Latin Et ignotas animum dimittit in artes. - Ovid, Metamorphoses , VIII, 188

I

Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a
moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that
was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named
baby tuckoo.....

His father told him that story: his father looked at him
through a glass: he had a hairy face.

He was baby tuckoo. The moocow came down the road
where Betty Byrne lived: she sold lemon platt.

song
O, the wild rose blossoms 10
On the little green place.

He sang that song. That was his song.

song
O, the geen wothe botheth.

When you wet the bed first it is warm then it gets cold. His
mother put on the oilsheet. That had the queer smell.

His mother had a nicer smell than his father. She played on
the piano the sailor's hornpipe for him to dance. He danced:

song
Tralala lala
Tralala tralaladdy
Tralala lala 20
Tralala lala.

Uncle Charles and Dante clapped. They were older than his
father and mother but uncle Charles was older than Dante.

Dante had two brushes in her press. The brush with the
maroon velvet back was for Michael Davitt and the brush with
the green velvet back was for Parnell. Dante gave him a cachou
every time he brought her a piece of tissue paper.

The Vances lived in number seven. They had a different
father and mother. They were Eileen's father and mother.
When they were grown up he was going to marry Eileen.

He hid under the table. His mother said:

Mary Dedalus―O, Stephen will apologise.

Dante said:

Dante―O, if not, the eagles will come and pull out his eyes.

Pull out his eyes,
Apologise,
Apologise,
Pull out his eyes.
Apologise,
Pull out his eyes, 40
Pull out his eyes,
Apologise.

* * *

The wide playgrounds were swarming with boys. All were
shouting and the prefects urged them on with strong cries. The
evening air was pale and chilly and after every charge and thud
of the footballers the greasy leather orb flew like a heavy bird
through the grey light. He kept on the fringe of his line, out of
sight of his prefect, out of the reach of the rude feet, feigning to
run now and then. He felt his body small and weak amid the
throng of players and his eyes were weak and watery. Rody 50
Kickham was not like that: he would be captain of the third
line all the fellows said.

Rody Kickham was a decent fellow but Nasty Roche was a
stink. Rody Kickham had greaves in his number and a hamper
in the refectory. Nasty Roche had big hands. He called the
Friday pudding dog-in-the-blanket. And one day he had asked:

Nasty Roche―What is your name?

Stephen had answered:

Stephen― Stephen Dedalus.

Then Nasty Roche had said:

Nasty Roche―What kind of a name is that?

And when Stephen had not been able to answer Nasty
Roche had asked:

Nasty Roche―What is your father?

Stephen had answered:

Stephen―A gentleman.

Then Nasty Roche had asked:

Nasty Roche―Is he a magistrate?

He crept about from point to point on the fringe of his line,
making little runs now and then. But his hands were bluish 70
with cold. He kept his hands in the sidepockets of his belted
grey suit. That was a belt round his jacket. And belt was also to
give a fellow a belt. One day a fellow had said to Cantwell:

a fellow―I'd give you such a belt in a second.

Cantwell had answered:

Cantwell―Go and fight your match. Give Cecil Thunder a belt. I'd like
to see you. He'd give you a toe in the rump for yourself.

That was not a nice expression. His mother had told him
not to speak with the rough boys in the college. Nice mother!
The first day in the hall of the castle when she had said good- 80
bye she had put up her veil double to her nose to kiss him: and
her nose and eyes were red. But he had pretended not to see
that she was going to cry. She was a nice mother but she was
not so nice when she cried. And his father had given him two
fiveshilling pieces for pocket money. And his father had told
him if he wanted anything to write home to him and, whatever
he did, never to peach on a fellow. Then at the door of the
castle the rector had shaken hands with his father and mother,
his soutane fluttering in the breeze, and the car had driven off
with his father and mother on it. They had cried to him from 90
the car, waving their hands:

Mary Dedalus, Simon Dedalus

―Goodbye, Stephen, goodbye!

He was caught in the whirl of a scrimmage and, fearful of
the flashing eyes and muddy boots, bent down to look through
the legs. The fellows were struggling and groaning and their
legs were rubbing and kicking and stamping. Then Jack
Lawton's yellow boots dodged out the ball and all the other
boots and legs ran after. He ran after them a little way and then
stopped. It was useless to run on. Soon they would be going 100
home for the holidays. After supper in the studyhall he would
change the number pasted up inside his desk from seventyseven
to seventysix .

It would be better to be in the studyhall than out there in the
cold. The sky was pale and cold but there were lights in the
castle. He wondered from which window Hamilton Rowan
had thrown his hat on the haha and had there been flowerbeds
at that time under the windows. One day when he had been
called to the castle the butler had shown him the marks of the
soldiers' slugs in the wood of the door and had given him a 110
piece of shortbread that the community ate. It was nice and
warm to see the lights in the castle. It was like something in a
book. Perhaps 52.640379 -1.132563 Leicester Abbey was like that. And there were
nice sentences in Doctor Cornwell's Spelling Book. They were
like poetry but they were only sentences to learn the spelling
from.

Wolsey died in 52.640379 -1.132563 Leicester Abbey
Where the abbots buried him.
Canker is a disease of plants,
Cancer one of animals.

120

It would be nice to lie on the hearthrug before the fire,
leaning his head upon his hands, and think on those sentences.
He shivered as if he had cold slimy water next his skin. That
was mean of Wells to shoulder him into the square ditch be-
cause he would not swop his little snuffbox for Wells 's sea-
soned hacking chestnut, the conqueror of forty. How cold and
slimy the water had been! A fellow had once seen a big rat
jump plop into the scum. He shivered and longed to cry. It
would be so nice to be at home. Mother was sitting at the fire
with Dante waiting for Brigid to bring in the tea. She had her 130
feet on the fender and her jewelly slippers were so hot and they
had such a lovely warm smell! Dante knew a lot of things. She
had taught him where the -18.615949 41.280858 Mozambique Channel was and what
was 38.627003 -90.199404 the longest river in America and what was the name of the
highest mountain in the moon. Father Arnall knew more than
Dante because he was a priest but both his father and uncle
Charles said that Dante was a clever woman and a wellread
woman. And when Dante made that noise after dinner and
then put up her hand to her mouth: that was heartburn.

A voice cried far out on the playground:

140

a voice―All in!

Then other voices cried from the lower and third lines:

other voices from the lower and third lines―All in! All in!

The players closed around, flushed and muddy, and he went
among them, glad to go in. Rody Kickham held the ball by its
greasy lace. A fellow asked him to give it one last: but he
walked on without even answering the fellow. Simon Moonan
told him not to because the prefect was looking. The fellow
turned to Simon Moonan and said:

a fellow―We all know why you speak. You are McGlade 's suck.

150

Suck was a queer word. The fellow called Simon Moonan
that name because Simon Moonan used to tie the prefect's false
sleeves behind his back and the prefect used to let on to be
angry. But the sound was ugly. Once he had washed his hands
in the lavatory of the 53.342872 -6.260651 Wicklow Hotel and his father pulled the
stopper up by the chain after and the dirty water went down
through the hole in the basin. And when it had all gone down
slowly the hole in the basin had made a sound like that: suck.
Only louder.

To remember that and the white look of the lavatory made 160
him feel cold and then hot. There were two cocks that you
turned and water came out: cold and hot. He felt cold and then
a little hot: and he could see the names printed on the cocks.
That was a very queer thing.

And the air in the corridor chilled him too. It was queer and
wettish. But soon the gas would be lit and in burning it made a
light noise like a little song. Always the same: and when the
fellows stopped talking in the playroom you could hear it.

It was the hour for sums. Father Arnall wrote a hard sum on
the board and then said:

170

Father Arnall―Now then, who will win? Go ahead, York! Go ahead, Lan-
caster!

Stephen tried his best but the sum was too hard and he felt
confused. The little silk badge with the white rose on it that
was pinned on the breast of his jacket began to flutter. He was
no good at sums but he tried his best so that York might not
lose. Father Arnall 's face looked very black but he was not in a
wax: he was laughing. Then Jack Lawton cracked his fingers
and Father Arnall looked at his copybook and said:

Father Arnall―Right. Bravo Lancaster! The red rose wins. Come on now, 180
York! Forge ahead!

Jack Lawton looked over from his side. The little silk badge
with the red rose on it looked very rich because he had a blue
sailor top on. Stephen felt his own face red too, thinking of all
the bets about who would get first place in elements, Jack
Lawton or he. Some weeks Jack Lawton got the card for first
and some weeks he got the card for first. His white silk badge
fluttered and fluttered as he worked at the next sum and heard
Father Arnall 's voice. Then all his eagerness passed away and
he felt his face quite cool. He thought his face must be white 190
because it felt so cool. He could not get out the answer for the
sum but it did not matter. White roses and red roses: those
were beautiful colours to think of. And the cards for first place
and second place and third place were beautiful colours too:
pink and cream and lavender. Lavender and cream and pink
roses were beautiful to think of. Perhaps a wild rose might be
like those colours: and he remembered the song about the wild
rose blossoms on the little green place. But you could not have
a green rose. But perhaps somewhere in the world you could.

The bell rang and then the classes began to file out of the 200
rooms and along the corridors towards the refectory. He sat
looking at the two prints of butter on his plate but could not
eat the damp bread. The tablecloth was damp and limp. But he
drank off the hot weak tea which the clumsy scullion, girt with
a white apron, poured into his cup. He wondered whether the
scullion's apron was damp too or whether all white things were
cold and damp. Nasty Roche and Saurin drank cocoa that their
people sent them in tins. They said they could not drink the tea;
that it was hogwash. Their fathers were magistrates, the fel-
lows said.

