ends he served. SIMILITER ATQUE SENIS BACULUS,\nhe was, as the founder would have had him, like a staff in an old man's\nhand, to be leaned on in the road at nightfall or in stress of weather,\nto lie with a lady's nosegay on a garden seat, to be raised in menace.\n\nThe dean returned to the hearth and began to stroke his chin.\n\n--When may we expect to have something from you on the esthetic\nquestion? he asked.\n\n--From me! said Stephen in astonishment. I stumble on an idea once a\nfortnight if I am lucky.\n\n--These questions are very profound, Mr Dedalus, said the dean. It is\nlike looking down from the cliffs of Moher into the depths. Many go\ndown into the depths and never come up. Only the trained diver can go\ndown into those depths and explore them and come to the surface again.\n\n--If you mean speculation, sir, said Stephen, I also am sure that\nthere is no such thing as free thinking inasmuch as all thinking must\nbe bound by its own laws.\n\n--Ha!\n\n--For my purpose I can work on at present by the light of one or two\nideas of Aristotle and Aquinas.\n\n--I see. I quite see your point.\n\n--I need them only for my own use and guidance until I have done\nsomething for myself by their light. If the lamp smokes or smells I\nshall try to trim it. If it does not give light enough I shall sell it\nand buy another.\n\n--Epictetus also had a lamp, said the dean, which was sold for a fancy\nprice after his death. It was the lamp he wrote his philosophical\ndissertations by. You know Epictetus?\n\n--An old gentleman, said Stephen coarsely, who said that the soul is\nvery like a bucketful of water.\n\n--He tells us in his homely way, the dean went on, that he put an iron\nlamp before a statue of one of the gods and that a thief stole the\nlamp. What did the philosopher do? He reflected that it was in the\ncharacter of a thief to steal and determined to buy an earthen lamp\nnext day instead of the iron lamp.\n\nA smell of molten tallow came up from the dean's candle butts and fused\nitself in Stephen's consciousness with the jingle of the words, bucket\nand lamp and lamp and bucket. The priest's voice, too, had a hard\njingling tone. Stephen's mind halted by instinct, checked by the\nstrange tone and the imagery and by the priest's face which seemed like\nan unlit lamp or a reflector hung in a false focus. What lay behind it\nor within it? A dull torpor of the soul or the dullness of the\nthundercloud, charged with intellection and capable of the gloom of\nGod?\n\n--I meant a different kind of lamp, sir, said Stephen.\n\n--Undoubtedly, said the dean.\n\n--One difficulty, said Stephen, in esthetic discussion is to know\nwhether words are being used according to the literary tradition or\naccording to the tradition of the marketplace. I remember a sentence of\nNewman's in which he says of the Blessed Virgin that she was detained\nin the full company of the saints. The use of the word in the\nmarketplace is quite different. I HOPE I AM NOT DETAINING YOU.\n\n--Not in the least, said the dean politely.\n\n--No, no, said Stephen, smiling, I mean--\n\n--Yes, yes; I see, said the dean quickly, I quite catch the point:\nDETAIN.\n\nHe thrust forward his under jaw and uttered a dry short cough.\n\n--To return to the lamp, he said, the feeding of it is also a nice\nproblem. You must choose the pure oil and you must be careful when you\npour it in not to overflow it, not to pour in more than the funnel can\nhold.\n\n--What funnel? asked Stephen.\n\n--The funnel through which you pour the oil into your lamp.\n\n--That? said Stephen. Is that called a funnel? Is it not a tundish?\n\n--What is a tundish?\n\n--That. The... funnel.\n\n--Is that called a tundish in Ireland? asked the dean. I never heard\nthe word in my life.\n\n--It is called a tundish in Lower Drumcondra, said Stephen, laughing,\nwhere they speak the best English.\n\n--A tundish, said the dean reflectively. That is a most interesting\nword. I must look that word up. Upon my word I must.\n\nHis courtesy of manner rang a little false and Stephen looked at the\nEnglish convert with the same eyes as the elder brother in the parable\nmay have turned on the prodigal. A humble follower in the wake of\nclamorous conversions, a poor Englishman in Ireland, he seemed to have\nentered on the stage of jesuit history when that strange play of\nintrigue and suffering and envy and struggle and indignity had been all\nbut given through--a late-comer, a tardy spirit. From what had he set\nout? Perhaps he had been born and bred among serious dissenters, seeing\nsalvation in Jesus only and abhorring the vain pomps of the\nestablishment. Had he felt the need of an implicit faith amid the\nwelter of sectarianism and the jargon of its turbulent schisms, six\nprinciple men, peculiar people, seed and snake baptists, supralapsarian\ndogmatists? Had he found the true church all of a sudden in winding up\nto the end like a reel of cotton some fine-spun line of reasoning upon\ninsufflation on the imposition of hands or the procession of the Holy\nGhost? Or had Lord Christ touched him and bidden him follow, like that\ndisciple who had sat at the receipt of custom, as he sat by the door of\nsome zinc-roofed chapel, yawning and telling over his church pence?\n\nThe dean repeated the word yet again.\n\n--Tundish! Well now, that is interesting!\n\n--The question you asked me a moment ago seems to me more interesting.\nWhat is that beauty which the artist struggles to express from lumps of\nearth, said Stephen coldly.\n\nThe little word seemed to have turned a rapier point of his\nsensitiveness against this courteous and vigilant foe. He felt with a\nsmart of dejection that the man to whom he was speaking was a\ncountryman of Ben Jonson. He thought:\n\n--The language in which we are speaking is his before it is mine. How\ndifferent are the words HOME, CHRIST, ALE, MASTER, on his lips and on\nmine! I cannot speak or write these words without unrest of spirit. His\nlanguage, so familiar and so foreign, will always be for me an acquired\nspeech. I have not made or accepted its words. My voice holds them at\nbay. My soul frets in the shadow of his language.\n\n--And to distinguish between the beautiful and the sublime, the dean\nadded, to distinguish between moral beauty and material beauty. And to\ninquire what kind of beauty is proper to each of the various arts.\nThese are some interesting points we might take up.\n\nStephen, disheartened suddenly by the dean's firm, dry tone, was\nsilent; and through the silence a distant noise of many boots and\nconfused voices came up the staircase.\n\n--In pursuing these speculations, said the dean conclusively, there\nis, however, the danger of perishing of inanition. First you must take\nyour degree. Set that before you as your first aim. Then, little by\nlittle, you will see your way. I mean in every sense, your way in life\nand in thinking. It may be uphill pedalling at first. Take Mr Moonan.\nHe was a long time before he got to the top. But he got there.\n\n--I may not have his talent, said Stephen quietly.\n\n--You never know, said the dean brightly. We never can say what is in\nus. I most certainly should not be despondent. PER ASPERA AD ASTRA.\n\nHe left the hearth quickly and went towards the landing to oversee the\narrival of the first arts' class.\n\nLeaning against the fireplace Stephen heard him greet briskly and\nimpartially every student of the class and could almost see the frank\nsmiles of the coarser students. A desolating pity began to fall like\ndew upon his easily embittered heart for this faithful serving-man of\nthe knightly Loyola, for this half-brother of the clergy, more venal\nthan they in speech, more steadfast of soul than they, one whom he\nwould never call his ghostly father; and he thought how this man and\nhis companions had earned the name of worldlings at the hands not of\nthe unworldly only but of the worldly also for having pleaded, during\nall their history, at the bar of God's justice for the souls of the lax\nand the lukewarm and the prudent.\n\nThe entry of the professor was signalled by a few rounds of Kentish\nfire from the heavy boots of those students who sat on the highest tier\nof the gloomy theatre under the grey cobwebbed windows. The calling of\nthe roll began and the responses to the names were given out in all\ntones until the name of Peter Byrne was reached.\n\n--Here!\n\nA deep bass note in response came from the upper tier, followed by\ncoughs of protest along the other benches.\n\nThe professor paused in his reading and called the next name:\n\n--Cranly!\n\nNo answer.\n\n--Mr Cranly!\n\nA smile flew across Stephen's face as he thought of his friend's\nstudies.\n\n--Try Leopardstown! said a voice from the bench behind.\n\nStephen glanced up quickly but Moynihan's snoutish face, outlined on the\ngrey light, was impassive. A formula was given out. Amid the rustling of\nthe notebooks Stephen turned back again and said:\n\n--Give me some paper for God's sake.\n\n--Are you as bad as that? asked Moynihan with a broad grin.\n\nHe tore a sheet from his scribbler and passed it down, whispering:\n\n--In case of necessity any layman or woman can do it.\n\nThe formula which he wrote obediently on the sheet of paper, the\ncoiling and uncoiling calculations of the professor, the spectre-like\nsymbols of force and velocity fascinated and jaded Stephen's mind. He\nhad heard some say that the old professor was an atheist freemason. O\nthe grey dull day! It seemed a limbo of painless patient consciousness\nthrough which souls of mathematicians might wander, projecting long\nslender fabrics from plane to plane of ever rarer and paler twilight,\nradiating swift eddies to the last verges of a universe ever vaster,\nfarther and more impalpable.\n\n--So we must distinguish between elliptical and ellipsoidal. Perhaps some\nof you gentlemen may be familiar with the works of Mr W. S. Gilbert. In\none of his songs he speaks of the billiard sharp who is condemned to\nplay:\n\n\n    On a cloth untrue\n    With a twisted cue\n    And elliptical billiard balls.\n\n--He means a ball having the form of the ellipsoid of the principal\naxes of which I spoke a moment ago.\n\nMoynihan leaned down towards Stephen's ear and murmured:\n\n--What price ellipsoidal balls! chase me, ladies, I'm in the cavalry!\n\nHis fellow student's rude humour ran like a gust through the cloister\nof Stephen's mind, shaking into gay life limp priestly vestments that\nhung upon the walls, setting them to sway and caper in a sabbath of\nmisrule. The forms of the community emerged from the gust-blown\nvestments, the dean of studies, the portly florid bursar with his cap\nof grey hair, the president, the little priest with feathery hair who\nwrote devout verses, the squat peasant form of the professor of\neconomics, the tall form of the young professor of mental science\ndiscussing on the landing a case of conscience with his class like a\ngiraffe cropping high leafage among a herd of antelopes, the grave\ntroubled prefect of the sodality, the plump round-headed professor of\nItalian with his rogue's eyes. They came ambling and stumbling,\ntumbling and capering, kilting their gowns for leap frog, holding one\nanother back, shaken with deep false laughter, smacking one another\nbehind and laughing at their rude malice, calling to one another by\nfamiliar nicknames, protesting with sudden dignity at some rough usage,\nwhispering two and two behind their hands.\n\nThe professor had gone to the glass cases on the side wall, from a\nshelf of which he took down a set of coils, blew away the dust from\nmany points and, bearing it carefully to the table, held a finger on it\nwhile he proceeded with his lecture. He explained that the wires in\nmodern coils were of a compound called platinoid lately discovered by\nF. W. Martino.\n\nHe spoke clearly the initials and surname of the discoverer. Moynihan\nwhispered from behind:\n\n--Good old Fresh Water Martin!\n\n--Ask him, Stephen whispered back with weary humour, if he wants a\nsubject for electrocution. He can have me.\n\nMoynihan, seeing the professor bend over the coils, rose in his bench\nand, clacking noiselessly the fingers of his right hand, began to call\nwith the voice of a slobbering urchin:\n\n--Please teacher! This boy is after saying a bad word, teacher.\n\n--Platinoid, the professor said solemnly, is preferred to German\nsilver because it has a lower coefficient of resistance by changes of\ntemperature. The platinoid wire is insulated and the covering of silk\nthat insulates it is wound on the ebonite bobbins just where my finger\nis. If it were wound single an extra current would be induced in the\ncoils. The bobbins are saturated in hot paraffin wax...\n\nA sharp Ulster voice said from the bench below Stephen:\n\n--Are we likely to be asked questions on applied science?\n\nThe professor began to juggle gravely with the terms pure science and\napplied science. A heavy-built student, wearing gold spectacles, stared\nwith some wonder at the questioner. Moynihan murmured from behind in\nhis natural voice:\n\n--Isn't MacAlister a devil for his pound of flesh?\n\nStephen looked coldly on the oblong skull beneath him overgrown with\ntangled twine-coloured hair. The voice, the accent, the mind of the\nquestioner offended him and he allowed the offence to carry him towards\nwilful unkindness, bidding his mind think that the student's father\nwould have done better had he sent his son to Belfast to study and have\nsaved something on the train fare by so doing.\n\nThe oblong skull beneath did not turn to meet this shaft of thought and\nyet the shaft came back to its bowstring; for he saw in a moment the\nstudent's whey-pale face.\n\n--That thought is not mine, he said to himself quickly. It came from\nthe comic Irishman in the bench behind. Patience. Can you say with\ncertitude by whom the soul of your race was bartered and its elect\nbetrayed--by the questioner or by the mocker? Patience. Remember\nEpictetus. It is probably in his character to ask such a question at\nsuch a moment in such a tone and to pronounce the word SCIENCE as a\nmonosyllable.\n\nThe droning voice of the professor continued to wind itself slowly\nround and round the coils it spoke of, doubling, trebling, quadrupling\nits somnolent energy as the coil multiplied its ohms of resistance.\n\nMoynihan's voice called from behind in echo to a distant bell:\n\n--Closing time, gents!\n\nThe entrance hall was crowded and loud with talk. On a table near the\ndoor were two photographs in frames and between them a long roll of\npaper bearing an irregular tail of signatures. MacCann went briskly to\nand fro among the students, talking rapidly, answering rebuffs and\nleading one after another to the table. In the inner hall the dean of\nstudies stood talking to a young professor, stroking his chin gravely\nand nodding his head.\n\nStephen, checked by the crowd at the door, halted irresolutely. From\nunder the wide falling leaf of a soft hat Cranly's dark eyes were\nwatching him.\n\n--Have you signed? Stephen asked.\n\nCranly closed his long thin-lipped mouth, communed with himself an\ninstant and answered:\n\n--EGO HABEO.\n\n--What is it for?\n\n--QUOD?\n\n--What is it for?\n\nCranly turned his pale face to Stephen and said blandly and bitterly:\n\n--PER PAX UNIVERSALIS.\n\nStephen pointed to the Tsar's photograph and said:\n\n--He has the face of a besotted Christ.