210

All the boys seemed to him very strange. They had all fa-
thers and mothers and different clothes and voices. He longed
to be at home and lay his head on his mother's lap. But he
could not: and so he longed for the play and study and prayers
to be over and to be in bed.

He drank another cup of hot tea and Fleming said:

Fleming―What's up? Have you a pain or what's up with you?

Stephen―I don't know, Stephen said.

Fleming―Sick in your breadbasket, Fleming said, because your face
looks white. It will go away.

220

Stephen―O yes, Stephen said.

But he was not sick there. He thought that he was sick in his
heart if you could be sick in that place. Fleming was very
decent to ask him. He wanted to cry. He leaned his elbows on
the table and shut and opened the flaps of his ears. Then he
heard the noise of the refectory every time he opened the flaps
of his ears. It made a roar like a train at night. And when he
closed the flaps the roar was shut off like a train going into a
tunnel. That night at 53.277911 -6.105844 Dalkey the train had roared like that and
then, when it went into the tunnel, the roar stopped. He closed 230
his eyes and the train went on, roaring and then stopping;
roaring again, stopping. It was nice to hear it roar and stop and
then roar out of the tunnel again and then stop.

Then the higher line fellows began to come down along the
matting in the middle of the refectory, Paddy Rath and Jimmy
Magee and the Spaniard who was allowed to smoke cigars and
the little Portuguese who wore the woolly cap. And then the
lower line tables and the tables of the third line. And every
single fellow had a different way of walking.

He sat in a corner of the playroom pretending to watch a 240
game of dominos and once or twice he was able to hear for an
instant the little song of the gas. The prefect was at the door
with some boys and Simon Moonan was knotting his false
sleeves. He was telling them something about 52.888640 -8.428450 Tullabeg .

Then he went away from the door and Wells came over to
Stephen and said:

Wells―Tell us, Dedalus , do you kiss your mother every night before
you go to bed?

Stephen answered:

Stephen―I do.

250

Wells turned to the other fellows and said:

Wells―O, I say, here's a fellow says he kisses his mother every night
before he goes to bed.

The other fellows stopped their game and turned round,
laughing. Stephen blushed under their eyes and said:

Stephen―I do not.

Wells said:

Wells―O, I say, here's a fellow says he doesn't kiss his mother
before he goes to bed.

They all laughed again. Stephen tried to laugh with them. 260
He felt his whole body hot and confused in a moment. What
was the right answer to the question? He had given two and
still Wells laughed. But Wells must know the right answer for
he was in third of grammar. He tried to think of Wells 's mother
but he did not dare to raise his eyes to Wells 's face. He did not
like Wells 's face. It was Wells who had shouldered him into the
square ditch the day before because he would not swop his
little snuffbox for Wells 's seasoned hacking chestnut, the con-
queror of forty. It was a mean thing to do; all the fellows said it
was. And how cold and slimy the water had been! And a fellow 270
had once seen a big rat jump plop into the scum.

The cold slime of the ditch covered his whole body; and,
when the bell rang for study and the lines filed out of the
playrooms, he felt the cold air of the corridor and staircase
inside his clothes. He still tried to think what was the right
answer. Was it right to kiss his mother or wrong to kiss his
mother? What did that mean, to kiss? You put your face up like
that to say goodnight and then his mother put her face down.
That was to kiss. His mother put her lips on his cheek; her lips
were soft and they wetted his cheek; and they made a tiny little 280
noise: kiss. Why did people do that with their two faces?

Sitting in the studyhall he opened the lid of his desk and
changed the number pasted up inside from seventyseven to
seventysix . But the Christmas vacation was very far away: but
one time it would come because the earth moved round always.

There was a picture of the earth on the first page of his
geography: a big ball in the middle of clouds. Fleming had a
box of crayons and one night during free study he had coloured
the earth green and the clouds maroon. That was like the two
brushes in Dante 's press, the brush with the green velvet back 290
for Parnell and the brush with the maroon velvet back for
Michael Davitt . But he had not told Fleming to colour them
those colours. Fleming had done it himself.

He opened the geography to study the lesson; but he could
not learn the names of places in America . Still they were all
different places that had those different names. They were all in
different countries and the countries were in continents and the
continents were in the world and the world was in the universe.

He turned to the flyleaf of the geography and read what he
had written there: himself, his name and where he was.

300
Stephen Dedalus
Class of Elements
53.310769 -6.684716 Clongowes Wood College
53.251067 -6.665231 Sallins
County Kildare
Ireland
Europe
The World
The Universe

That was in his writing: and Fleming one night for a cod had 310
written on the opposite page:

Stephen Dedalus is my name,
Ireland is my nation.
53.310769 -6.684716 Clongowes is my dwellingplace
And heaven my expectation.

He read the verses backwards but then they were not poetry.
Then he read the flyleaf from the bottom to the top till he came
to his own name. That was he: and he read down the page
again. What was after the universe ? Nothing. But was there
anything round the universe to show where it stopped before 320
the nothing place began? It could not be a wall but there could
be a thin thin line there all round everything. It was very big to
think about everything and everywhere. Only God could do
that. He tried to think what a big thought that must be but he
could think only of God . God was God 's name just as his name
was Stephen . Dieu was the French for God and that was God 's
name too; and when anyone prayed to God and said Dieu then
God knew at once that it was a French person that was pray-
ing. But though there were different names for God in all the
different languages in the world and God understood what all 330
the people who prayed said in their different languages still
God remained always the same God and God 's real name was
God .

It made him very tired to think that way. It made him feel
his head very big. He turned over the flyleaf and looked wearily
at the green round earth in the middle of the maroon clouds.
He wondered which was right, to be for the green or for the
maroon, because Dante had ripped the green velvet back off
the brush that was for Parnell one day with her scissors and
had told him that Parnell was a bad man. He wondered if they 340
were arguing at home about that. That was called politics.
There were two sides in it: Dante was on one side and his
father and Mr Casey were on the other side but his mother and
uncle Charles were on no side. Every day there was something
in the paper about it.

It pained him that he did not know well what politics meant
and that he did not know where the universe ended. He felt
small and weak. When would he be like the fellows in poetry
and rhetoric? They had big voices and big boots and they
studied trigonometry. That was very far away. First came the 350
vacation and then the next term and then vacation again and
then again another term and then again the vacation. It was
like a train going in and out of tunnels and that was like the
noise of the boys eating in the refectory when you opened and
closed the flaps of the ears. Term, vacation; tunnel, out; noise,
stop. How far away it was! It was better to go to bed to sleep.
Only prayers in the chapel and then bed. He shivered and
yawned. It would be lovely in bed after the sheets got a bit hot.
First they were so cold to get into. He shivered to think how
cold they were first. But then they got hot and then he could 360
sleep. It was lovely to be tired. He yawned again. Night prayers
and then bed: he shivered and wanted to yawn. It would be
lovely in a few minutes. He felt a warm glow creeping up from
the cold shivering sheets, warmer and warmer till he felt warm
all over, ever so warm; ever so warm and yet he shivered a little
and still wanted to yawn.

The bell rang for night prayers and he filed out of the study-
hall after the others and down the staircase and along the
corridors to the chapel. The corridors were darkly lit and the
chapel was darkly lit. Soon all would be dark and sleeping. 370
There was cold night air in the chapel and the marbles were the
colour the sea was at night. The sea was cold day and night:
but it was colder at night. It was cold and dark under the
seawall beside his father's house. But the kettle would be on the
hob to make punch.

The prefect of the chapel prayed above his head and his
memory knew the responses:

prayer
O Lord, open our lips
And our mouth shall announce Thy praise.
Incline unto our aid, O God! 380
O Lord, make haste to help us!

There was a cold night smell in the chapel. But it was a holy
smell. It was not like the smell of the old peasants who knelt at
the back of the chapel at Sunday mass. That was a smell of air
and rain and turf and corduroy. But they were very holy peas-
ants. They breathed behind him on his neck and sighed as they
prayed. They lived in 53.293785 -6.687040 Clane , , a fellow said: there were little
cottages there and he had seen a woman standing at the half-
door of a cottage with a child in her arms, as the cars had come
past from 53.251067 -6.665231 Sallins . It would be lovely to sleep for one night in 390
that cottage before the fire of smoking turf, in the dark lit by
the fire, in the warm dark, breathing the smell of the peasants,
air and rain and turf and corduroy. But, O, the road there
between the trees was dark! You would be lost in the dark. It
made him afraid to think of how it was.

He heard the voice of the prefect of the chapel saying the last
prayer. He prayed it too against the dark outside under the
trees.

Visit, we beseech Thee, O Lord, this habitation and
drive away from it all the snares of the enemy. May 400
Thy holy angels dwell herein to preserve us in peace
and may Thy blessing be always upon us through
Christ, Our Lord. Amen.

His fingers trembled as he undressed himself in the dormi-
tory. He told his fingers to hurry up. He had to undress and
then kneel and say his own prayers and be in bed before the gas
was lowered so that he might not go to hell when he died. He
rolled his stockings off and put on his nightshirt quickly and
knelt trembling at his bedside and repeated his prayers quickly
quickly fearing that the gas would go down. He felt his shoul- 410
ders shaking as he murmured:

prayer
God bless my father and my mother and spare them to
me!
God bless my little brothers and sisters and spare them
to me!
God bless Dante and uncle Charles and spare them to
me!

He blessed himself and climbed quickly into bed and, tuck-
ing the end of the nightshirt under his feet, curled himself to
gether under the cold white sheets, shaking and trembling. But 420
he would not go to hell when he died; and the shaking would
stop. A voice bade the boys in the dormitory goodnight. He
peered out for an instant over the coverlet and saw the yellow
curtains round and before his bed that shut him off on all sides.
The light was lowered quietly.

The prefect's shoes went away. Where? Down the staircase
and along the corridors or to his room at the end? He saw the
dark. Was it true about the black dog that walked there at night
with eyes as big as carriagelamps ? They said it was the ghost of
a murderer. A long shiver of fear flowed over his body. He saw 430
the dark entrance hall of the castle. Old servants in old dress
were in the ironingroom above the staircase. It was long ago.
The old servants were quiet. There was a fire there but the hall
was still dark. A figure came up the staircase from the hall. He
wore the white cloak of a marshal; his face was pale and
strange; he held his hand pressed to his side. He looked out of
strange eyes at the old servants. They looked at him and saw
their master's face and cloak and knew that he had received his
deathwound . But only the dark was where they looked: only
dark silent air. Their master had received his deathwound on 440
the battlefield of 50.075538 14.437800 Prague far away over the sea. He was standing
on the field; his hand was pressed to his side; his face was pale
and strange and he wore the white cloak of a marshal.

O how cold and strange it was to think of that! All the dark
was cold and strange. There were pale strange faces there, great
eyes like carriagelamps . They were the ghosts of murderers, the
figures of marshals who had received their deathwound on
battlefields far away over the sea. What did they wish to say
that their faces were so strange?

Visit, we beseech Thee, O Lord, this habitation and drive 450
away from it all....

Going home for the holidays! That would be lovely: the
fellows had told him. Getting up on the cars in the early wintry
morning outside the door of the castle. The cars were rolling
on the gravel. Cheers for the rector!

Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!

The cars drove past the chapel and all caps were raised.
They drove merrily along the country roads. The drivers
pointed with their whips to 53.262617 -6.666295 Bodenstown . The fellows cheered.
They passed the farmhouse of the Jolly Farmer. Cheer after The fellows cheered. They passed the farmhouse of the Jolly Farmer. Cheer after 460
cheer after cheer. Through 53.293785 -6.687040 Clane they drove, cheering and
cheered. The peasant women stood at the halfdoors , the men
stood here and there. The lovely smell there was in the wintry
air: the smell of Clane: rain and wintry air and turf smoul-
dering and corduroy.

The train was full of fellows: a long long chocolate train
with cream facings. The guards went to and fro opening,
closing, locking, unlocking the doors. They were men in dark
blue and silver; they had silvery whistles and their keys made a
quick music: click, click: click, click.

470

And the train raced on over the flat lands and past the 53.230556 -6.866389 Hill
of Allen . The telegraphpoles were passing, passing. The train
went on and on. It knew. There were coloured lanterns in the
hall of his father's house and ropes of green branches. There
were holly and ivy round the pierglass and holly and ivy, green
and red, twined round the chandeliers. There were red holly
and green ivy round the old portraits on the walls. Holly and
ivy for him and for Christmas.

Lovely......

All the people. Welcome home, Stephen ! Noises of welcome. 480
His mother kissed him. Was that right? His father was a mar-
shal now: higher than a magistrate. Welcome home, Stephen !

Noises...

There was a noise of curtainrings running back along the
rods, of water being splashed in the basins. There was a noise
of rising and dressing and washing in the dormitory: a noise of
clapping of hands as the prefect went up and down telling the
fellows to look sharp. A pale sunlight showed the yellow cur-
tains drawn back, the tossed beds. His bed was very hot and his
face and body were very hot.

490

He got up and sat on the side of his bed. He was weak. He
tried to pull on his stocking. It had a horrid rough feel. The
sunlight was queer and cold.

Fleming said:

Fleming―Are you not well?

He did not know; and Fleming said:

Fleming―Get back into bed. I'll tell McGlade you're not well.

Fleming―He's sick.

―Who is?

Fleming―Tell McGlade .

500

―Get back into bed.

―Is he sick?

A fellow held his arms while he loosened the stocking cling-
ing to his foot and climbed back into the hot bed.

He crouched down between the sheets, glad of their tepid
glow. He heard the fellows talk among themselves about him
as they dressed for mass. It was a mean thing to do, to shoulder
him into the square ditch, they were saying.

Then their voices ceased; they had gone. A voice at his bed
said:

510

Wells― Dedalus , don't spy on us, sure you won't?

Wells 's face was there. He looked at it and saw that Wells
was afraid.

Wells―I didn't mean to. Sure you won't?

His father had told him, whatever he did, never to peach on
a fellow. He shook his head and answered no and felt glad.
Wells said:

Wells―I didn't mean to, honour bright. It was only for cod. I'm
sorry.

The face and the voice went away. Sorry because he was 520
afraid. Afraid that it was some disease. Canker was a disease of
plants and cancer one of animals: or another different. That
was a long time ago then out on the playgrounds in the evening
light, creeping from point to point on the fringe of his line, a
heavy bird flying low through the grey light. Leicester Abbey lit
up. Wolsey died there. The abbots buried him themselves.

It was not Wells 's face, it was the prefect's. He was not
foxing. No, no: he was sick really. He was not foxing. And he
felt the prefect's hand on his forehead; and he felt his forehead
warm and damp against the prefect's cold damp hand. That 530
was the way a rat felt, slimy and damp and cold. Every rat had
two eyes to look out of. Sleek slimy coats, little little feet
tucked up to jump, black shiny eyes to look out of. They could
understand how to jump. But the minds of rats could not
understand trigonometry. When they were dead they lay on
their sides. Their coats dried then. They were only dead things.

The prefect was there again and it was his voice that was
saying that he was to get up, that Father Minister had said he
was to get up and dress and go to the infirmary. And while he
was dressing himself as quickly as he could the prefect said:

540

the prefect―We must pack off to Brother Michael because we have the
collywobbles. Terrible thing to have the collywobbles! How we
wobble when we have the collywobbles!

He was very decent to say that. That was all to make him
laugh. But he could not laugh because his cheeks and lips were
all shivery: and then the prefect had to laugh by himself.

The prefect cried:

the prefect―Quick march! Hayfoot! Strawfoot!

They went together down the staircase and along the corri-
dor and past the bath. As he passed the door he remembered 550
with a vague fear the warm turfcoloured bogwater, the warm
moist air, the noise of plunges, the smell of the towels, like
medicine.

Brother Michael was standing at the door of the infirmary
and from the door of the dark cabinet on his right came a smell
like medicine. That came from the bottles on the shelves. The
prefect spoke to Brother Michael and Brother Michael
answered and called the prefect sir. He had reddish hair mixed
with grey and a queer look. It was queer that he would always
be a brother. It was queer too that you could not call him sir 560
because he was a brother and had a different kind of look. Was
he not holy enough or why could he not catch up on the others?

There were two beds in the room and in one bed there was a
fellow: and when they went in he called out:

Athy―Hello! It's young Dedalus ! What's up?

Brother Michael―The sky is up, Brother Michael said.

He was a fellow out of the third of grammar and, while Stephen
was undressing, he asked Brother Michael to bring him a round
of buttered toast.

Athy―Ah, do!

he said.

570

Brother Michael―Butter you up! said Brother Michael . You'll get your walking
papers in the morning when the doctor comes.

Athy―Will I?

the fellow said.

AthyI'm not well yet.

Brother Michael repeated:

Athy―You'll get your walking papers, I tell you.

He bent down to rake the fire. He had a long back like the
long back of a tramhorse . He shook the poker gravely and
nodded his head at the fellow out of third of grammar.

Then Brother Michael went away and after a while the fel-
low out of third of grammar turned in towards the wall and fell 580
asleep.

That was the infirmary. He was sick then. Had they written
home to tell his mother and father? But it would be quicker for
one of the priests to go himself to tell them. Or he would write
a letter for the priest to bring.

letter
Dear Mother
I am sick. I want to go home. Please come and take
me home. I am in the infirmary.
Your fond son,
Stephen

590

How far away they were! There was cold sunlight outside
the window. He wondered if he would die. You could die just
the same on a sunny day. He might die before his mother came.
Then he would have a dead mass in the chapel like the way the
fellows had told him it was when Little had died. All the fellows would be at the mass, dressed in black, all with sad faces.
Wells too would be there but no fellow would look at him. The
rector would be there in a cope of black and gold and there
would be tall yellow candles on the altar and round the cata-
falque. And they would carry the coffin out of the chapel 600
slowly and he would be buried in the little graveyard of the
community off the main avenue of limes. And Wells would be
sorry then for what he had done. And the bell would toll
slowly.

He could hear the tolling. He said over to himself the song
that Brigid had taught him.

song
Dingdong! The castle bell!
Farewell, my mother!
Bury me in the old churchyard
Beside my eldest brother. 610
My coffin shall be black,
Six angels at my back,
Two to sing and two to pray
And two to carry my soul away.

How beautiful and sad that was! How beautiful the words
were where they said Bury me in the old churchyard ! A tremor
passed over his body. How sad and how beautiful! He wanted
to cry quietly but not for himself: for the words, so beautiful
and sad, like music. The bell! The bell! Farewell! O farewell!

The cold sunlight was weaker and Brother Michael was 620
standing at his bedside with a bowl of beeftea . He was glad for
his mouth was hot and dry. He could hear them playing on the
playgrounds. It was after lunchtime. And the day was going on
in the college just as if he were there.

Then Brother Michael was going away and the fellow out of
third of grammar told him to be sure and come back and tell
him all the news in the paper. He told Stephen that his name
was Athy and that his father kept a lot of racehorses that were
spiffing jumpers and that his father would give a good tip to
Brother Mi- 630
chael any time he wanted it because Brother Michael was very decent and always told him the news out of the
paper they got every day up in the castle. There was every kind
of news in the paper: accidents, shipwrecks, sports and politics.