\n\nThe scorn and anger in his voice brought Cranly's eyes back from a calm\nsurvey of the walls of the hall.\n\n--Are you annoyed? he asked.\n\n--No, answered Stephen.\n\n--Are you in bad humour?\n\n--No.\n\n--CREDO UT VOS SANGUINARIUS MENDAX ESTIS, said Cranly, QUIA FACIES\nVOSTRA MONSTRAT UT VOS IN DAMNO MALO HUMORE ESTIS.\n\nMoynihan, on his way to the table, said in Stephen's ear:\n\n--MacCann is in tiptop form. Ready to shed the last drop. Brand new\nworld. No stimulants and votes for the bitches.\n\nStephen smiled at the manner of this confidence and, when Moynihan had\npassed, turned again to meet Cranly's eyes.\n\n--Perhaps you can tell me, he said, why he pours his soul so freely\ninto my ear. Can you?\n\nA dull scowl appeared on Cranly's forehead. He stared at the table\nwhere Moynihan had bent to write his name on the roll, and then said\nflatly:\n\n--A sugar!\n\n--QUIS EST IN MALO HUMORE, said Stephen, EGO AUT VOS?\n\nCranly did not take up the taunt. He brooded sourly on his judgement\nand repeated with the same flat force:\n\n--A flaming bloody sugar, that's what he is!\n\nIt was his epitaph for all dead friendships and Stephen wondered\nwhether it would ever be spoken in the same tone over his memory. The\nheavy lumpish phrase sank slowly out of hearing like a stone through a\nquagmire. Stephen saw it sink as he had seen many another, feeling its\nheaviness depress his heart. Cranly's speech, unlike that of Davin, had\nneither rare phrases of Elizabethan English nor quaintly turned\nversions of Irish idioms. Its drawl was an echo of the quays of Dublin\ngiven back by a bleak decaying seaport, its energy an echo of the\nsacred eloquence of Dublin given back flatly by a Wicklow pulpit.\n\nThe heavy scowl faded from Cranly's face as MacCann marched briskly\ntowards them from the other side of the hall.\n\n--Here you are! said MacCann cheerily.\n\n--Here I am! said Stephen.\n\n--Late as usual. Can you not combine the progressive tendency with a\nrespect for punctuality?\n\n--That question is out of order, said Stephen. Next business.\n\nHis smiling eyes were fixed on a silver-wrapped tablet of milk chocolate\nwhich peeped out of the propagandist's breast-pocket. A little ring of\nlisteners closed round to hear the war of wits. A lean student with\nolive skin and lank black hair thrust his face between the two, glancing\nfrom one to the other at each phrase and seeming to try to catch each\nflying phrase in his open moist mouth. Cranly took a small grey handball\nfrom his pocket and began to examine it closely, turning it over and over.\n\n--Next business? said MacCann. Hom!\n\nHe gave a loud cough of laughter, smiled broadly and tugged twice at\nthe straw-coloured goatee which hung from his blunt chin.\n\n--The next business is to sign the testimonial.\n\n--Will you pay me anything if I sign? asked Stephen.\n\n--I thought you were an idealist, said MacCann.\n\nThe gipsy-like student looked about him and addressed the onlookers in\nan indistinct bleating voice.\n\n--By hell, that's a queer notion. I consider that notion to be a\nmercenary notion.\n\nHis voice faded into silence. No heed was paid to his words. He turned\nhis olive face, equine in expression, towards Stephen, inviting him to\nspeak again.\n\nMacCann began to speak with fluent energy of the Tsar's rescript, of\nStead, of general disarmament arbitration in cases of international\ndisputes, of the signs of the times, of the new humanity and the new\ngospel of life which would make it the business of the community to\nsecure as cheaply as possible the greatest possible happiness of the\ngreatest possible number.\n\nThe gipsy student responded to the close of the period by crying:\n\n--Three cheers for universal brotherhood!\n\n--Go on, Temple, said a stout ruddy student near him. I'll stand you a\npint after.\n\n--I'm a believer in universal brotherhood, said Temple, glancing about\nhim out of his dark oval eyes. Marx is only a bloody cod.\n\nCranly gripped his arm tightly to check his tongue, smiling uneasily,\nand repeated:\n\n--Easy, easy, easy!\n\nTemple struggled to free his arm but continued, his mouth flecked by a\nthin foam:\n\n--Socialism was founded by an Irishman and the first man in Europe who\npreached the freedom of thought was Collins. Two hundred years ago. He\ndenounced priestcraft, the philosopher of Middlesex. Three cheers for\nJohn Anthony Collins!\n\nA thin voice from the verge of the ring replied:\n\n--Pip! pip!\n\nMoynihan murmured beside Stephen's ear:\n\n--And what about John Anthony's poor little sister:\n\n    Lottie Collins lost her drawers;\n    Won't you kindly lend her yours?\n\nStephen laughed and Moynihan, pleased with the result, murmured again:\n\n--We'll have five bob each way on John Anthony Collins.\n\n--I am waiting for your answer, said MacCann briefly.\n\n--The affair doesn't interest me in the least, said Stephen wearily.\nYou know that well. Why do you make a scene about it?\n\n--Good! said MacCann, smacking his lips. You are a reactionary, then?\n\n--Do you think you impress me, Stephen asked, when you flourish your\nwooden sword?\n\n--Metaphors! said MacCann bluntly. Come to facts.\n\nStephen blushed and turned aside. MacCann stood his ground and said with\nhostile humour:\n\n--Minor poets, I suppose, are above such trivial questions as the\nquestion of universal peace.\n\nCranly raised his head and held the handball between the two students\nby way of a peace-offering, saying:\n\n--PAX SUPER TOTUM SANGUINARIUM GLOBUM.\n\nStephen, moving away the bystanders, jerked his shoulder angrily in the\ndirection of the Tsar's image, saying:\n\n--Keep your icon. If we must have a Jesus let us have a legitimate\nJesus.\n\n--By hell, that's a good one! said the gipsy student to those about\nhim, that's a fine expression. I like that expression immensely.\n\nHe gulped down the spittle in his throat as if he were gulping down the\nphrase and, fumbling at the peak of his tweed cap, turned to Stephen,\nsaying:\n\n--Excuse me, sir, what do you mean by that expression you uttered just\nnow?\n\nFeeling himself jostled by the students near him, he said to them:\n\n--I am curious to know now what he meant by that expression.\n\nHe turned again to Stephen and said in a whisper:\n\n--Do you believe in Jesus? I believe in man. Of course, I don't know\nif you believe in man. I admire you, sir. I admire the mind of man\nindependent of all religions. Is that your opinion about the mind of\nJesus?\n\n--Go on, Temple, said the stout ruddy student, returning, as was his\nwont, to his first idea, that pint is waiting for you.\n\n--He thinks I'm an imbecile, Temple explained to Stephen, because I'm a\nbeliever in the power of mind.\n\nCranly linked his arms into those of Stephen and his admirer and said:\n\n--NOS AD MANUM BALLUM JOCABIMUS.\n\nStephen, in the act of being led away, caught sight of MacCann's\nflushed blunt-featured face.\n\n--My signature is of no account, he said politely. You are right to go\nyour way. Leave me to go mine.\n\n--Dedalus, said MacCann crisply, I believe you're a good fellow but\nyou have yet to learn the dignity of altruism and the responsibility of\nthe human individual.\n\nA voice said:\n\n--Intellectual crankery is better out of this movement than in it.\n\nStephen, recognizing the harsh tone of MacAlister's voice did not turn\nin the direction of the voice. Cranly pushed solemnly through the\nthrong of students, linking Stephen and Temple like a celebrant\nattended by his ministers on his way to the altar.\n\nTemple bent eagerly across Cranly's breast and said:\n\n--Did you hear MacAlister what he said? That youth is jealous of you.\nDid you see that? I bet Cranly didn't see that. By hell, I saw that at\nonce.\n\nAs they crossed the inner hall, the dean of studies was in the act of\nescaping from the student with whom he had been conversing. He stood at\nthe foot of the staircase, a foot on the lowest step, his threadbare\nsoutane gathered about him for the ascent with womanish care, nodding\nhis head often and repeating:\n\n--Not a doubt of it, Mr Hackett! Very fine! Not a doubt of it!\n\nIn the middle of the hall the prefect of the college sodality was\nspeaking earnestly, in a soft querulous voice, with a boarder. As he\nspoke he wrinkled a little his freckled brow and bit, between his\nphrases, at a tiny bone pencil.\n\n--I hope the matric men will all come. The first arts' men are pretty\nsure. Second arts, too. We must make sure of the newcomers.\n\nTemple bent again across Cranly, as they were passing through the\ndoorway, and said in a swift whisper:\n\n--Do you know that he is a married man? he was a married man before\nthey converted him. He has a wife and children somewhere. By hell, I\nthink that's the queerest notion I ever heard! Eh?\n\nHis whisper trailed off into sly cackling laughter. The moment they\nwere through the doorway Cranly seized him rudely by the neck and shook\nhim, saying:\n\n--You flaming floundering fool! I'll take my dying bible there isn't a\nbigger bloody ape, do you know, than you in the whole flaming bloody\nworld!\n\nTemple wriggled in his grip, laughing still with sly content, while\nCranly repeated flatly at every rude shake:\n\n--A flaming flaring bloody idiot!\n\nThey crossed the weedy garden together. The president, wrapped in a\nheavy loose cloak, was coming towards them along one of the walks,\nreading his office. At the end of the walk he halted before turning and\nraised his eyes. The students saluted, Temple fumbling as before at the\npeak of his cap. They walked forward in silence. As they neared the\nalley Stephen could hear the thuds of the players' hands and the wet\nsmacks of the ball and Davin's voice crying out excitedly at each\nstroke.\n\nThe three students halted round the box on which Davin sat to follow\nthe game. Temple, after a few moments, sidled across to Stephen and\nsaid:\n\n--Excuse me, I wanted to ask you, do you believe that Jean-Jacques\nRousseau was a sincere man?\n\nStephen laughed outright. Cranly, picking up the broken stave of a cask\nfrom the grass at his feet, turned swiftly and said sternly:\n\n--Temple, I declare to the living God if you say another word, do you\nknow, to anybody on any subject, I'll kill you SUPER SPOTTUM.\n\n--He was like you, I fancy, said Stephen, an emotional man.\n\n--Blast him, curse him! said Cranly broadly. Don't talk to him at all.\nSure, you might as well be talking, do you know, to a flaming\nchamber-pot as talking to Temple. Go home, Temple. For God's sake, go\nhome.\n\n--I don't care a damn about you, Cranly, answered Temple, moving out of\nreach of the uplifted stave and pointing at Stephen. He's the only man\nI see in this institution that has an individual mind.\n\n--Institution! Individual! cried Cranly. Go home, blast you, for\nyou're a hopeless bloody man.\n\n--I'm an emotional man, said Temple. That's quite rightly expressed.\nAnd I'm proud that I'm an emotionalist.\n\nHe sidled out of the alley, smiling slyly. Cranly watched him with a\nblank expressionless face.\n\n--Look at him! he said. Did you ever see such a go-by-the-wall?\n\nHis phrase was greeted by a strange laugh from a student who lounged\nagainst the wall, his peaked cap down on his eyes. The laugh, pitched\nin a high key and coming from a so muscular frame, seemed like the\nwhinny of an elephant. The student's body shook all over and, to ease\nhis mirth, he rubbed both his hands delightedly over his groins.\n\n--Lynch is awake, said Cranly.\n\nLynch, for answer, straightened himself and thrust forward his chest.\n\n--Lynch puts out his chest, said Stephen, as a criticism of life.\n\nLynch smote himself sonorously on the chest and said:\n\n--Who has anything to say about my girth?\n\nCranly took him at the word and the two began to tussle. When their\nfaces had flushed with the struggle they drew apart, panting. Stephen\nbent down towards Davin who, intent on the game, had paid no heed to\nthe talk of the others.\n\n--And how is my little tame goose? he asked. Did he sign, too?\n\nDavin nodded and said:\n\n--And you, Stevie?\n\nStephen shook his head.\n\n--You're a terrible man, Stevie, said Davin, taking the short pipe\nfrom his mouth, always alone.\n\n--Now that you have signed the petition for universal peace, said\nStephen, I suppose you will burn that little copybook I saw in your\nroom.\n\nAs Davin did not answer, Stephen began to quote:\n\n--Long pace, fianna! Right incline, fianna! Fianna, by numbers,\nsalute, one, two!\n\n--That's a different question, said Davin. I'm an Irish nationalist,\nfirst and foremost. But that's you all out. You're a born sneerer,\nStevie.\n\n--When you make the next rebellion with hurleysticks, said Stephen,\nand want the indispensable informer, tell me. I can find you a few in\nthis college.\n\n--I can't understand you, said Davin. One time I hear you talk against\nEnglish literature. Now you talk against the Irish informers. What with\nyour name and your ideas--Are you Irish at all?\n\n--Come with me now to the office of arms and I will show you the tree\nof my family, said Stephen.\n\n--Then be one of us, said Davin. Why don't you learn Irish? Why did you\ndrop out of the league class after the first lesson?\n\n--You know one reason why, answered Stephen.\n\nDavin tossed his head and laughed.\n\n--Oh, come now, he said. Is it on account of that certain young lady\nand Father Moran? But that's all in your own mind, Stevie. They were\nonly talking and laughing.\n\nStephen paused and laid a friendly hand upon Davin's shoulder.\n\n--Do you remember, he said, when we knew each other first? The first\nmorning we met you asked me to show you the way to the matriculation\nclass, putting a very strong stress on the first syllable. You\nremember? Then you used to address the jesuits as father, you remember?\nI ask myself about you: IS HE AS INNOCENT AS HIS SPEECH?\n\n--I'm a simple person, said Davin. You know that. When you told me\nthat night in Harcourt Street those things about your private life,\nhonest to God, Stevie, I was not able to eat my dinner. I was quite\nbad. I was awake a long time that night. Why did you tell me those\nthings?\n\n--Thanks, said Stephen. You mean I am a monster.\n\n--No, said Davin. But I wish you had not told me.\n\nA tide began to surge beneath the calm surface of Stephen's\nfriendliness.\n\n--This race and this country and this life produced me, he said. I\nshall express myself as I am.\n\n--Try to be one of us, repeated Davin. In heart you are an Irish man\nbut your pride is too powerful.\n\n--My ancestors threw off their language and took another, Stephen said.\nThey allowed a handful of foreigners to subject them. Do you fancy I am\ngoing to pay in my own life and person debts they made? What for?\n\n--For our freedom, said Davin.\n\n--No honourable and sincere man, said Stephen, has given up to you his\nlife and his youth and his affections from the days of Tone to those of\nParnell, but you sold him to the enemy or failed him in need or reviled\nhim and left him for another. And you invite me to be one of you. I'd\nsee you damned first.\n\n--They died for their ideals, Stevie, said Davin. Our day will come\nyet, believe me.\n\nStephen, following his own thought, was silent for an instant.\n\n--The soul is born, he said vaguely, first in those moments I told you\nof. It has a slow and dark birth, more mysterious than the birth of the\nbody. When the soul of a man is born in this country there are nets\nflung at it to hold it back from flight. You talk to me of nationality,\nlanguage, religion. I shall try to fly by those nets.