Athy―Now it is all about politics in the paper,

he said.

AthyDo your

people talk about that too?

Stephen―Yes, Stephen said.

Athy―Mine too,

he said.

Then he thought for a moment and said:

Athy―You have a queer name, Dedalus , and I have a queer name
too, 52.991834 -6.985728 Athy . My name is the name of a town. Your name is like 640
Latin.

Then he asked:

Athy―Are you good at riddles?

Stephen answered:

Stephen―Not very good.

Then he said:

Athy―Can you answer me this one? Why is the county Kildare like
the leg of a fellow's breeches?

Stephen thought what could be the answer and then said:

Stephen―I give it up.

Athy―Because there is a thigh in it,

he said.

AthyDo you see the joke? 650
Athy is the town in the county Kildare and a thigh is the other
thigh.

Stephen―O, I see, Stephen said.

Athy―That's an old riddle,

he said.

After a moment he said:

Athy―I say!

Stephen―What? asked Stephen .

Athy―You know, he said, you can ask that riddle another way?

Stephen―Can you? said Stephen .

660

Athy―The same riddle, he said. Do you know the other way to ask
it?

Stephen―No, said Stephen .

Athy―Can you not think of the other way?

he said.

He looked at Stephen over the bedclothes as he spoke. Then
he lay back on the pillow and said:

Athy―There is another way but I won't tell you what it is.

Why did he not tell it? His father, who kept the racehorses,
must be a magistrate too like Saurin 's father and Nasty Roche 's
father. He thought of his own father, of how he sang songs 670
while his mother played and of how he always gave him a
shilling when he asked for sixpence and he felt sorry for him
that he was not a magistrate like the other boys' fathers. Then
why was he sent to that place with them? But his father had
told him that he would be no stranger there because his grand-
uncle had presented an address to the liberator there fifty years
before. You could know the people of that time by their old
dress. It seemed to him a solemn time: and he wondered if that
was the time when the fellows in Clongowes wore blue coats
with brass buttons and yellow waistcoats and caps of rabbit- 680
skin and drank beer like grownup people and kept greyhounds
of their own to course the hares with.

He looked at the window and saw that the daylight had
grown weaker. There would be cloudy grey light over the play-
grounds. There was no noise on the playgrounds. The class
must be doing the themes or perhaps Father Arnall was reading
a legend out of the book.

It was queer that they had not given him any medicine.
Perhaps Brother Michael would bring it back when he came.
They said you got stinking stuff to drink when you were in the 690
infirmary. But he felt better now than before. It would be nice
getting better slowly. You could get a book then. There was a
book in the library about Holland . There were lovely foreign
names in it and pictures of strangelooking cities and ships. It
made you feel so happy.

How pale the light was at the window! But that was nice.
The fire rose and fell on the wall. It was like waves. Someone
had put coal on and he heard voices. They were talking. It was
the noise of the waves. Or the waves were talking among them-
selves as they rose and fell.

700

He saw the sea of waves, long dark waves rising and falling,
dark under the moonless night. A tiny light twinkled at the
pierhead where the ship was entering: and he saw a multitude
of people gathered by the waters' edge to see the ship that was
entering their harbour. A tall man stood on the deck, looking
out towards the flat dark land: and by the light at the pierhead
he saw his face, the sorrowful face of Brother Michael .

He saw him lift his hand towards the people and heard him
say in a loud voice of sorrow over the waters:

Brother Michael―He is dead. We saw him lying upon the catafalque.

710

A wail of sorrow went up from the people.

the people―Parnell! Parnell ! He is dead!

They fell upon their knees, moaning in sorrow.

And he saw Dante in a maroon velvet dress and with a green
velvet mantle hanging from her shoulders walking proudly and
silently past the people who knelt by the waters' edge.

* * *

A great fire, banked high and red, flamed in the grate and
under the ivytwined branches of the chandelier the Christmas
table was spread. They had come home a little late and still
dinner was not ready: but it would be ready in a jiffy, his 720
mother had said. They were waiting for the door to open and
for the servants to come in, holding the big dishes covered with
their heavy metal covers.

All were waiting: uncle Charles, who sat far away in the
shadow of the window, Dante and Mr Casey, who sat in the
easychairs at either side of the hearth, Stephen, seated on a
chair between them, his feet resting on the toasted boss. Mr
Dedalus looked at himself in the pierglass above the mantel-
piece, waxed out his moustache ends and then, parting his
coattails, stood with his back to the glowing fire: and still, from 730
time to time, he withdrew a hand from his coattail to wax out
one of his moustache ends. Mr Casey leaned his head to one
side and, smiling, tapped the gland of his neck with his fingers.
And Stephen smiled too for he knew now that it was not true
that Mr Casey had a purse of silver in his throat. He smiled to
think how the silvery noise which Mr Casey used to make had
deceived him. And when he had tried to open Mr Casey's hand
to see if the purse of silver was hidden there he had seen that
the fingers could not be straightened out: and Mr Casey had
told him that he had got those three cramped fingers making a 740
birthday present for Queen Victoria.

Mr Casey tapped the gland of his neck and smiled at StephenSte-
phen with sleepy eyes: and Mr Dedalus said to him:

Simon Dedalus―Yes. Well now, that's all right. O, we had a good walk,
hadn't we, John? Yes ...... I wonder if there's any likelihood of
dinner this evening. Yes ..... O, well now, we got a good breath
of ozone round 53.190760 -6.089490the Head today. Ay, bedad.

He turned to Dante and said:

John Casey―You didn't stir out at all, Mrs Riordan?

Dante frowned and said shortly: 750

Dante―No.

Mr Dedalus dropped his coattails and went over to the side-
sideboard. He brought forth a great stone jar of whisky from the
locker and filled the decanter slowly, bending now and then to
see how much he had poured in. Then replacing the jar in the
locker he poured out a little of the whisky into two glasses,
added a little water and came with them back to the fireplace.

Simon Dedalus―A thimbleful, John,

he said.

Simon DedalusJust to whet your appetite.

Mr Casey took the glass, drank, and placed it near him on
the mantelpiece. Then he said: 760

John Casey―Well, I can't help thinking of our friend Christopher manu-
facturing ....

He broke into a fit of laughter and coughing and added:

John Casey―... manufacturing that champagne for those fellows.

Mr Dedalus laughed loudly.

Simon Dedalus―Is it Christy?

he said.

Simon DedalusThere's more cunning in one of those
warts on his bald head than in a pack of jack foxes.

He inclined his head, closed his eyes, and, licking his lips
profusely, began to speak with the voice of the hotel keeper.

Simon Dedalus―And he has such a soft mouth when he's speaking to you, 770
don't you know. He's very moist and watery about the dew-
dewlaps, God bless him.

Mr Casey was still struggling through his fit of coughing and
laughter. Stephen, seeing and hearing the hotel keeper through
his father's face and voice, laughed.

Mr Dedalus put up his eyeglass and, staring down at him,
said quietly and kindly:

Simon Dedalus―What are you laughing at, you little puppy, you?

The servants entered and placed the dishes on the table. Mrs
Dedalus followed and the places were arranged.

Mary Dedalus―Sit over,

she said. 780

Mr Dedalus went to the end of the table and said:

Simon Dedalus―Now, Mrs Riordan, sit over. John, sit you down, my hearty.

He looked round to where uncle Charles sat and said:

Simon Dedalus―Now then, sir, there's a bird here waiting for you.

When all had taken their seats he laid his hand on the cover
and then said quickly, withdrawing it:

Simon Dedalus―Now, Stephen.

Stephen stood up in his place to say the grace before meals:

Stephen

Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts which through 790
Thy bounty we are about to receive through Christ
Our Lord. Amen.

All blessed themselves and Mr Dedalus with a sigh of pleas-
ure lifted from the dish the heavy cover pearled around the
edge with glistening drops.

Stephen looked at the plump turkey which had lain, trussed
and skewered, on the kitchen table. He knew that his father
had paid a guinea for it in 53.346308 -6.257925Dunn's of D'Olier Street and that the
man had prodded it often at the breastbone to show how good
it was: and he remembered the man's voice when he had said: 800

the butcher―Take that one, sir. That's the real Ally Daly.

Why did Mr Barrett in Clongowes call his pandybat a tur-
key? It was not like a turkey. But Clongowes was far away: and
the warm heavy smell of turkey and ham and celery rose from
the plates and dishes and the great fire was banked high and
red in the grate and the green ivy and red holly made you feel
so happy and when dinner was ended the big plumpudding
would be carried in, studded with peeled almonds and sprigs of
holly, with bluish fire running around it and a little green flag
flying from the top.

810

It was his first Christmas dinner and he thought of his little
brothers and sisters who were waiting in the nursery, as he had
often waited, till the pudding came. The deep low collar and
the 51.487402 -0.607942Eton jacket made him feel queer and oldish: and that morn-
ing when his mother had brought him down to the parlour,
dressed for mass, his father had cried. That was because he was
thinking of his own father. And uncle Charles had said so too.

Mr Dedalus covered the dish and began to eat hungrily.
Then he said:

Simon Dedalus―Poor old Christy, he's nearly lopsided now with roguery.

820

Mary Dedalus―Simon, said Mrs Dedalus, you haven't given Mrs Riordan
any sauce.

Mr Dedalus seized the sauceboat.

Simon Dedalus―Haven't I? he cried. Mrs Riordan, pity the poor blind.

Dante covered her plate with her hands and said:

Dante―No, thanks.

Mr Dedalus turned to uncle Charles.

Simon Dedalus―How are you off, sir?

Uncle Charles―Right as the mail, Simon.

Simon Dedalus―You, John?