\n\nDavin knocked the ashes from his pipe.\n\n--Too deep for me, Stevie, he said. But a man's country comes first.\nIreland first, Stevie. You can be a poet or a mystic after.\n\n--Do you know what Ireland is? asked Stephen with cold violence.\nIreland is the old sow that eats her farrow.\n\nDavin rose from his box and went towards the players, shaking his head\nsadly. But in a moment his sadness left him and he was hotly disputing\nwith Cranly and the two players who had finished their game. A match of\nfour was arranged, Cranly insisting, however, that his ball should be\nused. He let it rebound twice or thrice to his hand and struck it strongly\nand swiftly towards the base of the alley, exclaiming in answer to its\nthud:\n\n--Your soul!\n\nStephen stood with Lynch till the score began to rise. Then he plucked\nhim by the sleeve to come away. Lynch obeyed, saying:\n\n--Let us eke go, as Cranly has it.\n\nStephen smiled at this side-thrust.\n\nThey passed back through the garden and out through the hall where the\ndoddering porter was pinning up a hall notice in the frame. At the foot\nof the steps they halted and Stephen took a packet of cigarettes from\nhis pocket and offered it to his companion.\n\n--I know you are poor, he said.\n\n--Damn your yellow insolence, answered Lynch.\n\nThis second proof of Lynch's culture made Stephen smile again.\n\n--It was a great day for European culture, he said, when you made up\nyour mind to swear in yellow.\n\nThey lit their cigarettes and turned to the right. After a pause\nStephen began:\n\n--Aristotle has not defined pity and terror. I have. I say--\n\nLynch halted and said bluntly:\n\n--Stop! I won't listen! I am sick. I was out last night on a yellow\ndrunk with Horan and Goggins.\n\nStephen went on:\n\n--Pity is the feeling which arrests the mind in the presence of\nwhatsoever is grave and constant in human sufferings and unites it with\nthe human sufferer. Terror is the feeling which arrests the mind in the\npresence of whatsoever is grave and constant in human sufferings and\nunites it with the secret cause.\n\n--Repeat, said Lynch.\n\nStephen repeated the definitions slowly.\n\n--A girl got into a hansom a few days ago, he went on, in London. She\nwas on her way to meet her mother whom she had not seen for many years.\nAt the corner of a street the shaft of a lorry shivered the window of\nthe hansom in the shape of a star. A long fine needle of the shivered\nglass pierced her heart. She died on the instant. The reporter called\nit a tragic death. It is not. It is remote from terror and pity\naccording to the terms of my definitions.\n\n--The tragic emotion, in fact, is a face looking two ways, towards\nterror and towards pity, both of which are phases of it. You see I use\nthe word ARREST. I mean that the tragic emotion is static. Or rather\nthe dramatic emotion is. The feelings excited by improper art are\nkinetic, desire or loathing. Desire urges us to possess, to go to\nsomething; loathing urges us to abandon, to go from something. The arts\nwhich excite them, pornographical or didactic, are therefore improper\narts. The esthetic emotion (I used the general term) is therefore\nstatic. The mind is arrested and raised above desire and loathing.\n\n--You say that art must not excite desire, said Lynch. I told you that\none day I wrote my name in pencil on the backside of the Venus of\nPraxiteles in the Museum. Was that not desire?\n\n--I speak of normal natures, said Stephen. You also told me that when\nyou were a boy in that charming carmelite school you ate pieces of\ndried cowdung.\n\nLynch broke again into a whinny of laughter and again rubbed both his\nhands over his groins but without taking them from his pockets.\n\n--O, I did! I did! he cried.\n\nStephen turned towards his companion and looked at him for a moment\nboldly in the eyes. Lynch, recovering from his laughter, answered his\nlook from his humbled eyes. The long slender flattened skull beneath\nthe long pointed cap brought before Stephen's mind the image of a\nhooded reptile. The eyes, too, were reptile-like in glint and gaze. Yet\nat that instant, humbled and alert in their look, they were lit by one\ntiny human point, the window of a shrivelled soul, poignant and\nself-embittered.\n\n--As for that, Stephen said in polite parenthesis, we are all animals.\nI also am an animal.\n\n--You are, said Lynch.\n\n--But we are just now in a mental world, Stephen continued. The desire\nand loathing excited by improper esthetic means are really not esthetic\nemotions not only because they are kinetic in character but also\nbecause they are not more than physical. Our flesh shrinks from what it\ndreads and responds to the stimulus of what it desires by a purely\nreflex action of the nervous system. Our eyelid closes before we are\naware that the fly is about to enter our eye.\n\n--Not always, said Lynch critically.\n\n--In the same way, said Stephen, your flesh responded to the stimulus\nof a naked statue, but it was, I say, simply a reflex action of the\nnerves. Beauty expressed by the artist cannot awaken in us an emotion\nwhich is kinetic or a sensation which is purely physical. It awakens,\nor ought to awaken, or induces, or ought to induce, an esthetic stasis,\nan ideal pity or an ideal terror, a stasis called forth, prolonged, and\nat last dissolved by what I call the rhythm of beauty.\n\n--What is that exactly? asked Lynch.\n\n--Rhythm, said Stephen, is the first formal esthetic relation of part\nto part in any esthetic whole or of an esthetic whole to its part or\nparts or of any part to the esthetic whole of which it is a part.\n\n--If that is rhythm, said Lynch, let me hear what you call beauty;\nand, please remember, though I did eat a cake of cowdung once, that I\nadmire only beauty.\n\nStephen raised his cap as if in greeting. Then, blushing slightly, he\nlaid his hand on Lynch's thick tweed sleeve.\n\n--We are right, he said, and the others are wrong. To speak of these\nthings and to try to understand their nature and, having understood it,\nto try slowly and humbly and constantly to express, to press out again,\nfrom the gross earth or what it brings forth, from sound and shape and\ncolour which are the prison gates of our soul, an image of the beauty\nwe have come to understand--that is art.\n\nThey had reached the canal bridge and, turning from their course, went\non by the trees. A crude grey light, mirrored in the sluggish water and\na smell of wet branches over their heads seemed to war against the\ncourse of Stephen's thought.\n\n--But you have not answered my question, said Lynch. What is art? What\nis the beauty it expresses?\n\n--That was the first definition I gave you, you sleepy-headed wretch,\nsaid Stephen, when I began to try to think out the matter for myself.\nDo you remember the night? Cranly lost his temper and began to talk\nabout Wicklow bacon.\n\n--I remember, said Lynch. He told us about them flaming fat devils of\npigs.\n\n--Art, said Stephen, is the human disposition of sensible or\nintelligible matter for an esthetic end. You remember the pigs and\nforget that. You are a distressing pair, you and Cranly.\n\nLynch made a grimace at the raw grey sky and said:\n\n--If I am to listen to your esthetic philosophy give me at least\nanother cigarette. I don't care about it. I don't even care about\nwomen. Damn you and damn everything. I want a job of five hundred a\nyear. You can't get me one.\n\nStephen handed him the packet of cigarettes. Lynch took the last one\nthat remained, saying simply:\n\n--Proceed!\n\n--Aquinas, said Stephen, says that is beautiful the apprehension of\nwhich pleases.\n\nLynch nodded.\n\n--I remember that, he said, PULCRA SUNT QUAE VISA PLACENT.\n\n--He uses the word VISA, said Stephen, to cover esthetic apprehensions of\nall kinds, whether through sight or hearing or through any other avenue of\napprehension. This word, though it is vague, is clear enough to keep\naway good and evil which excite desire and loathing. It means certainly\na stasis and not a kinesis. How about the true? It produces also a\nstasis of the mind. You would not write your name in pencil across the\nhypotenuse of a right-angled triangle.\n\n--No, said Lynch, give me the hypotenuse of the Venus of Praxiteles.\n\n--Static therefore, said Stephen. Plato, I believe, said that beauty\nis the splendour of truth. I don't think that it has a meaning, but the\ntrue and the beautiful are akin. Truth is beheld by the intellect which\nis appeased by the most satisfying relations of the intelligible;\nbeauty is beheld by the imagination which is appeased by the most\nsatisfying relations of the sensible. The first step in the direction\nof truth is to understand the frame and scope of the intellect itself,\nto comprehend the act itself of intellection. Aristotle's entire system\nof philosophy rests upon his book of psychology and that, I think,\nrests on his statement that the same attribute cannot at the same time\nand in the same connexion belong to and not belong to the same subject.\nThe first step in the direction of beauty is to understand the frame\nand scope of the imagination, to comprehend the act itself of esthetic\napprehension. Is that clear?\n\n--But what is beauty? asked Lynch impatiently. Out with another\ndefinition. Something we see and like! Is that the best you and Aquinas\ncan do?\n\n--Let us take woman, said Stephen.\n\n--Let us take her! said Lynch fervently.\n\n--The Greek, the Turk, the Chinese, the Copt, the Hottentot, said\nStephen, all admire a different type of female beauty. That seems\nto be a maze out of which we cannot escape. I see, however,\ntwo ways out. One is this hypothesis: that every physical quality\nadmired by men in women is in direct connexion with the manifold\nfunctions of women for the propagation of the species. It may be so.\nThe world, it seems, is drearier than even you, Lynch, imagined. For my\npart I dislike that way out. It leads to eugenics rather than to\nesthetic. It leads you out of the maze into a new gaudy lecture-room\nwhere MacCann, with one hand on THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES and the other hand\non the new testament, tells you that you admired the great flanks of\nVenus because you felt that she would bear you burly offspring and\nadmired her great breasts because you felt that she would give good\nmilk to her children and yours.\n\n--Then MacCann is a sulphur-yellow liar, said Lynch energetically.\n\n--There remains another way out, said Stephen, laughing.\n\n--To wit? said Lynch.\n\n--This hypothesis, Stephen began.\n\nA long dray laden with old iron came round the corner of Sir Patrick\nDun's hospital covering the end of Stephen's speech with the harsh roar\nof jangled and rattling metal. Lynch closed his ears and gave out oath\nafter oath till the dray had passed. Then he turned on his heel rudely.\nStephen turned also and waited for a few moments till his companion's\nill-humour had had its vent.\n\n--This hypothesis, Stephen repeated, is the other way out: that,\nthough the same object may not seem beautiful to all people, all people\nwho admire a beautiful object find in it certain relations which\nsatisfy and coincide with the stages themselves of all esthetic\napprehension. These relations of the sensible, visible to you through\none form and to me through another, must be therefore the necessary\nqualities of beauty. Now, we can return to our old friend saint Thomas\nfor another pennyworth of wisdom.\n\nLynch laughed.\n\n--It amuses me vastly, he said, to hear you quoting him time after\ntime like a jolly round friar. Are you laughing in your sleeve?\n\n--MacAlister, answered Stephen, would call my esthetic theory applied\nAquinas. So far as this side of esthetic philosophy extends, Aquinas\nwill carry me all along the line. When we come to the phenomena of\nartistic conception, artistic gestation, and artistic reproduction I\nrequire a new terminology and a new personal experience.\n\n--Of course, said Lynch. After all Aquinas, in spite of his intellect,\nwas exactly a good round friar. But you will tell me about the new\npersonal experience and new terminology some other day. Hurry up and\nfinish the first part.\n\n--Who knows? said Stephen, smiling. Perhaps Aquinas would understand\nme better than you. He was a poet himself. He wrote a hymn for Maundy\nThursday. It begins with the words PANGE LINGUA GLORIOSI. They say it\nis the highest glory of the hymnal. It is an intricate and soothing\nhymn. I like it; but there is no hymn that can be put beside that\nmournful and majestic processional song, the VEXILLA REGIS of Venantius\nFortunatus.\n\nLynch began to sing softly and solemnly in a deep bass voice:\n\n    IMPLETA SUNT QUAE CONCINIT\n    DAVID FIDELI CARMINE\n    DICENDO NATIONIBUS\n    REGNAVIT A LIGNO DEUS.\n\n--That's great! he said, well pleased. Great music!\n\nThey turned into Lower Mount Street. A few steps from the corner a fat\nyoung man, wearing a silk neckcloth, saluted them and stopped.\n\n--Did you hear the results of the exams? he asked. Griffin was\nplucked. Halpin and O'Flynn are through the home civil. Moonan got\nfifth place in the Indian. O'Shaughnessy got fourteenth. The Irish\nfellows in Clark's gave them a feed last night. They all ate curry.\n\nHis pallid bloated face expressed benevolent malice and, as he had\nadvanced through his tidings of success, his small fat-encircled eyes\nvanished out of sight and his weak wheezing voice out of hearing.\n\nIn reply to a question of Stephen's his eyes and his voice came forth\nagain from their lurking-places.\n\n--Yes, MacCullagh and I, he said. He's taking pure mathematics and I'm\ntaking constitutional history. There are twenty subjects. I'm taking\nbotany too. You know I'm a member of the field club.\n\nHe drew back from the other two in a stately fashion and placed a plump\nwoollen-gloved hand on his breast from which muttered wheezing laughter\nat once broke forth.\n\n--Bring us a few turnips and onions the next time you go out, said\nStephen drily, to make a stew.\n\nThe fat student laughed indulgently and said:\n\n--We are all highly respectable people in the field club. Last\nSaturday we went out to Glenmalure, seven of us.\n\n--With women, Donovan? said Lynch.\n\nDonovan again laid his hand on his chest and said:\n\n--Our end is the acquisition of knowledge. Then he said quickly:\n\n--I hear you are writing some essays about esthetics.\n\nStephen made a vague gesture of denial.\n\n--Goethe and Lessing, said Donovan, have written a lot on that\nsubject, the classical school and the romantic school and all that. The\nLaocoon interested me very much when I read it. Of course it is\nidealistic, German, ultra-profound.\n\nNeither of the others spoke. Donovan took leave of them urbanely.\n\n--I must go, he said softly and benevolently, I have a strong\nsuspicion, amounting almost to a conviction, that my sister intended to\nmake pancakes today for the dinner of the Donovan family.\n\n--Goodbye, Stephen said in his wake. Don't forget the turnips for me\nand my mate.\n\nLynch gazed after him, his lip curling in slow scorn till his face\nresembled a devil's mask:\n\n--To think that that yellow pancake-eating excrement can get a good\njob, he said at length, and I have to smoke cheap cigarettes!\n\nThey turned their faces towards Merrion Square and went for a little in\nsilence.\n\n--To finish what I was saying about beauty, said Stephen, the most\nsatisfying relations of the sensible must therefore correspond to the\nnecessary phases of artistic apprehension. Find these and you find the\nqualities of universal beauty. Aquinas says: AD PULCRITUDINEM TRIA\nREQUIRUNTUR INTEGRITAS, CONSONANTIA, CLARITAS. I translate it so: THREE\nTHINGS ARE NEEDED FOR BEAUTY, WHOLENESS, HARMONY, AND RADIANCE. Do\nthese correspond to the phases of apprehension? Are you following?\n\n--Of course, I am, said Lynch. If you think I have an excrementitious\nintelligence run after Donovan and ask him to listen to you.\n\nStephen pointed to a basket which a butcher's boy had slung inverted on\nhis head.\n\n--Look at that basket, he said.\n\n--I see it, said Lynch.\n\n--In order to see that basket, said Stephen, your mind first of all\nseparates the basket from the rest of the visible universe which is not\nthe basket. The first phase of apprehension is a bounding line drawn\nabout the object to be apprehended. An esthetic image is presented to\nus either in space or in time.\n\nWhat is audible is presented in time, what is visible is presented in\nspace. But, temporal or spatial, the esthetic image is first luminously\napprehended as selfbounded and selfcontained upon the immeasurable\nbackground of space or time which is not it. You apprehended it as ONE\nthing. You see it as one whole. You apprehend its wholeness. That is\nINTEGRITAS.\n\n--Bull's eye! said Lynch, laughing. Go on.\n\n--Then, said Stephen, you pass from point to point, led by its formal\nlines; you apprehend it as balanced part against part within its\nlimits; you feel the rhythm of its structure. In other words, the\nsynthesis of immediate perception is followed by the analysis of\napprehension. Having first felt that it is ONE thing you feel now that\nit is a THING. You apprehend it as complex, multiple, divisible,\nseparable, made up of its parts, the result of its parts and their sum,\nharmonious. That is CONSONANTIA.\n\n--Bull's eye again! said Lynch wittily. Tell me now what is CLARITAS\nand you win the cigar.\n\n--The connotation of the word, Stephen said, is rather vague. Aquinas\nuses a term which seems to be inexact. It baffled me for a long time.\nIt would lead you to believe that he had in mind symbolism or idealism,\nthe supreme quality of beauty being a light from some other world, the\nidea of which the matter is but the shadow, the reality of which it is\nbut the symbol. I thought he might mean that CLARITAS is the artistic\ndiscovery and representation of the divine purpose in anything or a\nforce of generalization which would make the esthetic image a\nuniversal one, make it outshine its proper conditions. But that is\nliterary talk. I understand it so. When you have apprehended that\nbasket as one thing and have then analysed it according to its form and\napprehended it as a thing you make the only synthesis which is\nlogically and esthetically permissible. You see that it is that thing\nwhich it is and no other thing. The radiance of which he speaks in the\nscholastic QUIDDITAS, the WHATNESS of a thing. This supreme quality is\nfelt by the artist when the esthetic image is first conceived in his\nimagination. The mind in that mysterious instant Shelley likened\nbeautifully to a fading coal. The instant wherein that supreme quality\nof beauty, the clear radiance of the esthetic image, is apprehended\nluminously by the mind which has been arrested by its wholeness and\nfascinated by its harmony is the luminous silent stasis of esthetic\npleasure, a spiritual state very like to that cardiac condition which\nthe Italian physiologist Luigi Galvani, using a phrase almost as\nbeautiful as Shelley's, called the enchantment of the heart.\n\nStephen paused and, though his companion did not speak, felt that his\nwords had called up around them a thought-enchanted silence.\n\n--What I have said, he began again, refers to beauty in the wider\nsense of the word, in the sense which the word has in the literary\ntradition. In the marketplace it has another sense. When we speak of\nbeauty in the second sense of the term our judgement is influenced in\nthe first place by the art itself and by the form of that art. The\nimage, it is clear, must be set between the mind or senses of the\nartist himself and the mind or senses of others. If you bear this in\nmemory you will see that art necessarily divides itself into three\nforms progressing from one to the next. These forms are: the lyrical\nform, the form wherein the artist presents his image in immediate\nrelation to himself; the epical form, the form wherein he presents his\nimage in mediate relation to himself and to others; the dramatic form,\nthe form wherein he presents his image in immediate relation to others.\n\n--That you told me a few nights ago, said Lynch, and we began the\nfamous discussion.\n\n--I have a book at home, said Stephen, in which I have written down\nquestions which are more amusing than yours were. In finding the\nanswers to them I found the theory of esthetic which I am trying to\nexplain. Here are some questions I set myself: IS A CHAIR FINELY MADE\nTRAGIC OR COMIC? IS THE PORTRAIT OF MONA LISA GOOD IF I DESIRE TO SEE\nIT? IF NOT, WHY NOT?\n\n--Why not, indeed? said Lynch, laughing.\n\n--IF A MAN HACKING IN FURY AT A BLOCK OF WOOD, Stephen continued, MAKE\nTHERE AN IMAGE OF A COW, IS THAT IMAGE A WORK OF ART? IF NOT, WHY NOT?\n\n--That's a lovely one, said Lynch, laughing again. That has the true\nscholastic stink.\n\n--Lessing, said Stephen, should not have taken a group of statues to\nwrite of. The art, being inferior, does not present the forms I spoke\nof distinguished clearly one from another. Even in literature, the\nhighest and most spiritual art, the forms are often confused. The\nlyrical form is in fact the simplest verbal vesture of an instant of\nemotion, a rhythmical cry such as ages ago cheered on the man who pulled\nat the oar or dragged stones up a slope. He who utters it is more\nconscious of the instant of emotion than of himself as feeling emotion.\nThe simplest epical form is seen emerging out of lyrical literature\nwhen the artist prolongs and broods upon himself as the centre of an\nepical event and this form progresses till the centre of emotional\ngravity is equidistant from the artist himself and from others. The\nnarrative is no longer purely personal. The personality of the artist\npasses into the narration itself, flowing round and round the persons\nand the action like a vital sea. This progress you will see easily in\nthat old English ballad TURPIN HERO which begins in the first person\nand ends in the third person. The dramatic form is reached when the\nvitality which has flowed and eddied round each person fills every\nperson with such vital force that he or she assumes a proper and\nintangible esthetic life. The personality of the artist, at first a cry\nor a cadence or a mood and then a fluid and lambent narrative, finally\nrefines itself out of existence, impersonalizes itself, so to speak.\nThe esthetic image in the dramatic form is life purified in and\nreprojected from the human imagination. The mystery of esthetic, like\nthat of material creation, is accomplished. The artist, like the God of\ncreation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork,\ninvisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his\nfingernails.\n\n--Trying to refine them also out of existence, said Lynch.\n\nA fine rain began to fall from the high veiled sky and they turned into\nthe duke's lawn to reach the national library before the shower came.\n\n--What do you mean, Lynch asked surlily, by prating about beauty and\nthe imagination in this miserable Godforsaken island? No wonder the\nartist retired within or behind his handiwork after having perpetrated\nthis country.\n\nThe rain fell faster. When they passed through the passage beside\nKildare house they found many students sheltering under the arcade of\nthe library. Cranly, leaning against a pillar, was picking his teeth\nwith a sharpened match, listening to some companions. Some girls stood\nnear the entrance door. Lynch whispered to Stephen:\n\n--Your beloved is here.\n\nStephen took his place silently on the step below the group of\nstudents, heedless of the rain which fell fast, turning his eyes\ntowards her from time to time. She too stood silently among her\ncompanions. She has no priest to flirt with, he thought with conscious\nbitterness, remembering how he had seen her last. Lynch was right. His\nmind emptied of theory and courage, lapsed back into a listless peace.\n\nHe heard the students talking among themselves. They spoke of two\nfriends who had passed the final medical examination, of the chances of\ngetting places on ocean liners, of poor and rich practices.\n\n--That's all a bubble. An Irish country practice is better.\n\n--Hynes was two years in Liverpool and he says the same. A frightful\nhole he said it was. Nothing but midwifery cases.\n\n--Do you mean to say it is better to have a job here in the country\nthan in a rich city like that? I know a fellow...\n\n--Hynes has no brains. He got through by stewing, pure stewing.\n\n--Don't mind him. There's plenty of money to be made in a big commercial\ncity.\n\n--Depends on the practice.\n\n--EGO CREDO UT VITA PAUPERUM EST SIMPLICITER ATROX, SIMPLICITER\nSANGUINARIUS ATROX, IN LIVERPOOLIO.\n\nTheir voices reached his ears as if from a distance in interrupted\npulsation. She was preparing to go away with her companions.\n\nThe quick light shower had drawn off, tarrying in clusters of diamonds\namong the shrubs of the quadrangle where an exhalation was breathed\nforth by the blackened earth. Their trim boots prattled as they stood\non the steps of the colonnade, talking quietly and gaily, glancing at\nthe clouds, holding their umbrellas at cunning angles against the few\nlast raindrops, closing them again, holding their skirts demurely.\n\nAnd if he had judged her harshly? If her life were a simple rosary of\nhours, her life simple and strange as a bird's life, gay in the\nmorning, restless all day, tired at sundown? Her heart simple and\nwilful as a bird's heart?\n\n\n* * * * *\n\n\nTowards dawn he awoke. O what sweet music! His soul was all dewy wet.\nOver his limbs in sleep pale cool waves of light had passed. He lay\nstill, as if his soul lay amid cool waters, conscious of faint sweet\nmusic. His mind was waking slowly to a tremulous morning knowledge, a\nmorning inspiration. A spirit filled him, pure as the purest water,\nsweet as dew, moving as music. But how faintly it was inbreathed, how\npassionlessly, as if the seraphim themselves were breathing upon him!\nHis soul was waking slowly, fearing to awake wholly. It was that\nwindless hour of dawn when madness wakes and strange plants open to the\nlight and the moth flies forth silently.\n\nAn enchantment of the heart! The night had been enchanted. In a dream\nor vision he had known the ecstasy of seraphic life. Was it an instant\nof enchantment only or long hours and years and ages?\n\nThe instant of inspiration seemed now to be reflected from all sides at\nonce from a multitude of cloudy circumstances of what had happened or\nof what might have happened. The instant flashed forth like a point of\nlight and now from cloud on cloud of vague circumstance confused form\nwas veiling softly its afterglow. O! In the virgin womb of the\nimagination the word was made flesh. Gabriel the seraph had come to the\nvirgin's chamber. An afterglow deepened within his spirit, whence the\nwhite flame had passed, deepening to a rose and ardent light. That rose\nand ardent light was her strange wilful heart, strange that no man had\nknown or would know, wilful from before the beginning of the world; and\nlured by that ardent rose-like glow the choirs of the seraphim were\nfalling from heaven.\n\n    Are you not weary of ardent ways,\n    Lure of the fallen seraphim?\n    Tell no more of enchanted days.\n\nThe verses passed from his mind to his lips and, murmuring them over,\nhe felt the rhythmic movement of a villanelle pass through them. The\nrose-like glow sent forth its rays of rhyme; ways, days, blaze, praise,\nraise. Its rays burned up the world, consumed the hearts of men and\nangels: the rays from the rose that was her wilful heart.\n\n    Your eyes have set man's heart ablaze\n    And you have had your will of him.\n    Are you not weary of ardent ways?\n\nAnd then? The rhythm died away, ceased, began again to move and beat.\nAnd then? Smoke, incense ascending from the altar of the world.\n\n    Above the flame the smoke of praise\n    Goes up from ocean rim to rim\n    Tell no more of enchanted days.\n\nSmoke went up from the whole earth, from the vapoury oceans, smoke of\nher praise. The earth was like a swinging swaying censer, a ball of\nincense, an ellipsoidal fall. The rhythm died out at once; the cry of\nhis heart was broken. His lips began to murmur the first verses over\nand over; then went on stumbling through half verses, stammering and\nbaffled; then stopped. The heart's cry was broken.\n\nThe veiled windless hour had passed and behind the panes of the naked\nwindow the morning light was gathering. A bell beat faintly very far\naway. A bird twittered; two birds, three. The bell and the bird ceased;\nand the dull white light spread itself east and west, covering the\nworld, covering the roselight in his heart.\n\nFearing to lose all, he raised himself suddenly on his elbow to look\nfor paper and pencil. There was neither on the table; only the soup\nplate he had eaten the rice from for supper and the candlestick with\nits tendrils of tallow and its paper socket, singed by the last flame.\nHe stretched his arm wearily towards the foot of the bed, groping with\nhis hand in the pockets of the coat that hung there. His fingers found\na pencil and then a cigarette packet. He lay back and, tearing open the\npacket, placed the last cigarette on the window ledge and began to\nwrite out the stanzas of the villanelle in small neat letters on the\nrough cardboard surface.\n\nHaving written them out he lay back on the lumpy pillow, murmuring them\nagain. The lumps of knotted flock under his head reminded him of the\nlumps of knotted horsehair in the sofa of her parlour on which he used\nto sit, smiling or serious, asking himself why he had come, displeased\nwith her and with himself, confounded by the print of the Sacred Heart\nabove the untenanted sideboard. He saw her approach him in a lull of\nthe talk and beg him to sing one of his curious songs. Then he saw\nhimself sitting at the old piano, striking chords softly from its\nspeckled keys and singing, amid the talk which had risen again in the\nroom, to her who leaned beside the mantelpiece a dainty song of the\nElizabethans, a sad and sweet loth to depart, the victory chant of\nAgincourt, the happy air of Greensleeves. While he sang and she\nlistened, or feigned to listen, his heart was at rest but when the\nquaint old songs had ended and he heard again the voices in the room he\nremembered his own sarcasm: the house where young men are called by\ntheir christian names a little too soon.