830

John Casey―I'm all right. Go on yourself.

Simon Dedalus―Mary? Here, Stephen, here's something to make your hair
curl.

He poured sauce freely over Stephen's plate and set the boat
again on the table. Then he asked uncle Charles was it tender.
Uncle Charles could not speak because his mouth was full but
he nodded that it was.

Simon Dedalus―That was a good answer our friend made to the canon.
What? said Mr Dedalus.

John Casey―I didn't think he had that much in him, said Mr Casey.

840

Simon Dedalus―I'll pay you your dues, father, when you cease turning the
house of God into a pollingbooth.

Dante―A nice answer, said Dante, for any man calling himself a
catholic to give to his priest.

Simon Dedalus―They have only themselves to blame, said Mr Dedalus
suavely. If they took a fool's advice they would confine their
attention to religion.

Dante―It is religion,

Dante said.

DanteThey are doing their duty in warn-
ing the people.

John Casey―We go to the house of God, Mr Casey said, in all humility to 850
pray to our Maker and not to hear election addresses.

Dante―It is religion, Dante said again. They are right. They must
direct their flocks.

Simon Dedalus―And preach politics from the altar, is it? asked Mr Dedalus.

Dante―Certainly, said Dante. It is a question of public morality. A
priest would not be a priest if he did not tell his flock what is
right and what is wrong.

Mrs Dedalus laid down her knife and fork, saying:

Mary Dedalus―For pity's sake and for pity' sake let us have no political
discussion on this day of all days in the year.

860

Uncle Charles―Quite right, ma'am, said uncle Charles. Now, Simon, that's
quite enough now. Not another word now.

Simon Dedalus―Yes, yes, said Mr Dedalus quickly.

He uncovered the dish boldly and said:

Simon Dedalus―Now then, who's for more turkey?

Nobody answered. Dante said:

Dante―Nice language for any catholic to use!

Mary Dedalus―Mrs Riordan, I appeal to you, said Mrs Dedalus, to let the
matter drop now.

Dante turned on her and said: 870

Dante―And am I to sit here and listen to the pastors of my church
being flouted?

Simon Dedalus―Nobody is saying a word against them, said Mr Dedalus, so
long as they don't meddle in politics.

Dante―The bishops and priests of Ireland have spoken, said Dante,
and they must be obeyed.

John Casey―Let them leave politics alone, said Mr Casey, or the people
may leave their church alone.

Dante―You hear? said Dante turning to Mrs Dedalus.

Mary Dedalus―Mr Casey! Simon! said Mrs Dedalus. Let it end now.

880

Uncle Charles―Too bad! Too bad! said uncle Charles.

Simon Dedalus―What? cried Mr Dedalus. Were we to desert him at the bid-
ding of the English people?

Dante―He was no longer worthy to lead, said Dante. He was a
public sinner.

John Casey―We are all sinners and black sinners, said Mr Casey coldly.

Dante―Matthew 18.7Woe be to the man by whom the scandal cometh! said Mrs
Riordan. Luke 17.1-2It would be better for him that a millstone were tied
about his neck and that he were cast into the depths of the sea
rather than that he should scandalise one of these, my least 890
little ones. That is the language of the Holy Ghost.

Simon Dedalus―And very bad language, if you ask me, said Mr Dedalus
coolly.

Uncle Charles―Simon! Simon! said uncle Charles. The boy.

Simon Dedalus―Yes, yes, said Mr Dedalus. I meant about the ... I was think-
ing about the bad language of that railway porter. Well now,
that's all right. Here, Stephen, show me your plate, old chap.
Eat away now. Here.

He heaped up the food on Stephen's plate and served uncle
Charles and Mr Casey to large pieces of turkey and splashes of 900
sauce. Mrs Dedalus was eating little and Dante sat with her
hands in her lap. She was red in the face. Mr Dedalus rooted
with the carvers at the end of the dish and said:

Simon Dedalus―There's a tasty bit here we call the pope's nose. If any lady
or gentleman .....

He held a piece of fowl up on the prong of the carvingfork.
Nobody spoke. He put it on his own plate, saying:

Simon Dedalus―Well, you can't say but you were asked. I think I had better
eat it myself because I'm not well in my health lately.

He winked at Stephen and, replacing the dishcover, began to 910
eat again.

There was a silence while he ate. Then he said:

Simon Dedalus―Well now, the day kept up fine after all. There were plenty
of strangers down too.

Nobody spoke. He said again:

Simon Dedalus―I think there were more strangers down than last Christmas.

He looked round at the others whose faces were bent to-
towards their plates and, receiving no reply, waited for a moment
and said bitterly:

Simon Dedalus―Well, my Christmas dinner has been spoiled anyhow.

920

Dante―There could be neither luck nor grace,

Dante said,

Dantein a house
where there is no respect for the pastors of the church.

Mr Dedalus threw his knife and fork noisily on his plate.

Simon Dedalus―Respect!

he said.

Simon DedalusIs it for Billy with the lip or for the tub of
guts up in 54.350280 -6.652792Armagh? Respect!

John Casey―Princes of the church, said Mr Casey with slow scorn.

Simon Dedalus―Lord Leitrim's coachman, yes, said Mr Dedalus.

Dante―They are the Lord's anointed,

Dante said.

DanteThey are an hon-
our to their country.

Simon Dedalus―Tub of guts, said Mr Dedalus coarsely. He has a handsome 930
face, mind you, in repose. You should see that fellow lapping
up his bacon and cabbage of a cold winter's day. O Johnny!

He twisted his features into a grimace of heavy bestiality and
made a lapping noise with his lips.

Mary Dedalus―Really, Simon, said Mrs Dedalus, you should not speak that
way before Stephen. It's not right.

Dante―O, he'll remember all this when he grows up, said Dante
hotly, - the language he heard against God and religion and
priests in his own home.

John Casey―Let him remember too, cried Mr Casey to her from across 940
the table, the language with which the priests and the priests'
pawns broke Parnell's heart and hounded him into his grave.
Let him remember that too when he grows up.

Simon Dedalus―Sons of bitches! cried Mr Dedalus. When he was down they
turned on him to betray him and rend him like rats in a sewer.
Lowlived dogs! And they look it! By Christ, they look it!

Dante―They behaved rightly, cried Dante. They obeyed their
bishops and their priests. Honour to them!

Mary Dedalus―Well, it is perfectly dreadful to say that not even for one day
of the year, said Mrs Dedalus, can we be free from these dread- 950
ful disputes!

Uncle Charles raised his hands mildly and said:

Uncle Charles―Come now, come now, come now! Can we not have our
opinions whatever they are without this bad temper and this
bad language? It is too bad surely.

Mrs Dedalus spoke to Dante in a low voice but Dante said
loudly:

Dante―I will not say nothing. I will defend my church and my
religion when it is insulted and spit on by renegade catholics.

Mr Casey pushed his plate rudely into the middle of the 960
table and, resting his elbows before him, said in a harsh voice
to his host:

John Casey―Tell me, did I tell you that story about a very famous spit?

Simon Dedalus―You did not, John, said Mr Dedalus.

John Casey―Why then, said Mr Casey, it is a most instructive story. It
happened not long ago in the 52.986231 -6.367254county Wicklow where we are
now.

He broke off and, turning towards Dante, said with quiet
indignation:

John Casey―And I may tell you, ma'am, that I, if you mean me, am no 970
renegade catholic. I am a catholic as my father was and his
father before him and his father before him again when we
gave up our lives rather than sell our faith.

Dante―The more shame to you now,

Dante said,

Danteto speak as you
do.

Simon Dedalus―The story, John, said Mr Dedalus smiling. Let us have the
story anyhow.

Dante―Catholic indeed! repeated Dante ironically. The blackest
protestant in the land would not speak the language I have
heard this evening.

980

Mr Dedalus began to sway his head to and fro, crooning like
a country singer.

John Casey―I am no protestant, I tell you again, said Mr Casey flushing.

Mr Dedalus, still crooning and swaying his head, began to
sing in a grunting nasal tone:

Simon Dedalus

O, come all you Roman catholics
That never went to mass.

He took up his knife and fork again in good humour and set
to eating, saying to Mr Casey:

Simon Dedalus―Let us have the story, John. It will help us to digest.

990

Stephen looked with affection at Mr Casey's face which
stared across the table over his joined hands. He liked to sit
near him at the fire, looking up at his dark fierce face. But his
dark eyes were never fierce and his slow voice was good to
listen to. But why was he then against the priests? Because
Dante must be right then. But he had heard his father say that
she was a spoiled nun and that she had come out of the convent
in the Alleghanies when her brothers had got the money from
the savages for the trinkets and chainies. Perhaps that made her
severe against Parnell. And she did not like him to play with 1000
Eileen because Eileen was a protestant and when she was
young she knew children that used to play with protestants and
the protestants used to make fun of the litany of the Blessed
Virgin. Tower of Ivory, they used to say, House of Gold! How
could a woman be a tower of ivory or a house of gold? Who
was right then? And he remembered the evening in the infirm-
ary in Clongowes, the dark waters, the light at the pierhead
and the moan of sorrow from the people when they had heard.

Eileen had long white hands. One evening when playing tig
she had put her hands over his eyes: long and white and thin 1010
and cold and soft. That was ivory: a cold white thing. That
was the meaning of Tower of Ivory.

John Casey―The story is very short and sweet,

Mr Casey said.

John CaseyIt was one
day down in 52.797693 -6.159929Arklow, a cold bitter day, not long before the
chief died. May God have mercy on him!

He closed his eyes wearily and paused. Mr Dedalus took a
bone from his plate and tore some meat from it with his teeth,
saying:

Simon Dedalus―Before he was killed, you mean.