\n\nAt certain instants her eyes seemed about to trust him but he had\nwaited in vain. She passed now dancing lightly across his memory as she\nhad been that night at the carnival ball, her white dress a little\nlifted, a white spray nodding in her hair. She danced lightly in the\nround. She was dancing towards him and, as she came, her eyes were a\nlittle averted and a faint glow was on her cheek. At the pause in the\nchain of hands her hand had lain in his an instant, a soft merchandise.\n\n--You are a great stranger now.\n\n--Yes. I was born to be a monk.\n\n--I am afraid you are a heretic.\n\n--Are you much afraid?\n\nFor answer she had danced away from him along the chain of hands,\ndancing lightly and discreetly, giving herself to none. The white spray\nnodded to her dancing and when she was in shadow the glow was deeper on\nher cheek.\n\nA monk! His own image started forth a profaner of the cloister, a\nheretic franciscan, willing and willing not to serve, spinning like\nGherardino da Borgo San Donnino, a lithe web of sophistry and\nwhispering in her ear.\n\nNo, it was not his image. It was like the image of the young priest in\nwhose company he had seen her last, looking at him out of dove's eyes,\ntoying with the pages of her Irish phrase-book.\n\n--Yes, yes, the ladies are coming round to us. I can see it every day.\nThe ladies are with us. The best helpers the language has.\n\n--And the church, Father Moran?\n\n--The church too. Coming round too. The work is going ahead there too.\nDon't fret about the church.\n\nBah! he had done well to leave the room in disdain. He had done well\nnot to salute her on the steps of the library! He had done well to\nleave her to flirt with her priest, to toy with a church which was the\nscullery-maid of christendom.\n\nRude brutal anger routed the last lingering instant of ecstasy from his\nsoul. It broke up violently her fair image and flung the fragments on\nall sides. On all sides distorted reflections of her image started from\nhis memory: the flower girl in the ragged dress with damp coarse hair\nand a hoyden's face who had called herself his own girl and begged his\nhandsel, the kitchen-girl in the next house who sang over the clatter\nof her plates, with the drawl of a country singer, the first bars of BY\nKILLARNEY'S LAKES AND FELLS, a girl who had laughed gaily to see him\nstumble when the iron grating in the footpath near Cork Hill had caught\nthe broken sole of his shoe, a girl he had glanced at, attracted by her\nsmall ripe mouth, as she passed out of Jacob's biscuit factory, who had\ncried to him over her shoulder:\n\n--Do you like what you seen of me, straight hair and curly eyebrows?\n\nAnd yet he felt that, however he might revile and mock her image, his\nanger was also a form of homage. He had left the classroom in disdain\nthat was not wholly sincere, feeling that perhaps the secret of her\nrace lay behind those dark eyes upon which her long lashes flung a\nquick shadow. He had told himself bitterly as he walked through the\nstreets that she was a figure of the womanhood of her country, a bat-like\nsoul waking to the consciousness of itself in darkness and secrecy and\nloneliness, tarrying awhile, loveless and sinless, with her mild lover and\nleaving him to whisper of innocent transgressions in the latticed ear of a\npriest. His anger against her found vent in coarse railing at her\nparamour, whose name and voice and features offended his baffled pride: a\npriested peasant, with a brother a policeman in Dublin and a brother a\npotboy in Moycullen. To him she would unveil her soul's shy nakedness, to\none who was but schooled in the discharging of a formal rite rather than\nto him, a priest of the eternal imagination, transmuting the daily bread\nof experience into the radiant body of everliving life.\n\nThe radiant image of the eucharist united again in an instant his\nbitter and despairing thoughts, their cries arising unbroken in a hymn\nof thanksgiving.\n\n    Our broken cries and mournful lays\n    Rise in one eucharistic hymn\n    Are you not weary of ardent ways?\n\n    While sacrificing hands upraise\n    The chalice flowing to the brim.\n    Tell no more of enchanted days.\n\nHe spoke the verses aloud from the first lines till the music and\nrhythm suffused his mind, turning it to quiet indulgence; then copied\nthem painfully to feel them the better by seeing them; then lay back on\nhis bolster.\n\nThe full morning light had come. No sound was to be heard; but he knew\nthat all around him life was about to awaken in common noises, hoarse\nvoices, sleepy prayers. Shrinking from that life he turned towards the\nwall, making a cowl of the blanket and staring at the great overblown\nscarlet flowers of the tattered wallpaper. He tried to warm his\nperishing joy in their scarlet glow, imagining a roseway from where he\nlay upwards to heaven all strewn with scarlet flowers. Weary! Weary! He\ntoo was weary of ardent ways.\n\nA gradual warmth, a languorous weariness passed over him descending\nalong his spine from his closely cowled head. He felt it descend and,\nseeing himself as he lay, smiled. Soon he would sleep.\n\nHe had written verses for her again after ten years. Ten years before\nshe had worn her shawl cowlwise about her head, sending sprays of her\nwarm breath into the night air, tapping her foot upon the glassy road.\nIt was the last tram; the lank brown horses knew it and shook their\nbells to the clear night in admonition. The conductor talked with the\ndriver, both nodding often in the green light of the lamp. They stood\non the steps of the tram, he on the upper, she on the lower. She came\nup to his step many times between their phrases and went down again and\nonce or twice remained beside him forgetting to go down and then went\ndown. Let be! Let be!\n\nTen years from that wisdom of children to his folly. If he sent her the\nverses? They would be read out at breakfast amid the tapping of\negg-shells. Folly indeed! Her brothers would laugh and try to wrest the\npage from each other with their strong hard fingers. The suave priest,\nher uncle, seated in his arm-chair, would hold the page at arm's\nlength, read it smiling and approve of the literary form.\n\nNo, no; that was folly. Even if he sent her the verses she would not\nshow them to others. No, no; she could not.\n\nHe began to feel that he had wronged her. A sense of her innocence\nmoved him almost to pity her, an innocence he had never understood till\nhe had come to the knowledge of it through sin, an innocence which she\ntoo had not understood while she was innocent or before the strange\nhumiliation of her nature had first come upon her. Then first her soul\nhad begun to live as his soul had when he had first sinned, and a\ntender compassion filled his heart as he remembered her frail pallor\nand her eyes, humbled and saddened by the dark shame of womanhood.\n\nWhile his soul had passed from ecstasy to languor where had she been?\nMight it be, in the mysterious ways of spiritual life, that her soul at\nthose same moments had been conscious of his homage? It might be.\n\nA glow of desire kindled again his soul and fired and fulfilled all his\nbody. Conscious of his desire she was waking from odorous sleep, the\ntemptress of his villanelle. Her eyes, dark and with a look of languor,\nwere opening to his eyes. Her nakedness yielded to him, radiant, warm,\nodorous and lavish-limbed, enfolded him like a shining cloud, enfolded\nhim like water with a liquid life; and like a cloud of vapour or like\nwaters circumfluent in space the liquid letters of speech, symbols of\nthe element of mystery, flowed forth over his brain.\n\n    Are you not weary of ardent ways,\n    Lure of the fallen seraphim?\n    Tell no more of enchanted days.\n\n    Your eyes have set man's heart ablaze\n    And you have had your will of him.\n    Are you not weary of ardent ways?\n\n    Above the flame the smoke of praise\n    Goes up from ocean rim to rim.\n    Tell no more of enchanted days.\n\n    Our broken cries and mournful lays\n    Rise in one eucharistic hymn.\n    Are you not weary of ardent ways?\n\n    While sacrificing hands upraise\n    The chalice flowing to the brim.\n    Tell no more of enchanted days.\n\n    And still you hold our longing gaze\n    With languorous look and lavish limb!\n    Are you not weary of ardent ways?\n    Tell no more of enchanted days.\n\n\n* * * * *\n\n\nWhat birds were they? He stood on the steps of the library to look at\nthem, leaning wearily on his ashplant. They flew round and round the\njutting shoulder of a house in Molesworth Street. The air of the late\nMarch evening made clear their flight, their dark quivering bodies\nflying clearly against the sky as against a limp-hung cloth of smoky\ntenuous blue.\n\nHe watched their flight; bird after bird: a dark flash, a swerve, a\nflutter of wings. He tried to count them before all their darting\nquivering bodies passed: six, ten, eleven: and wondered were they odd\nor even in number. Twelve, thirteen: for two came wheeling down from the\nupper sky. They were flying high and low but ever round and round in\nstraight and curving lines and ever flying from left to right, circling\nabout a temple of air.\n\nHe listened to the cries: like the squeak of mice behind the wainscot:\na shrill twofold note. But the notes were long and shrill and whirring,\nunlike the cry of vermin, falling a third or a fourth and trilled as\nthe flying beaks clove the air. Their cry was shrill and clear and fine\nand falling like threads of silken light unwound from whirring spools.\n\nThe inhuman clamour soothed his ears in which his mother's sobs and\nreproaches murmured insistently and the dark frail quivering bodies\nwheeling and fluttering and swerving round an airy temple of the\ntenuous sky soothed his eyes which still saw the image of his mother's\nface.\n\nWhy was he gazing upwards from the steps of the porch, hearing their\nshrill twofold cry, watching their flight? For an augury of good or\nevil? A phrase of Cornelius Agrippa flew through his mind and then\nthere flew hither and thither shapeless thoughts from Swedenborg on the\ncorrespondence of birds to things of the intellect and of how the\ncreatures of the air have their knowledge and know their times and\nseasons because they, unlike man, are in the order of their life and\nhave not perverted that order by reason.\n\nAnd for ages men had gazed upward as he was gazing at birds in flight.\nThe colonnade above him made him think vaguely of an ancient temple and\nthe ashplant on which he leaned wearily of the curved stick of an\naugur. A sense of fear of the unknown moved in the heart of his\nweariness, a fear of symbols and portents, of the hawk-like man whose\nname he bore soaring out of his captivity on osier-woven wings, of\nThoth, the god of writers, writing with a reed upon a tablet and\nbearing on his narrow ibis head the cusped moon.\n\nHe smiled as he thought of the god's image for it made him think of a\nbottle-nosed judge in a wig, putting commas into a document which he\nheld at arm's length, and he knew that he would not have remembered the\ngod's name but that it was like an Irish oath. It was folly. But was it\nfor this folly that he was about to leave for ever the house of prayer\nand prudence into which he had been born and the order of life out of\nwhich he had come?\n\nThey came back with shrill cries over the jutting shoulder of the\nhouse, flying darkly against the fading air. What birds were they? He\nthought that they must be swallows who had come back from the south.\nThen he was to go away for they were birds ever going and coming,\nbuilding ever an unlasting home under the eaves of men's houses and\never leaving the homes they had built to wander.\n\n    Bend down your faces, Oona and Aleel.\n    I gaze upon them as the swallow gazes\n    Upon the nest under the eave before\n    He wander the loud waters.\n\nA soft liquid joy like the noise of many waters flowed over his memory\nand he felt in his heart the soft peace of silent spaces of fading\ntenuous sky above the waters, of oceanic silence, of swallows flying\nthrough the sea-dusk over the flowing waters.\n\nA soft liquid joy flowed through the words where the soft long vowels\nhurtled noiselessly and fell away, lapping and flowing back and ever\nshaking the white bells of their waves in mute chime and mute peal, and\nsoft low swooning cry; and he felt that the augury he had sought in the\nwheeling darting birds and in the pale space of sky above him had come\nforth from his heart like a bird from a turret, quietly and swiftly.\n\nSymbol of departure or of loneliness? The verses crooned in the ear of\nhis memory composed slowly before his remembering eyes the scene of the\nhall on the night of the opening of the national theatre. He was alone\nat the side of the balcony, looking out of jaded eyes at the culture of\nDublin in the stalls and at the tawdry scene-cloths and human dolls\nframed by the garish lamps of the stage. A burly policeman sweated behind\nhim and seemed at every moment about to act. The catcalls and hisses and\nmocking cries ran in rude gusts round the hall from his scattered fellow\nstudents.\n\n--A libel on Ireland!\n\n--Made in Germany.\n\n--Blasphemy!\n\n--We never sold our faith!\n\n--No Irish woman ever did it!\n\n--We want no amateur atheists.\n\n--We want no budding buddhists.\n\nA sudden swift hiss fell from the windows above him and he knew that\nthe electric lamps had been switched on in the reader's room. He turned\ninto the pillared hall, now calmly lit, went up the staircase and\npassed in through the clicking turnstile.\n\nCranly was sitting over near the dictionaries. A thick book, opened at\nthe frontispiece, lay before him on the wooden rest. He leaned back in\nhis chair, inclining his ear like that of a confessor to the face of\nthe medical student who was reading to him a problem from the chess\npage of a journal. Stephen sat down at his right and the priest at the\nother side of the table closed his copy of THE TABLET with an angry\nsnap and stood up.\n\nCranly gazed after him blandly and vaguely. The medical student went on\nin a softer voice:\n\n--Pawn to king's fourth.\n\n--We had better go, Dixon, said Stephen in warning. He has gone to\ncomplain.\n\nDixon folded the journal and rose with dignity, saying:\n\n--Our men retired in good order.\n\n--With guns and cattle, added Stephen, pointing to the titlepage of\nCranly's book on which was printed DISEASES OF THE OX.\n\nAs they passed through a lane of the tables Stephen said:\n\n--Cranly, I want to speak to you.\n\nCranly did not answer or turn. He laid his book on the counter and\npassed out, his well-shod feet sounding flatly on the floor. On the\nstaircase he paused and gazing absently at Dixon repeated:\n\n--Pawn to king's bloody fourth.\n\n--Put it that way if you like, Dixon said.\n\nHe had a quiet toneless voice and urbane manners and on a finger of his\nplump clean hand he displayed at moments a signet ring.\n\nAs they crossed the hall a man of dwarfish stature came towards them.\nUnder the dome of his tiny hat his unshaven face began to smile with\npleasure and he was heard to murmur. The eyes were melancholy as those\nof a monkey.\n\n--Good evening, gentlemen, said the stubble-grown monkeyish face.\n\n--Warm weather for March, said Cranly. They have the windows open\nupstairs.\n\nDixon smiled and turned his ring. The blackish, monkey-puckered face\npursed its human mouth with gentle pleasure and its voice purred:\n\n--Delightful weather for March. Simply delightful.\n\n--There are two nice young ladies upstairs, captain, tired of waiting,\nDixon said.\n\nCranly smiled and said kindly:\n\n--The captain has only one love: sir Walter Scott. Isn't that so,\ncaptain?\n\n--What are you reading now, captain? Dixon asked. THE BRIDE OF\nLAMMERMOOR?\n\n--I love old Scott, the flexible lips said, I think he writes something\nlovely. There is no writer can touch sir Walter Scott.\n\nHe moved a thin shrunken brown hand gently in the air in time to his\npraise and his thin quick eyelids beat often over his sad eyes.\n\nSadder to Stephen's ear was his speech: a genteel accent, low and\nmoist, marred by errors, and, listening to it, he wondered was the\nstory true and was the thin blood that flowed in his shrunken frame\nnoble and come of an incestuous love?\n\nThe park trees were heavy with rain; and rain fell still and ever in\nthe lake, lying grey like a shield. A game of swans flew there and the\nwater and the shore beneath were fouled with their green-white slime.\nThey embraced softly, impelled by the grey rainy light, the wet\nsilent trees, the shield-like witnessing lake, the swans. They embraced\nwithout joy or passion, his arm about his sister's neck. A grey woollen\ncloak was wrapped athwart her from her shoulder to her waist and her\nfair head was bent in willing shame. He had loose red-brown hair and\ntender shapely strong freckled hands. Face? There was no face seen. The\nbrother's face was bent upon her fair rain-fragrant hair. The hand\nfreckled and strong and shapely and caressing was Davin's hand.\n\nHe frowned angrily upon his thought and on the shrivelled mannikin who\nhad called it forth. His father's jibes at the Bantry gang leaped out\nof his memory. He held them at a distance and brooded uneasily on his\nown thought again. Why were they not Cranly's hands? Had Davin's\nsimplicity and innocence stung him more secretly?\n\nHe walked on across the hall with Dixon, leaving Cranly to take leave\nelaborately of the dwarf.\n\nUnder the colonnade Temple was standing in the midst of a little group\nof students. One of them cried:\n\n--Dixon, come over till you hear. Temple is in grand form.\n\nTemple turned on him his dark gipsy eyes.\n\n--You're a hypocrite, O'Keeffe, he said. And Dixon is a smiler. By\nhell, I think that's a good literary expression.\n\nHe laughed slyly, looking in Stephen's face, repeating:\n\n--By hell, I'm delighted with that name. A smiler.\n\nA stout student who stood below them on the steps said:\n\n--Come back to the mistress, Temple. We want to hear about that.\n\n--He had, faith, Temple said. And he was a married man too. And all the\npriests used to be dining there. By hell, I think they all had a touch.\n\n--We shall call it riding a hack to spare the hunter, said Dixon.\n\n--Tell us, Temple, O'Keeffe said, how many quarts of porter have you\nin you?\n\n--All your intellectual soul is in that phrase, O'Keeffe, said Temple\nwith open scorn.\n\nHe moved with a shambling gait round the group and spoke to Stephen.\n\n--Did you know that the Forsters are the kings of Belgium? he asked.\n\nCranly came out through the door of the entrance hall, his hat thrust\nback on the nape of his neck and picking his teeth with care.\n\n--And here's the wiseacre, said Temple. Do you know that about the\nForsters?\n\nHe paused for an answer. Cranly dislodged a figseed from his teeth on\nthe point of his rude toothpick and gazed at it intently.\n\n--The Forster family, Temple said, is descended from Baldwin the\nFirst, king of Flanders. He was called the Forester. Forester and\nForster are the same name. A descendant of Baldwin the First, captain\nFrancis Forster, settled in Ireland and married the daughter of the\nlast chieftain of Clanbrassil. Then there are the Blake Forsters.\nThat's a different branch.\n\n--From Baldhead, king of Flanders, Cranly repeated, rooting again\ndeliberately at his gleaming uncovered teeth.\n\n--Where did you pick up all that history? O'Keeffe asked.\n\n--I know all the history of your family, too, Temple said, turning to\nStephen. Do you know what Giraldus Cambrensis says about your family?\n\n--Is he descended from Baldwin too? asked a tall consumptive student\nwith dark eyes.\n\n--Baldhead, Cranly repeated, sucking at a crevice in his teeth.\n\n--PERNOBILIS ET PERVETUSTA FAMILIA, Temple said to Stephen.\n\nThe stout student who stood below them on the steps farted briefly. Dixon\nturned towards him, saying in a soft voice:\n\n--Did an angel speak?\n\nCranly turned also and said vehemently but without anger:\n\n--Goggins, you're the flamingest dirty devil I ever met, do you know.\n\n--I had it on my mind to say that, Goggins answered firmly. It did no\none any harm, did it?\n\n--We hope, Dixon said suavely, that it was not of the kind known to\nscience as a PAULO POST FUTURUM.\n\n--Didn't I tell you he was a smiler? said Temple, turning right and\nleft. Didn't I give him that name?\n\n--You did. We're not deaf, said the tall consumptive.\n\nCranly still frowned at the stout student below him. Then, with a snort\nof disgust, he shoved him violently down the steps.\n\n--Go away from here, he said rudely. Go away, you stinkpot. And you are a\nstinkpot.\n\nGoggins skipped down on to the gravel and at once returned to his place\nwith good humour. Temple turned back to Stephen and asked:\n\n--Do you believe in the law of heredity?\n\n--Are you drunk or what are you or what are you trying to say? asked\nCranly, facing round on him with an expression of wonder.\n\n--The most profound sentence ever written, Temple said with\nenthusiasm, is the sentence at the end of the zoology. Reproduction is\nthe beginning of death.\n\nHe touched Stephen timidly at the elbow and said eagerly:\n\n--Do you feel how profound that is because you are a poet?\n\nCranly pointed his long forefinger.\n\n--Look at him! he said with scorn to the others. Look at Ireland's hope!\n\nThey laughed at his words and gesture. Temple turned on him bravely,\nsaying:\n\n--Cranly, you're always sneering at me. I can see that. But I am as\ngood as you any day. Do you know what I think about you now as compared\nwith myself?\n\n--My dear man, said Cranly urbanely, you are incapable, do you know,\nabsolutely incapable of thinking.\n\n--But do you know, Temple went on, what I think of you and of myself\ncompared together?\n\n--Out with it, Temple! the stout student cried from the steps. Get it\nout in bits!\n\nTemple turned right and left, making sudden feeble gestures as he spoke.\n\n--I'm a ballocks, he said, shaking his head in despair. I am and I\nknow I am. And I admit it that I am.\n\nDixon patted him lightly on the shoulder and said mildly:\n\n--And it does you every credit, Temple.\n\n--But he, Temple said, pointing to Cranly, he is a ballocks, too, like\nme. Only he doesn't know it. And that's the only difference I see.\n\nA burst of laughter covered his words. But he turned again to Stephen\nand said with a sudden eagerness:\n\n--That word is a most interesting word. That's the only English dual\nnumber. Did you know?\n\n--Is it? Stephen said vaguely.\n\nHe was watching Cranly's firm-featured suffering face, lit up now by a\nsmile of false patience. The gross name had passed over it like foul\nwater poured over an old stone image, patient of injuries; and, as he\nwatched him, he saw him raise his hat in salute and uncover the black\nhair that stood stiffly from his forehead like an iron crown.\n\nShe passed out from the porch of the library and bowed across Stephen\nin reply to Cranly's greeting. He also? Was there not a slight flush on\nCranly's cheek? Or had it come forth at Temple's words? The light had\nwaned. He could not see.\n\nDid that explain his friend's listless silence, his harsh comments, the\nsudden intrusions of rude speech with which he had shattered so often\nStephen's ardent wayward confessions? Stephen had forgiven freely for\nhe had found this rudeness also in himself. And he remembered an\nevening when he had dismounted from a borrowed creaking bicycle to pray\nto God in a wood near Malahide. He had lifted up his arms and spoken in\necstasy to the sombre nave of the trees, knowing that he stood on holy\nground and in a holy hour. And when two constabulary men had come into\nsight round a bend in the gloomy road he had broken off his prayer to\nwhistle loudly an air from the last pantomime.\n\nHe began to beat the frayed end of his ashplant against the base of a\npillar. Had Cranly not heard him? Yet he could wait. The talk about him\nceased for a moment and a soft hiss fell again from a window above. But\nno other sound was in the air and the swallows whose flight he had\nfollowed with idle eyes were sleeping.\n\nShe had passed through the dusk. And therefore the air was silent save\nfor one soft hiss that fell. And therefore the tongues about him had\nceased their babble. Darkness was falling.\n\n    Darkness falls from the air.\n\nA trembling joy, lambent as a faint light, played like a fairy host\naround him. But why? Her passage through the darkening air or the verse\nwith its black vowels and its opening sound, rich and lutelike?\n\nHe walked away slowly towards the deeper shadows at the end of the\ncolonnade, beating the stone softly with his stick to hide his revery\nfrom the students whom he had left: and allowed his mind to summon back\nto itself the age of Dowland and Byrd and Nash.\n\nEyes, opening from the darkness of desire, eyes that dimmed the\nbreaking east. What was their languid grace but the softness of\nchambering? And what was their shimmer but the shimmer of the scum that\nmantled the cesspool of the court of a slobbering Stuart. And he tasted\nin the language of memory ambered wines, dying fallings of sweet airs,\nthe proud pavan, and saw with the eyes of memory kind gentlewomen in\nCovent Garden wooing from their balconies with sucking mouths and the\npox-fouled wenches of the taverns and young wives that, gaily yielding\nto their ravishers, clipped and clipped again.\n\nThe images he had summoned gave him no pleasure. They were secret and\ninflaming but her image was not entangled by them. That was not the way\nto think of her. It was not even the way in which he thought of her.\nCould his mind then not trust itself? Old phrases, sweet only with a\ndisinterred sweetness like the figseeds Cranly rooted out of his\ngleaming teeth.\n\nIt was not thought nor vision though he knew vaguely that her figure\nwas passing homeward through the city. Vaguely first and then more\nsharply he smelt her body. A conscious unrest seethed in his blood.\nYes, it was her body he smelt, a wild and languid smell, the tepid\nlimbs over which his music had flowed desirously and the secret soft\nlinen upon which her flesh distilled odour and a dew.\n\nA louse crawled over the nape of his neck and, putting his thumb and\nforefinger deftly beneath his loose collar, he caught it. He rolled its\nbody, tender yet brittle as a grain of rice, between thumb and finger\nfor an instant before he let it fall from him and wondered would it\nlive or die. There came to his mind a curious phrase from CORNELIUS A\nLAPIDE which said that the lice born of human sweat were not created by\nGod with the other animals on the sixth day. But the tickling of the\nskin of his neck made his mind raw and red. The life of his body, ill\nclad, ill fed, louse-eaten, made him close his eyelids in a sudden\nspasm of despair and in the darkness he saw the brittle bright bodies\nof lice falling from the air and turning often as they fell. Yes, and\nit was not darkness that fell from the air. It was brightness.\n\n    Brightness falls from the air.\n\nHe had not even remembered rightly Nash's line. All the images it had\nawakened were false. His mind bred vermin. His thoughts were lice born\nof the sweat of sloth.\n\nHe came back quickly along the colonnade towards the group of students.\nWell then, let her go and be damned to her! She could love some clean\nathlete who washed himself every morning to the waist and had black\nhair on his chest. Let her.\n\nCranly had taken another dried fig from the supply in his pocket and\nwas eating it slowly and noisily. Temple sat on the pediment of a\npillar, leaning back, his cap pulled down on his sleepy eyes. A squat\nyoung man came out of the porch, a leather portfolio tucked under his\narmpit. He marched towards the group, striking the flags with the heels\nof his boots and with the ferrule of his heavy umbrella. Then, raising\nthe umbrella in salute, he said to all:\n\n--Good evening, sirs.\n\nHe struck the flags again and tittered while his head trembled with a\nslight nervous movement. The tall consumptive student and Dixon and\nO'Keeffe were speaking in Irish and did not answer him. Then, turning\nto Cranly, he said:\n\n--Good evening, particularly to you.\n\nHe moved the umbrella in indication and tittered again. Cranly, who was\nstill chewing the fig, answered with loud movements of his jaws.\n\n--Good? Yes. It is a good evening.\n\nThe squat student looked at him seriously and shook his umbrella gently\nand reprovingly.\n\n--I can see, he said, that you are about to make obvious remarks.\n\n--Um, Cranly answered, holding out what remained of the half chewed\nfig and jerking it towards the squat student's mouth in sign that he\nshould eat.\n\nThe squat student did not eat it but, indulging his special humour,\nsaid gravely, still tittering and prodding his phrase with his\numbrella:\n\n--Do you intend that...?\n\nHe broke off, pointed bluntly to the munched pulp of the fig, and said\nloudly:\n\n--I allude to that.\n\n--Um, Cranly said as before.\n\n--Do you intend that now, the squat student said, as IPSO FACTO or,\nlet us say, as so to speak?\n\nDixon turned aside from his group, saying:\n\n--Goggins was waiting for you, Glynn. He has gone round to the Adelphi\nto look for you and Moynihan. What have you there? he asked, tapping\nthe portfolio under Glynn's arm.\n\n--Examination papers, Glynn answered. I give them monthly examinations\nto see that they are profiting by my tuition.\n\nHe also tapped the portfolio and coughed gently and smiled.\n\n--Tuition! said Cranly rudely. I suppose you mean the barefooted\nchildren that are taught by a bloody ape like you. God help them!\n\nHe bit off the rest of the fig and flung away the butt.\n\n--I suffer little children to come unto me, Glynn said amiably.\n\n--A bloody ape, Cranly repeated with emphasis, and a blasphemous\nbloody ape!\n\nTemple stood up and, pushing past Cranly, addressed Glynn:\n\n--That phrase you said now, he said, is from the new testament about\nsuffer the children to come to me.\n\n--Go to sleep again, Temple, said O'Keeffe.\n\n--Very well, then, Temple continued, still addressing Glynn, and if\nJesus suffered the children to come why does the church send them all\nto hell if they die unbaptized? Why is that?\n\n--Were you baptized yourself, Temple? the consumptive student asked.\n\n--But why are they sent to hell if Jesus said they were all to come?\nTemple said, his eyes searching Glynn's eyes.\n\nGlynn coughed and said gently, holding back with difficulty the nervous\ntitter in his voice and moving his umbrella at every word:\n\n--And, as you remark, if it is thus, I ask emphatically whence comes\nthis thusness.\n\n--Because the church is cruel like all old sinners, Temple said.\n\n--Are you quite orthodox on that point, Temple? Dixon said suavely.\n\n--Saint Augustine says that about unbaptized children going to hell,\nTemple answered, because he was a cruel old sinner too.