Mr Casey opened his eyes, sighed and went on: 1020

John Casey―It was down in Arklow one day. We were down there at a
meeting and after the meeting was over we had to make our
way to the railway station through the crowd. Such booing and
baaing, man, you never heard. They called us all the names in
the world. Well there was one old lady, and a drunken old
harridan she was surely, that paid all her attention to me. She
kept dancing along beside me in the mud bawling and scream-
ing into my face: Priesthunter! The 48.856614 2.352222Paris Funds! Mr Fox! Kitty
O'Shea!

Simon Dedalus―And what did you do, John? asked Mr Dedalus.

1030

John Casey―I let her bawl away, said Mr Casey. It was a cold day and to
keep up my heart I had (saving your presence, ma'am) a quid of
53.275526 -7.493385Tullamore in my mouth and sure I couldn't say a word in any
case because my mouth was full of tobacco juice.

Simon Dedalus―Well, John?

John Casey―Well. I let her bawl away to her heart's content Kitty O'Shea
and the rest of it till at last she called that lady a name that I
won't sully this Christmas board nor your ears, ma'am, nor my
own lips by repeating.

He paused. Mr Dedalus, lifting his head from the bone, 1040
asked:

Simon Dedalus―And what did you do, John?

John Casey―Do! said Mr Casey. She stuck her ugly old face up at me
when she said it and I had my mouth full of tobacco juice. I
bent down to her and Phth! says I to her like that.

He turned aside and made the act of spitting.

John Casey―Phth! says I to her like that, right into her eye.

He clapped a hand to his eye and gave a hoarse scream of
pain.

John Casey―O Jesus, Mary and Joseph! says she. I'm blinded! I'm 1050
blinded and drownded!

He stopped in a fit of coughing and laughter, repeating:

John Casey―I'm blinded entirely!

Mr Dedalus laughed loudly and lay back in his chair while
uncle Charles swayed his head to and fro.

Dante looked terribly angry and repeated while they
laughed:

Dante―Very nice! Ha! Very nice!

It was not nice about the spit in the woman's eye. But what
was the name the woman had called Kitty O'Shea that Mr 1060
Casey would not repeat? He thought of Mr Casey walking
through the crowds of people and making speeches from a
wagonette. That was what he had been in prison for and he
remembered that one night Sergeant O'Neill had come to the
house and had stood in the hall, talking in a low voice with his
father and chewing nervously at the chinstrap of his cap. And
that night Mr Casey had not gone to 53.349805 -6.260310 Dublin by train but a car
had come to the door and he had heard his father say some-
something about 53.265647 -6.156109the Cabinteely road.

He was for Ireland and Parnell and so was his father: and so 1070
was Dante too for one night at the band on the esplanade she
had hit a gentleman on the head with her umbrella because he
had taken off his hat when the band played God save the
Queen at the end.

Mr Dedalus gave a snort of contempt.

Simon Dedalus―Ah, John,

he said.

Simon DedalusIt is true for them. We are an unfortunate
priestridden race and always were and always will be till the
end of the chapter.

Uncle Charles shook his head, saying:

Uncle Charles―A bad business! A bad business!

1080

Mr Dedalus repeated:

Simon Dedalus―A priestridden Godforsaken race!

He pointed to the portrait of his grandfather on the wall to
his right.

Simon Dedalus―Do you see that old chap up there, John?

he said.

Simon DedalusHe was a
good Irishman when there was no money in the job. He was
condemned to death as a whiteboy. But he had a saying about
our clerical friends, that he would never let one of them put his
two feet under his mahogany.

Dante broke in angrily: 1090

Dante―If we are a priestridden race we ought to be proud of it!
They are the apple of God's eye. Zacharia 2:8 Touch them not, says Christ,
for they are the apple of My eye.

John Casey―And can we not love our country then? asked Mr Casey. Are
we not to follow the man that was born to lead us?

Dante―A traitor to his country! replied Dante. A traitor, an adul-
adulterer! The priests were right to abandon him. The priests were
always the true friends of Ireland.

John Casey―Were they, faith? said Mr Casey.

He threw his fist on the table and, frowning angrily, pro- 1100
protruded one finger after another.

John Casey―Didn't the bishops of Ireland betray us in the time of the
union when bishop Lanigan presented an address of loyalty to
the marquess Cornwallis? Didn't the bishops and priests sell
the aspirations of this country in 1829 in return for catholic
emancipation? Didn't they denounce the fenian movement
from the pulpit and in the confession box? And didn't they
dishonour the ashes of Terence Bellew MacManus?

His face was glowing with anger and Stephen felt the glow
rise to his own cheek as the spoken words thrilled him. Mr 1110
Dedalus uttered a guffaw of coarse scorn.

John Casey―O, by God, he cried, I forgot little old Paul Cullen! Another
apple of God's eye!

Dante bent across the table and cried to Mr Casey:

Dante―Right! Right! They were always right! God and morality and
religion come first.

Mrs Dedalus, seeing her excitement, said to her:

Mary Dedalus―Mrs Riordan, don't excite yourself answering them.

Dante―God and religion before everything! Dante cried. God and
religion before the world!

1120

Mr Casey raised his clenched fist and brought it down on
the table with a crash.

John Casey―Very well, then, he shouted hoarsely, if it comes to that, no
God for Ireland!

Simon Dedalus―John! John! cried Mr Dedalus, seizing his guest by the coat
coatsleeve.

Dante stared across the table, her cheeks shaking. Mr Casey
struggled up from his chair and bent across the table towards
her, scraping the air from before his eyes with one hand as
though he were tearing aside a cobweb. 1130

John Casey―No God for Ireland! he cried. We have had too much God in
Ireland. Away with God!

Dante―Blasphemer! Devil! screamed Dante, starting to her feet and
almost spitting in his face.

Uncle Charles and Mr Dedalus pulled Mr Casey back into
his chair again, talking to him from both sides reasonably. He
stared before him out of his dark flaming eyes, repeating:

John Casey―Away with God, I say!

Dante shoved her chair violently aside and left the table,
upsetting her napkinring which rolled slowly along the carpet 1140
and came to rest against the foot of an easychair. Mrs Dedalus
rose quickly and followed her towards the door. At the door
Dante turned round violently and shouted down the room, her
cheeks flushed and quivering with rage:

Dante―Devil out of hell! We won! We crushed him to death! Fiend!

The door slammed behind her.

Mr Casey, freeing his arms from his holders, suddenly
bowed his head on his hands with a sob of pain.

John Casey―Poor Parnell! he cried loudly. My dead king!

He sobbed loudly and bitterly.

1150

Stephen, raising his terrorstricken face, saw that his father's
eyes were full of tears.

* * *

The fellows talked together in little groups.

One fellow said:

a fellow―They were caught near the 53.290670 -6.535060Hill of Lyons.

a fellow―Who caught them?

a fellow―Mr Gleeson and the minister. They were on a car.

The same fellow added:

a fellow―A fellow in the higher line told me.

FlemingFleming asked:

1160

a fellow―But why did they run away, tell us?

Cecil Thunder―I know why,

Cecil Thunder said.

Cecil ThunderBecause they had fecked
cash out of the rector's room.

a fellow―Who fecked it?

John Casey―Kickham's brother. And they all went shares in it.

But that was stealing. How could they have done that?

Wells―A fat lot you know about it, Thunder!

Wells said.

WellsI know
why they scut.

a fellow―Tell us why.

Wells―I was told not to,

Wells said. 1170

all―O, go on, Wells,

all said.

allYou might tell us. We won't let it
out.

Stephen bent forward his head to hear. Wells looked round
to see if anyone was coming. Then he said secretly:

Wells―You know the altar wine they keep in the press in the sac-
risty?

all―Yes.

Wells―Well, they drank that and it was found out who did it by the
smell. And that's why they ran away, if you want to know.

And the fellow who had spoken first said: 1180

a fellow―Yes, that's what I heard too from the fellow in the higher
line.

The fellows were all silent. Stephen stood among them,
afraid to speak, listening. A faint sickness of awe made him feel
weak. How could they have done that? He thought of the dark
silent sacristy. There were dark wooden presses there where the
crimped surplices lay quietly folded. It was not the chapel but
still you had to speak under your breath. It was a holy place.
He remembered the summer evening he had been there to be
dressed as boatbearer, the evening of the procession to the little 1190
altar in the wood. A strange and holy place. The boy that held
the censer had swung it gently to and fro near the door with the
silvery cap lifted by the middle chain to keep the coals lighting.
That was called charcoal: and it had burned quietly as the
fellow had swung it gently and had given off a weak sour smell.
And then when all were vested he had stood holding out the
boat to the rector and the rector had put a spoonful of incense
in and it had hissed on the red coals.

The fellows were talking together in little groups here and
there on the playground. The fellows seemed to him to have 1200
grown smaller: that was because a sprinter had knocked him
down the day before, a fellow out of second of grammar. He
had been thrown by the fellow's machine lightly on the cinder-
path and his spectacles had been broken in three pieces and
some of the grit of the cinders had gone into his mouth.

That was why the fellows seemed to him smaller and farther
away and the goalposts so thin and far and the soft grey sky so
high up. But there was no play on the football grounds for
cricket was coming: and some said that Barnes would be the
prof and some said it would be Flowers. And all over the play- 1210
playgrounds they were playing rounders and bowling twisters and
lobs. And from here and from there came the sounds of the
cricket bats through the soft grey air. They said: pick, pack,
pock, puck: like drops of water in a fountain slowly falling in
the brimming bowl.

Athy, who had been silent, said quietly:

Athy―You are all wrong.

All turned towards him eagerly.

a fellow―Why?

a fellow―Do you know?