\n\n--I bow to you, Dixon said, but I had the impression that limbo\nexisted for such cases.\n\n--Don't argue with him, Dixon, Cranly said brutally. Don't talk to him\nor look at him. Lead him home with a sugan the way you'd lead a\nbleating goat.\n\n--Limbo! Temple cried. That's a fine invention too. Like hell.\n\n--But with the unpleasantness left out, Dixon said.\n\nHe turned smiling to the others and said:\n\n--I think I am voicing the opinions of all present in saying so much.\n\n--You are, Glynn said in a firm tone. On that point Ireland is united.\n\nHe struck the ferrule of his umbrella on the stone floor of the\ncolonnade.\n\n--Hell, Temple said. I can respect that invention of the grey spouse\nof Satan. Hell is Roman, like the walls of the Romans, strong and ugly.\nBut what is limbo?\n\n--Put him back into the perambulator, Cranly, O'Keeffe called out.\n\nCranly made a swift step towards Temple, halted, stamping his foot,\ncrying as if to a fowl:\n\n--Hoosh!\n\nTemple moved away nimbly.\n\n--Do you know what limbo is? he cried. Do you know what we call a\nnotion like that in Roscommon?\n\n--Hoosh! Blast you! Cranly cried, clapping his hands.\n\n--Neither my arse nor my elbow! Temple cried out scornfully. And\nthat's what I call limbo.\n\n--Give us that stick here, Cranly said.\n\nHe snatched the ashplant roughly from Stephen's hand and sprang down\nthe steps: but Temple, hearing him move in pursuit, fled through the\ndusk like a wild creature, nimble and fleet-footed. Cranly's heavy\nboots were heard loudly charging across the quadrangle and then\nreturning heavily, foiled and spurning the gravel at each step.\n\nHis step was angry and with an angry abrupt gesture he thrust the stick\nback into Stephen's hand. Stephen felt that his anger had another cause\nbut, feigning patience, touched his arm slightly and said quietly:\n\n--Cranly, I told you I wanted to speak to you. Come away.\n\nCranly looked at him for a few moments and asked:\n\n--Now?\n\n--Yes, now, Stephen said. We can't speak here. Come away.\n\nThey crossed the quadrangle together without speaking. The bird call\nfrom SIEGFRIED whistled softly followed them from the steps of the\nporch. Cranly turned, and Dixon, who had whistled, called out:\n\n--Where are you fellows off to? What about that game, Cranly?\n\nThey parleyed in shouts across the still air about a game of billiards\nto be played in the Adelphi hotel. Stephen walked on alone and out into\nthe quiet of Kildare Street opposite Maple's hotel he stood to wait,\npatient again. The name of the hotel, a colourless polished wood, and\nits colourless front stung him like a glance of polite disdain. He\nstared angrily back at the softly lit drawing-room of the hotel in\nwhich he imagined the sleek lives of the patricians of Ireland housed\nin calm. They thought of army commissions and land agents: peasants\ngreeted them along the roads in the country; they knew the names of\ncertain French dishes and gave orders to jarvies in high-pitched\nprovincial voices which pierced through their skin-tight accents.\n\nHow could he hit their conscience or how cast his shadow over the\nimaginations of their daughters, before their squires begat upon them,\nthat they might breed a race less ignoble than their own? And under the\ndeepened dusk he felt the thoughts and desires of the race to which he\nbelonged flitting like bats across the dark country lanes, under trees\nby the edges of streams and near the pool-mottled bogs. A woman had\nwaited in the doorway as Davin had passed by at night and, offering him\na cup of milk, had all but wooed him to her bed; for Davin had the mild\neyes of one who could be secret. But him no woman's eyes had wooed.\n\nHis arm was taken in a strong grip and Cranly's voice said:\n\n--Let us eke go.\n\nThey walked southward in silence. Then Cranly said:\n\n--That blithering idiot, Temple! I swear to Moses, do you know, that\nI'll be the death of that fellow one time.\n\nBut his voice was no longer angry and Stephen wondered was he thinking\nof her greeting to him under the porch.\n\nThey turned to the left and walked on as before. When they had gone on\nso for some time Stephen said:\n\n--Cranly, I had an unpleasant quarrel this evening.\n\n--With your people? Cranly asked.\n\n--With my mother.\n\n--About religion?\n\n--Yes, Stephen answered.\n\nAfter a pause Cranly asked:\n\n--What age is your mother?\n\n--Not old, Stephen said. She wishes me to make my easter duty.\n\n--And will you?\n\n--I will not, Stephen said.\n\n--Why not? Cranly said.\n\n--I will not serve, answered Stephen.\n\n--That remark was made before, Cranly said calmly.\n\n--It is made behind now, said Stephen hotly.\n\nCranly pressed Stephen's arm, saying:\n\n--Go easy, my dear man. You're an excitable bloody man, do you know.\n\nHe laughed nervously as he spoke and, looking up into Stephen's face\nwith moved and friendly eyes, said:\n\n--Do you know that you are an excitable man?\n\n--I daresay I am, said Stephen, laughing also.\n\nTheir minds, lately estranged, seemed suddenly to have been drawn\ncloser, one to the other.\n\n--Do you believe in the eucharist? Cranly asked.\n\n--I do not, Stephen said.\n\n--Do you disbelieve then?\n\n--I neither believe in it nor disbelieve in it, Stephen answered.\n\n--Many persons have doubts, even religious persons, yet they overcome\nthem or put them aside, Cranly said. Are your doubts on that point too\nstrong?\n\n--I do not wish to overcome them, Stephen answered.\n\nCranly, embarrassed for a moment, took another fig from his pocket and\nwas about to eat it when Stephen said:\n\n--Don't, please. You cannot discuss this question with your mouth full\nof chewed fig.\n\nCranly examined the fig by the light of a lamp under which he halted.\nThen he smelt it with both nostrils, bit a tiny piece, spat it out and\nthrew the fig rudely into the gutter.\n\nAddressing it as it lay, he said:\n\n--Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire!\n\nTaking Stephen's arm, he went on again and said:\n\n--Do you not fear that those words may be spoken to you on the day of\nJudgement?\n\n--What is offered me on the other hand? Stephen asked. An eternity of\nbliss in the company of the dean of studies?\n\n--Remember, Cranly said, that he would be glorified.\n\n--Ay, Stephen said somewhat bitterly, bright, agile, impassible and,\nabove all, subtle.\n\n--It is a curious thing, do you know, Cranly said dispassionately, how\nyour mind is supersaturated with the religion in which you say you\ndisbelieve. Did you believe in it when you were at school? I bet you\ndid.\n\n--I did, Stephen answered.\n\n--And were you happier then? Cranly asked softly, happier than you are\nnow, for instance?\n\n--Often happy, Stephen said, and often unhappy. I was someone else\nthen.\n\n--How someone else? What do you mean by that statement?\n\n--I mean, said Stephen, that I was not myself as I am now, as I had to\nbecome.\n\n--Not as you are now, not as you had to become, Cranly repeated. Let\nme ask you a question. Do you love your mother?\n\nStephen shook his head slowly.\n\n--I don't know what your words mean, he said simply.\n\n--Have you never loved anyone? Cranly asked.\n\n--Do you mean women?\n\n--I am not speaking of that, Cranly said in a colder tone. I ask you\nif you ever felt love towards anyone or anything?\n\nStephen walked on beside his friend, staring gloomily at the footpath.\n\n--I tried to love God, he said at length. It seems now I failed. It is\nvery difficult. I tried to unite my will with the will of God instant\nby instant. In that I did not always fail. I could perhaps do that\nstill--\n\nCranly cut him short by asking:\n\n--Has your mother had a happy life?\n\n--How do I know? Stephen said.\n\n--How many children had she?\n\n--Nine or ten, Stephen answered. Some died.\n\n--Was your father... Cranly interrupted himself for an instant, and then\nsaid: I don't want to pry into your family affairs. But was your father\nwhat is called well-to-do? I mean, when you were growing up?\n\n--Yes, Stephen said.\n\n--What was he? Cranly asked after a pause.\n\nStephen began to enumerate glibly his father's attributes.\n\n--A medical student, an oarsman, a tenor, an amateur actor, a shouting\npolitician, a small landlord, a small investor, a drinker, a good\nfellow, a story-teller, somebody's secretary, something in a\ndistillery, a tax-gatherer, a bankrupt and at present a praiser of his\nown past.\n\nCranly laughed, tightening his grip on Stephen's arm, and said:\n\n--The distillery is damn good.\n\n--Is there anything else you want to know? Stephen asked.\n\n--Are you in good circumstances at present?\n\n--Do I look it? Stephen asked bluntly.\n\n--So then, Cranly went on musingly, you were born in the lap of luxury.\n\nHe used the phrase broadly and loudly as he often used technical\nexpressions, as if he wished his hearer to understand that they were\nused by him without conviction.\n\n--Your mother must have gone through a good deal of suffering, he said\nthen. Would you not try to save her from suffering more even if... or would\nyou?\n\n--If I could, Stephen said, that would cost me very little.\n\n--Then do so, Cranly said. Do as she wishes you to do. What is it for\nyou? You disbelieve in it. It is a form: nothing else. And you will set\nher mind at rest.\n\nHe ceased and, as Stephen did not reply, remained silent. Then, as if\ngiving utterance to the process of his own thought, he said:\n\n--Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a\nmother's love is not. Your mother brings you into the world, carries\nyou first in her body. What do we know about what she feels? But\nwhatever she feels, it, at least, must be real. It must be. What are\nour ideas or ambitions? Play. Ideas! Why, that bloody bleating goat\nTemple has ideas. MacCann has ideas too. Every jackass going the roads\nthinks he has ideas.\n\nStephen, who had been listening to the unspoken speech behind the\nwords, said with assumed carelessness:\n\n--Pascal, if I remember rightly, would not suffer his mother to kiss\nhim as he feared the contact of her sex.\n\n--Pascal was a pig, said Cranly.\n\n--Aloysius Gonzaga, I think, was of the same mind, Stephen said.\n\n--And he was another pig then, said Cranly.\n\n--The church calls him a saint, Stephen objected.\n\n--I don't care a flaming damn what anyone calls him, Cranly said rudely\nand flatly. I call him a pig.\n\nStephen, preparing the words neatly in his mind, continued:\n\n--Jesus, too, seems to have treated his mother with scant courtesy in\npublic but Suarez, a jesuit theologian and Spanish gentleman, has\napologized for him.\n\n--Did the idea ever occur to you, Cranly asked, that Jesus was not\nwhat he pretended to be?\n\n--The first person to whom that idea occurred, Stephen answered, was\nJesus himself.\n\n--I mean, Cranly said, hardening in his speech, did the idea ever\noccur to you that he was himself a conscious hypocrite, what he called\nthe jews of his time, a whited sepulchre? Or, to put it more plainly,\nthat he was a blackguard?\n\n--That idea never occurred to me, Stephen answered. But I am curious\nto know are you trying to make a convert of me or a pervert of\nyourself?\n\nHe turned towards his friend's face and saw there a raw smile which\nsome force of will strove to make finely significant.\n\nCranly asked suddenly in a plain sensible tone:\n\n--Tell me the truth. Were you at all shocked by what I said?\n\n--Somewhat, Stephen said.\n\n--And why were you shocked, Cranly pressed on in the same tone, if you\nfeel sure that our religion is false and that Jesus was not the son of\nGod?\n\n--I am not at all sure of it, Stephen said. He is more like a son of\nGod than a son of Mary.\n\n--And is that why you will not communicate, Cranly asked, because you\nare not sure of that too, because you feel that the host, too, may be\nthe body and blood of the son of God and not a wafer of bread? And\nbecause you fear that it may be?\n\n--Yes, Stephen said quietly, I feel that and I also fear it.\n\n--I see, Cranly said.\n\nStephen, struck by his tone of closure, reopened the discussion at once\nby saying:\n\n--I fear many things: dogs, horses, fire-arms, the sea,\nthunder-storms, machinery, the country roads at night.\n\n--But why do you fear a bit of bread?\n\n--I imagine, Stephen said, that there is a malevolent reality behind\nthose things I say I fear.\n\n--Do you fear then, Cranly asked, that the God of the Roman catholics\nwould strike you dead and damn you if you made a sacrilegious\ncommunion?\n\n--The God of the Roman catholics could do that now, Stephen said. I fear\nmore than that the chemical action which would be set up in my soul by\na false homage to a symbol behind which are massed twenty centuries of\nauthority and veneration.\n\n--Would you, Cranly asked, in extreme danger, commit that particular\nsacrilege? For instance, if you lived in the penal days?\n\n--I cannot answer for the past, Stephen replied. Possibly not.\n\n--Then, said Cranly, you do not intend to become a protestant?\n\n--I said that I had lost the faith, Stephen answered, but not that I\nhad lost self-respect. What kind of liberation would that be to forsake\nan absurdity which is logical and coherent and to embrace one which is\nillogical and incoherent?\n\nThey had walked on towards the township of Pembroke and now, as they\nwent on slowly along the avenues, the trees and the scattered lights in\nthe villas soothed their minds. The air of wealth and repose diffused\nabout them seemed to comfort their neediness. Behind a hedge of laurel\na light glimmered in the window of a kitchen and the voice of a servant\nwas heard singing as she sharpened knives. She sang, in short broken\nbars:\n\nRosie O'Grady.\n\nCranly stopped to listen, saying:\n\n--MULIER CANTAT.\n\nThe soft beauty of the Latin word touched with an enchanting touch the\ndark of the evening, with a touch fainter and more persuading than the\ntouch of music or of a woman's hand. The strife of their minds was\nquelled. The figure of a woman as she appears in the liturgy of the\nchurch passed silently through the darkness: a white-robed figure,\nsmall and slender as a boy, and with a falling girdle. Her voice, frail\nand high as a boy's, was heard intoning from a distant choir the first\nwords of a woman which pierce the gloom and clamour of the first\nchanting of the passion:\n\n--ET TU CUM JESU GALILAEO ERAS.\n\nAnd all hearts were touched and turned to her voice, shining like a\nyoung star, shining clearer as the voice intoned the proparoxytone and\nmore faintly as the cadence died.\n\nThe singing ceased. They went on together, Cranly repeating in strongly\nstressed rhythm the end of the refrain:\n\n    And when we are married,\n    O, how happy we'll be\n    For I love sweet Rosie O'Grady\n    And Rosie O'Grady loves me.\n\n--There's real poetry for you, he said. There's real love.\n\nHe glanced sideways at Stephen with a strange smile and said:\n\n--Do you consider that poetry? Or do you know what the words mean?\n\n--I want to see Rosie first, said Stephen.\n\n--She's easy to find, Cranly said.\n\nHis hat had come down on his forehead. He shoved it back and in the\nshadow of the trees Stephen saw his pale face, framed by the dark, and\nhis large dark eyes. Yes. His face was handsome and his body was strong\nand hard. He had spoken of a mother's love. He felt then the sufferings\nof women, the weaknesses of their bodies and souls: and would shield\nthem with a strong and resolute arm and bow his mind to them.\n\nAway then: it is time to go. A voice spoke softly to Stephen's lonely\nheart, bidding him go and telling him that his friendship was coming to\nan end. Yes; he would go. He could not strive against another. He knew\nhis part.\n\n--Probably I shall go away, he said.\n\n--Where? Cranly asked.\n\n--Where I can, Stephen said.\n\n--Yes, Cranly said. It might be difficult for you to live here now.\nBut is it that makes you go?\n\n--I have to go, Stephen answered.\n\n--Because, Cranly continued, you need not look upon yourself as driven\naway if you do not wish to go or as a heretic or an outlaw. There are\nmany good believers who think as you do. Would that surprise you? The\nchurch is not the stone building nor even the clergy and their dogmas.\nIt is the whole mass of those born into it. I don't know what you wish\nto do in life. Is it what you told me the night we were standing\noutside Harcourt Street station?\n\n--Yes, Stephen said, smiling in spite of himself at Cranly's way of\nremembering thoughts in connexion with places. The night you spent half\nan hour wrangling with Doherty about the shortest way from Sallygap to\nLarras.\n\n--Pothead! Cranly said with calm contempt. What does he know about the\nway from Sallygap to Larras? Or what does he know about anything for\nthat matter? And the big slobbering washing-pot head of him!\n\nHe broke into a loud long laugh.\n\n--Well? Stephen said. Do you remember the rest?\n\n--What you said, is it? Cranly asked. Yes, I remember it. To discover the\nmode of life or of art whereby your spirit could express itself in\nunfettered freedom.\n\nStephen raised his hat in acknowledgement.\n\n--Freedom! Cranly repeated. But you are not free enough yet to commit\na sacrilege. Tell me would you rob?\n\n--I would beg first, Stephen said.\n\n--And if you got nothing, would you rob?\n\n--You wish me to say, Stephen answered, that the rights of property\nare provisional, and that in certain circumstances it is not unlawful\nto rob. Everyone would act in that belief. So I will not make you that\nanswer. Apply to the jesuit theologian, Juan Mariana de Talavera, who\nwill also explain to you in what circumstances you may lawfully kill\nyour king and whether you had better hand him his poison in a goblet or\nsmear it for him upon his robe or his saddlebow. Ask me rather would I\nsuffer others to rob me, or if they did, would I call down upon them\nwhat I believe is called the chastisement of the secular arm?\n\n--And would you?\n\n--I think, Stephen said, it would pain me as much to do so as to be\nrobbed.\n\n--I see, Cranly said.\n\nHe produced his match and began to clean the crevice between two teeth.\nThen he said carelessly:\n\n--Tell me, for example, would you deflower a virgin?\n\n--Excuse me, Stephen said politely, is that not the ambition of most\nyoung gentlemen?\n\n--What then is your point of view? Cranly asked.\n\nHis last phrase, sour smelling as the smoke of charcoal and\ndisheartening, excited Stephen's brain, over which its fumes seemed to\nbrood.\n\n--Look here, Cranly, he said. You have asked me what I would do and\nwhat I would not do. I will tell you what I will do and what I will not\ndo. I will not serve that in which I no longer believe, whether it call\nitself my home, my fatherland, or my church: and I will try to express\nmyself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as\nI can, using for my defence the only arms I allow myself to use--silence,\nexile, and cunning.\n\nCranly seized his arm and steered him round so as to lead him back\ntowards Leeson Park. He laughed almost slyly and pressed Stephen's arm\nwith an elder's affection.\n\n--Cunning indeed! he said. Is it you? You poor poet, you!\n\n--And you made me confess to you, Stephen said, thrilled by his touch,\nas I have confessed to you so many other things, have I not?\n\n--Yes, my child, Cranly said, still gaily.\n\n--You made me confess the fears that I have. But I will tell you also\nwhat I do not fear. I do not fear to be alone or to be spurned for\nanother or to leave whatever I have to leave. And I am not afraid to\nmake a mistake, even a great mistake, a lifelong mistake, and perhaps\nas long as eternity too.\n\nCranly, now grave again, slowed his pace and said:\n\n--Alone, quite alone. You have no fear of that. And you know what that\nword means? Not only to be separate from all others but to have not\neven one friend.\n\n--I will take the risk, said Stephen.\n\n--And not to have any one person, Cranly said, who would be more than\na friend, more even than the noblest and truest friend a man ever had.\n\nHis words seemed to have struck some deep chord in his own nature. Had\nhe spoken of himself, of himself as he was or wished to be? Stephen\nwatched his face for some moments in silence. A cold sadness was there.\nHe had spoken of himself, of his own loneliness which he feared.\n\n--Of whom are you speaking? Stephen asked at length.\n\nCranly did not answer.\n\n\n* * * * *\n\n\nMARCH 20. Long talk with Cranly on the subject of my revolt.\n\nHe had his grand manner on. I supple and suave. Attacked me on the\nscore of love for one's mother. Tried to imagine his mother: cannot.\nTold me once, in a moment of thoughtlessness, his father was sixty-one\nwhen he was born. Can see him. Strong farmer type. Pepper and salt\nsuit. Square feet. Unkempt, grizzled beard. Probably attends coursing\nmatches. Pays his dues regularly but not plentifully to Father Dwyer of\nLarras. Sometimes talks to girls after nightfall. But his mother? Very\nyoung or very old? Hardly the first. If so, Cranly would not have\nspoken as he did. Old then. Probably, and neglected. Hence Cranly's\ndespair of soul: the child of exhausted loins.\n\nMARCH 21, MORNING. Thought this in bed last night but was too lazy and\nfree to add to it. Free, yes. The exhausted loins are those of\nElizabeth and Zacchary. Then he is the precursor. Item: he eats chiefly\nbelly bacon and dried figs. Read locusts and wild honey. Also, when\nthinking of him, saw always a stern severed head or death mask as if\noutlined on a grey curtain or veronica. Decollation they call it in the\ngold. Puzzled for the moment by saint John at the Latin gate. What do I\nsee? A decollated percursor trying to pick the lock.\n\nMARCH 21, NIGHT. Free. Soul free and fancy free. Let the dead bury the\ndead. Ay. And let the dead marry the dead.\n\nMARCH 22. In company with Lynch followed a sizeable hospital nurse.\nLynch's idea. Dislike it. Two lean hungry greyhounds walking after a\nheifer.\n\nMARCH 23. Have not seen her since that night. Unwell? Sits at the fire\nperhaps with mamma's shawl on her shoulders. But not peevish. A nice\nbowl of gruel? Won't you now?\n\nMARCH 24. Began with a discussion with my mother. Subject: B.V.M.\nHandicapped by my sex and youth. To escape held up relations between\nJesus and Papa against those between Mary and her son. Said religion\nwas not a lying-in hospital. Mother indulgent. Said I have a queer mind\nand have read too much. Not true. Have read little and understood less.\nThen she said I would come back to faith because I had a restless mind.\nThis means to leave church by back door of sin and re-enter through the\nskylight of repentance. Cannot repent. Told her so and asked for\nsixpence. Got threepence.\n\nThen went to college. Other wrangle with little round head rogue's eye\nGhezzi. This time about Bruno the Nolan. Began in Italian and ended in\npidgin English. He said Bruno was a terrible heretic. I said he was\nterribly burned. He agreed to this with some sorrow. Then gave me\nrecipe for what he calls RISOTTO ALLA BERGAMASCA. When he pronounces a\nsoft O he protrudes his full carnal lips as if he kissed the vowel. Has\nhe? And could he repent? Yes, he could: and cry two round rogue's\ntears, one from each eye.\n\nCrossing Stephen's, that is, my green, remembered that his countrymen\nand not mine had invented what Cranly the other night called our\nreligion. A quartet of them, soldiers of the ninety-seventh infantry\nregiment, sat at the foot of the cross and tossed up dice for the\novercoat of the crucified.\n\nWent to library. Tried to read three reviews. Useless. She is not out\nyet. Am I alarmed? About what? That she will never be out again.\n\nBlake wrote:\n\n    I wonder if William Bond will die\n    For assuredly he is very ill.\n\nAlas, poor William!\n\nI was once at a diorama in Rotunda. At the end were pictures of big\nnobs. Among them William Ewart Gladstone, just then dead. Orchestra\nplayed O WILLIE, WE HAVE MISSED YOU.\n\nA race of clodhoppers!\n\nMARCH 25, MORNING. A troubled night of dreams. Want to get them off my\nchest.\n\nA long curving gallery. From the floor ascend pillars of dark vapours.\nIt is peopled by the images of fabulous kings, set in stone. Their\nhands are folded upon their knees in token of weariness and their eyes\nare darkened for the errors of men go up before them for ever as dark\nvapours.\n\nStrange figures advance as from a cave. They are not as tall as men.\nOne does not seem to stand quite apart from another. Their faces are\nphosphorescent, with darker streaks. They peer at me and their eyes\nseem to ask me something. They do not speak.\n\nMARCH 30. This evening Cranly was in the porch of the library,\nproposing a problem to Dixon and her brother. A mother let her child\nfall into the Nile. Still harping on the mother. A crocodile seized the\nchild. Mother asked it back. Crocodile said all right if she told him\nwhat he was going to do with the child, eat it or not eat it.\n\nThis mentality, Lepidus would say, is indeed bred out of your mud by\nthe operation of your sun.\n\nAnd mine? Is it not too? Then into Nile mud with it!\n\nAPRIL 1. Disapprove of this last phrase.\n\nAPRIL 2. Saw her drinking tea and eating cakes in Johnston's, Mooney\nand O'Brien's. Rather, lynx-eyed Lynch saw her as we passed. He tells\nme Cranly was invited there by brother. Did he bring his crocodile? Is\nhe the shining light now? Well, I discovered him. I protest I did.\nShining quietly behind a bushel of Wicklow bran.\n\nAPRIL 3. Met Davin at the cigar shop opposite Findlater's church. He\nwas in a black sweater and had a hurley stick. Asked me was it true I\nwas going away and why. Told him the shortest way to Tara was VIA\nHolyhead. Just then my father came up. Introduction. Father polite and\nobservant. Asked Davin if he might offer him some refreshment. Davin\ncould not, was going to a meeting. When we came away father told me he\nhad a good honest eye. Asked me why I did not join a rowing club. I\npretended to think it over. Told me then how he broke Pennyfeather's\nheart. Wants me to read law. Says I was cut out for that. More mud,\nmore crocodiles.\n\nAPRIL 5. Wild spring. Scudding clouds. O life! Dark stream of swirling\nbogwater on which apple-trees have cast down their delicate flowers.\nEyes of girls among the leaves. Girls demure and romping. All fair or\nauburn: no dark ones. They blush better. Houpla!\n\nAPRIL 6. Certainly she remembers the past. Lynch says all women do.\nThen she remembers the time of her childhood--and mine, if I was ever\na child. The past is consumed in the present and the present is living\nonly because it brings forth the future. Statues of women, if Lynch be\nright, should always be fully draped, one hand of the woman feeling\nregretfully her own hinder parts.\n\nAPRIL 6, LATER. Michael Robartes remembers forgotten beauty and, when\nhis arms wrap her round, he presses in his arms the loveliness which\nhas long faded from the world. Not this. Not at all. I desire to press\nin my arms the loveliness which has not yet come into the world.\n\nAPRIL 10. Faintly, under the heavy night, through the silence of the\ncity which has turned from dreams to dreamless sleep as a weary lover\nwhom no caresses move, the sound of hoofs upon the road. Not so faintly\nnow as they come near the bridge; and in a moment, as they pass the\ndarkened windows, the silence is cloven by alarm as by an arrow. They\nare heard now far away, hoofs that shine amid the heavy night as gems,\nhurrying beyond the sleeping fields to what journey's end--what\nheart?--bearing what tidings?\n\nAPRIL 11. Read what I wrote last night. Vague words for a vague\nemotion. Would she like it? I think so. Then I should have to like it\nalso.\n\nAPRIL 13. That tundish has been on my mind for a long time. I looked it\nup and find it English and good old blunt English too. Damn the dean of\nstudies and his funnel! What did he come here for to teach us his own\nlanguage or to learn it from us. Damn him one way or the other!\n\nAPRIL 14. John Alphonsus Mulrennan has just returned from the west of\nIreland. European and Asiatic papers please copy. He told us he met an\nold man there in a mountain cabin. Old man had red eyes and short pipe.\nOld man spoke Irish. Mulrennan spoke Irish. Then old man and Mulrennan\nspoke English. Mulrennan spoke to him about universe and stars. Old man\nsat, listened, smoked, spat. Then said:\n\n--Ah, there must be terrible queer creatures at the latter end of the\nworld.\n\nI fear him. I fear his red-rimmed horny eyes. It is with him I must\nstruggle all through this night till day come, till he or I lie dead,\ngripping him by the sinewy throat till... Till what? Till he yield to me?\nNo. I mean no harm.\n\nAPRIL 15. Met her today point blank in Grafton Street. The crowd\nbrought us together. We both stopped. She asked me why I never came,\nsaid she had heard all sorts of stories about me. This was only to gain\ntime. Asked me was I writing poems? About whom? I asked her. This\nconfused her more and I felt sorry and mean. Turned off that valve at\nonce and opened the spiritual-heroic refrigerating apparatus, invented\nand patented in all countries by Dante Alighieri. Talked rapidly of\nmyself and my plans. In the midst of it unluckily I made a sudden\ngesture of a revolutionary nature. I must have looked like a fellow\nthrowing a handful of peas into the air. People began to look at us.\nShe shook hands a moment after and, in going away, said she hoped I\nwould do what I said.\n\nNow I call that friendly, don't you?\n\nYes, I liked her today. A little or much? Don't know. I liked her and\nit seems a new feeling to me. Then, in that case, all the rest, all\nthat I thought I thought and all that I felt I felt, all the rest\nbefore now, in fact... O, give it up, old chap! Sleep it off!\n\nAPRIL 16. Away! Away!\n\nThe spell of arms and voices: the white arms of roads, their promise of\nclose embraces and the black arms of tall ships that stand against the\nmoon, their tale of distant nations. They are held out to say: We are\nalone--come. And the voices say with them: We are your kinsmen. And\nthe air is thick with their company as they call to me, their kinsman,\nmaking ready to go, shaking the wings of their exultant and terrible\nyouth.\n\nAPRIL 26. Mother is putting my new secondhand clothes in order. She\nprays now, she says, that I may learn in my own life and away from home\nand friends what the heart is and what it feels. Amen. So be it.\nWelcome, O life, I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality\nof experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated\nconscience of my race.\n\nAPRIL 27. Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good\nstead.\n\n\n\nDublin, 1904\nTrieste, 1914"