1220

a fellow―Who told you?

a fellow―Tell us, Athy.

Athy pointed across the playground to where Simon
Moonan was walking by himself kicking a stone before him.

Athy―Ask him,

he said.

The fellows looked there and then said:

a fellow―Why him?

a fellow―Is he in it?

a fellow―Tell us, Athy. Go on. You might if you know.

Athy lowered his voice and said: 1230

Athy―Do you know why those fellows scut? I will tell you but you
must not let on you know.

He paused for a moment and then said mysteriously:

Athy―They were caught with Simon Moonan and Tusker Boyle in
the square one night.

The fellows looked at him and asked:

a fellow―Caught?

a fellow―What doing?

Athy said:

Athy―Smugging.

1240

All the fellows were silent: and Athy said:

Athy―And that's why.

Stephen looked at the faces of the fellows but they were all
looking across the playground. He wanted to ask somebody
about it. What did that mean about the smugging in the
square? Why did the five fellows out of the higher line run
away for that? It was a joke, he thought. Simon Moonan had
nice clothes and one night he had shown him a ball of creamy
sweets that the fellows of the football fifteen had rolled down
to him along the carpet in the middle of the refectory when he 1250
was at the door. It was the night of the match against the
Bective Rangers and the ball was made just like a red and green
apple only it opened and it was full of the creamy sweets. And
one day Boyle had said that an elephant had two tuskers in-
instead of two tusks and that was why he was called Tusker
Boyle but some fellows called him Lady Boyle because he was
always at his nails, paring them.

Eileen had long thin cool white hands too because she was a
girl. They were like ivory; only soft. That was the meaning of
Tower of Ivory but protestants could not understand it and 1260
made fun of it. One day he had stood beside her looking into
the hotel grounds. A waiter was running up a trail of bunting
on the flagstaff and a fox terrier was scampering to and fro on
the sunny lawn. She had put her hand into his pocket where his
hand was and he had felt how cool and thin and soft her hand
was. She had said that pockets were funny things to have: and
then all of a sudden she had broken away and had run laughing
down the sloping curve of the path. Her fair hair had streamed
out behind her like gold in the sun. Tower of Ivory. House of
Gold. By thinking about things you could understand them.

1270

But why in the square? You went there when you wanted to
do something. It was all thick slabs of slate and water trickled
all day out of tiny pinholes and there was a queer smell of stale
water there. And behind the door of one of the closets there
was a drawing in red pencil of a bearded man in a Roman dress
with a brick in each hand and underneath was the name of the
drawing:

Balbus was building a wall.

Some fellow had drawn it there for a cod. It had a funny
face but it was very like a man with a beard. And on the wall of 1280
another closet there was written in backhand in beautiful writ-
ing:

Julius Caesar wrote The Calico Belly.

Perhaps that was why they were there because it was a place
where some fellows wrote things for cod. But all the same it
was queer what Athy said and the way he said it. It was not a
cod because they had run away. He looked with the others in
silence across the playground and began to feel afraid.

At last Fleming said:

Fleming―And we are all to be punished for what other fellows did?

1290

Cecil Thunder―I won't come back, see if I do,

Cecil Thunder said.

Cecil ThunderThree
days' silence in the refectory and sending us up for six and eight
every minute.

Wells―Yes,

said Wells.

WellsAnd old Barrett has a new way of twisting
the note so that you can't open it and fold it again to see how
many ferulae you are to get. I won't come back too.

Cecil Thunder―Yes,

said Cecil Thunder,

Cecil Thunderand the prefect of studies was in
second of grammar this morning.

Fleming―Let us get up a rebellion,

Fleming said.

FlemingWill we?

All the fellows were silent. The air was very silent and you 1300
could hear the cricket bats but more slowly than before: pick,
pock.

Wells asked:

Wells―What is going to be done to them?

Athy―Simon Moonan and Tusker are going to be flogged, Athy
said, and the fellows in the higher line got their choice of
flogging or being expelled.

a fellow―And which are they taking? asked the fellow who had
spoken first.

Athy―All are taking expulsion except Corrigan, Athy answered. 1310
He's going to be flogged by Mr Gleeson.

Fleming―Is it Corrigan that big fellow? said Fleming. Why, he'd be
able for two of Gleeson!

Cecil Thunder―I know why,

Cecil Thunder said.

Cecil ThunderHe is right and the other
fellows are wrong because a flogging wears off after a bit but a
fellow that has been expelled from college is known all his life
on account of it. Besides Gleeson won't flog him hard.

Fleming―It's best of his play not to,

Fleming said.

Cecil Thunder―I wouldn't like to be Simon Moonan and Tusker,

Cecil
Thunder said.

Cecil ThunderBut I don't believe they will be flogged. Perhaps 1320
they will be sent up for twice nine.

Athy―No, no,

said Athy.

AthyThey'll both get it on the vital spot.

Wells rubbed himself and said in a crying voice:

Wells―Please, sir, let me off!

Athy grinned and turned up the sleeves of his jacket, saying:

Athy

It can't be helped;
It must be done.
So down with your breeches
And out with your bum.

The fellows laughed; but he felt that they were a little afraid. 1330
In the silence of the soft grey air he heard the cricket bats from
here and from there: pock. That was a sound to hear but if you
were hit then you would feel a pain. The pandybat made a
sound too but not like that. The fellows said it was made of
whalebone and leather with lead inside: and he wondered what
was the pain like. There were different kinds of pains for all the
different kinds of sounds. A long thin cane would have a high
whistling sound and he wondered what was that pain like. It
made him shivery to think of it and cold: and what Athy said
too. But what was there to laugh at in it? It made him shivery: 1340
but that was because you always felt like a shiver when you let
down your trousers. It was the same in the bath when you
undressed yourself. He wondered who had to let them down,
the master or the boy himself. O how could they laugh about it
that way?

He looked at Athy's rolledup sleeves and knuckly inky
hands. He had rolled up his sleeves to show how Mr Gleeson
would roll up his sleeves. But Mr Gleeson had round shiny
cuffs and clean white wrists and fattish white hands and the
nails of them were long and pointed. Perhaps he pared them 1350
too like Lady Boyle. But they were terribly long and pointed
nails. So long and cruel they were though the white fattish
hands were not cruel but gentle. And though he trembled with
cold and fright to think of the cruel long nails and of the high
whistling sound of the cane and of the chill you felt at the end
of your shirt when you undressed yourself yet he felt a feeling
of queer quiet pleasure inside him to think of the white fattish
hands, clean and strong and gentle. And he thought of what
Cecil Thunder had said; that Mr Gleeson would not flog Cor-
Corrigan hard. And Fleming had said he would not because it was 1360
best of his play not to. But that was not why.

A voice from far out on the playgrounds cried:

a fellow―All in!

And other voices cried:

other voices―All in! All in!

During the writing lesson he sat with his arms folded, listen-
ing to the slow scraping of the pens. Mr Harford went to and
fro making little signs in red pencil and sometimes sitting
beside the boy to show him how to hold the pen. He had tried
to spell out the headline for himself though he knew already 1370
what it was for it was the last in the book. Zeal without
prudence is like a ship adrift. But the lines of the letters were
like fine invisible threads and it was only by closing his right
eye tight tight and staring out of the left eye that he could make
out the full curves of the capital.

But Mr Harford was very decent and never got into a wax.
All the other masters got into dreadful waxes. But why were
they to suffer for what fellows in the higher line did? Wells had
said that they had drunk some of the altar wine out of the press
in the sacristy and that it had been found out who had done it 1380
by the smell. Perhaps they had stolen a monstrance to run away
with it and sell it somewhere. That must have been a terrible
sin, to go in quietly there at night, to open the dark press and
steal the flashing gold thing into which God was put on the
altar in the middle of flowers and candles at benediction while
the incense went up in clouds at both sides as the fellow swung
the censer and Dominic Kelly sang the first part by himself in
the choir. But God was not in it of course when they stole it.
But still it was a strange and a great sin even to touch it. He
thought of it with deep awe; a terrible and strange sin: it 1390
thrilled him to think of it in the silence when the pens scraped
lightly. But to drink the altar wine out of the press and be
found out by the smell was a sin too: but it was not terrible
and strange. It only made you feel a little sickish on account
of the smell of the wine. Because on the day when he had
made his first holy communion in the chapel he had shut his
eyes and opened his mouth and put out his tongue a little: and
when the rector had stooped down to give him the holy com-
communion he had smelt a faint winy smell off the rector's breath
after the wine of the mass. The word was beautiful: wine. It 1400
made you think of dark purple because the grapes were dark
purple that grew in Greece outside houses like white temples.
But the faint smell off the rector's breath had made him feel
a sick feeling on the morning of his first communion. The day
of your first communion was the happiest day of your life.
And once a lot of generals had asked Napoleon what was the
happiest day of his life. They thought he would say the day
he won some great battle or the day he was made an emperor.
But he said:

Napoleon―Gentlemen, the happiest day of my life was the day on which 1410
I made my first holy communion.

Father Arnall came in and the Latin lesson began and he
remained still, leaning on the desk with his arms folded. Father
Arnall gave out the themebooks and he said that they were
scandalous and that they were all to be written out again with
the corrections at once. But the worst of all was Fleming's
theme because the pages were stuck together by a blot: and
Father Arnall held it up by a corner and said it was an insult to
any master to send him up such a theme. Then he asked Jack
Lawton to decline the noun mare and Jack Lawton stopped at 1420
the ablative singular and could not go on with the plural.

Father Arnall―You should be ashamed of yourself, said Father Arnall
sternly. You, the leader of the class!

Then he asked the next boy and the next and the next.
Nobody knew. Father Arnall became very quiet, more and
more quiet as each boy tried to answer and could not. But his
face was blacklooking and his eyes were staring though his
voice was so quiet. Then he asked Fleming and Fleming said
that that word had no plural. Father Arnall suddenly shut the
book and shouted at him: 1430

Father Arnall―Kneel out there in the middle of the class. You are one of the
idlest boys I ever met. Copy out your themes again the rest of
you.

Fleming moved heavily out of his place and knelt between
the two last benches. The other boys bent over their theme-
books and began to write. A silence filled the classroom and
Stephen, glancing timidly at Father Arnall's dark face, saw that
it was a little red from the wax he was in.

Was that a sin for Father Arnall to be in a wax or was he
allowed to get into a wax when the boys were idle because that 1440
made them study better or was he only letting on to be in a
wax? It was because he was allowed because a priest would
know what a sin was and would not do it. But if he did it one
time by mistake what would he do to go to confession? Perhaps
he would go to confession to the minister. And if the minister
did it he would go to the rector: and the rector to the provin-
cial: and the provincial to the general of the jesuits. That was
called the order: and he had heard his father say that they were
all clever men. They could all have become highup people in
the world if they had not become jesuits. And he wondered 1450
what Father Arnall and Paddy Barrett would have become and
what Mr McGlade and Mr Gleeson would have become if they
had not become jesuits. It was hard to think what because you
would have to think of them in a different way with different
coloured coats and trousers and with beards and moustaches
and different kinds of hats.

The door opened quietly and closed. A quick whisper ran
through the class: the prefect of studies. There was an instant
of dead silence and then the loud crack of a pandybat on the
last desk. Stephen's heart leapt up in fear. 1460

Father Dolan―Any boys want flogging here, Father Arnall? cried the pre-
fect of studies. Any lazy idle loafers that want flogging in this
class?

He came to the middle of the class and saw Fleming on his
knees.

Father Dolan―Hoho! he cried. Who is this boy? Why is he on his knees?
What is your name, boy?

Fleming―Fleming, sir.

Father Dolan―Hoho, Fleming! An idler of course. I can see it in your eye.
Why is he on his knees, Father Arnall?

1470

Father Arnall―He wrote a bad Latin theme,

Father Arnall said,

Father Arnalland he
missed all the questions in grammar.

Father Dolan―Of course he did!

cried the prefect of studies.

Father ArnallOf course he
did! A born idler! I can see it in the corner of his eye.

He banged his pandybat down on the desk and cried:

Father Dolan―Up, Fleming! Up, my boy!

Fleming stood up slowly.

Father Dolan―Hold out!

cried the prefect of studies.

Fleming held out his hand. The pandybat came down on it
with a loud smacking sound: one, two, three, four, five, six. 1480

Father Dolan―Other hand!

The pandybat came down again in six loud quick smacks.

Father Dolan―Kneel down!

cried the prefect of studies.

Fleming knelt down squeezing his hands under his armpits,
his face contorted with pain, but Stephen knew how hard his
hands were because Fleming was always rubbing rosin into
them. But perhaps he was in great pain for the noise of the
pandies was terrible. Stephen's heart was beating and flutter-
ing.

Father Dolan―At your work, all of you!

shouted the prefect of studies.

Father DolanWe 1490
want no lazy idle loafers here, lazy idle little schemers. At your
work, I tell you. Father Dolan will be in to see you every day.
Father Dolan will be in tomorrow.

He poked one of the boys in the side with the pandybat,
saying:

Father Dolan―You, boy! When will Father Dolan be in again?

Tom Furlong―Tomorrow, sir, said Tom Furlong's voice.

Father Dolan―Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,

said the prefect of
studies.

Father DolanMake up your minds for that. Every day Father Dolan.
Write away. You, boy, who are you?

1500

Stephen's heart jumped suddenly.

Stephen―Dedalus, sir.

Father Dolan―Why are you not writing like the others?

Stephen―I ..... my ...

He could not speak with fright.

Father Dolan―Why is he not writing, Father Arnall?

Father Arnall―He broke his glasses,

said Father Arnall,

Father Arnalland I exempted him
from work.

Father Dolan―Broke? What is this I hear? What is this your name is?

said
the prefect of studies. 1510

Stephen―Dedalus, sir.

Father Dolan―Out here, Dedalus. Lazy little schemer. I see schemer in your
face. Where did you break your glasses?

Stephen stumbled into the middle of the class, blinded by
fear and haste.

Father Dolan―Where did you break your glasses?

repeated the prefect of
studies.

Stephen―The cinderpath, sir.

Father Dolan―Hoho! The cinderpath!

cried the prefect of studies.

Father DolanI know
that trick.

1520

Stephen lifted his eyes in wonder and saw for a moment
Father Dolan's whitegrey not young face, his baldy whitegrey
head with fluff at the sides of it, the steel rims of his spectacles
and his nocoloured eyes looking through the glasses. Why did
he say that he knew that trick?

Father Dolan―Lazy idle little loafer!

cried the prefect of studies.

Father DolanBroke my
glasses! An old schoolboy trick! Out with your hand this mo-
moment!

Stephen closed his eyes and held out in the air his trembling
hand with the palm upwards. He felt the prefect of studies 1530
touch it for a moment at the fingers to straighten it and then
the swish of the sleeve of the soutane as the pandybat was lifted
to strike. A hot burning stinging tingling blow like the loud
crack of a broken stick made his trembling hand crumple to-
together like a leaf in the fire: and at the sound and the pain
scalding tears were driven into his eyes. His whole body was
shaking with fright, his arm was shaking and his crumpled
burning livid hand shook like a loose leaf in the air. A cry
sprang to his lips, a prayer to be let off. But though the tears
scalded his eyes and his limbs quivered with pain and fright he 1540
held back the hot tears and the cry that scalded his throat.

Father Dolan―Other hand!

shouted the prefect of studies.

Stephen drew back his maimed and quivering right arm and
held out his left hand. The soutane sleeve swished again as the
pandybat was lifted and a loud crashing sound and a fierce
maddening tingling burning pain made his hand shrink to-
together with the palms and fingers in a livid quivering mass. The
scalding water burst forth from his eyes and, burning with
shame and agony and fear, he drew back his shaking arm in
terror and burst out into a whine of pain. His body shook with 1550
a palsy of fright and in shame and rage he felt the scalding cry
come from his throat and the scalding tears falling out of his
eyes and down his flaming cheeks.

Father Dolan―Kneel down! cried the prefect of studies.

Stephen knelt down quickly pressing his beaten hands to his
sides. To think of them beaten and swollen with pain all in a
moment made him feel so sorry for them as if they were not his
own but someone else's that he felt so sorry for. And as he
knelt, calming the last sobs in his throat and feeling the burning
tingling pain pressed in to his sides, he thought of the hands 1560
which he had held out in the air with the palms up and of the
firm touch of the prefect of studies when he had steadied the
shaking fingers and of the beaten swollen reddened mass of
palm and fingers that shook helplessly in the air.

Father Dolan―Get at your work, all of you, cried the prefect of studies
from the door. Father Dolan will be in every day to see if any
boy, any lazy idle little loafer wants flogging. Every day. Every
day.

The door closed behind him.

The hushed class continued to copy out the themes. Father 1570
Arnall rose from his seat and went among them, helping the
boys with gentle words and telling them the mistakes they had
made. His voice was very gentle and soft. Then he returned to
his seat and said to Fleming and Stephen:

Father Arnall―You may return to your places, you two.

Fleming and Stephen rose and, walking to their seats, sat
down. Stephen, scarlet with shame, opened a book quickly
with one weak hand and bent down upon it, his face close to
the page.

It was unfair and cruel: because the doctor had told him not 1580
to read without glasses and he had written home to his father
that morning to send him a new pair. And Father Arnall had
said that he need not study till the new glasses came. Then to
be called a schemer before the class and to be pandied when he
always got the card for first or second and was the leader of the
Yorkists! How could the prefect of studies know that it was a
trick? He felt the touch of the prefect's fingers as they had
steadied his hand and at first he had thought that he was going
to shake hands with him because the fingers were soft and firm:
but then in an instant he had heard the swish of the soutane 1590
sleeve and the crash. It was cruel and unfair to make him kneel
in the middle of the class then: and Father Arnall had told them
both that they might return to their places without making any
difference between them. He listened to Father Arnall's low
and gentle voice as he corrected the themes. Perhaps he was
sorry now and wanted to be decent. But it was unfair and cruel.
The prefect of studies was a priest but that was cruel and
unfair. And his whitegrey face and the nocoloured eyes behind
the steelrimmed spectacles were cruel looking because he had
steadied the hand first with his firm soft fingers and that was to 1600
hit it better and louder.

Fleming―It's a stinking mean thing, that's what it is, said Fleming in
the corridor as the classes were passing out in file to the refec-
tory, to pandy a fellow for what is not his fault.

Nasty Roche―You really broke your glasses by accident, didn't you? Nasty
Roche asked.

Stephen felt his heart filled by Fleming's words and did not
answer.

Fleming―Of course he did! said Fleming. I wouldn't stand it. I'd go up
and tell the rector on him.

1610

Cecil Thunder―Yes, said Cecil Thunder eagerly, and I saw him lift the
pandybat over his shoulder and he's not allowed to do that.

Nasty Roche―Did they hurt much? Nasty Roche asked.

Stephen―Very much,

Stephen said.

Fleming―I wouldn't stand it,

Fleming repeated,

Flemingfrom Baldyhead or
any other Baldyhead. It's a stinking mean low trick, that's what
it is. I'd go up straight up to the rector and tell him about it
after dinner.

Cecil Thunder―Yes, do. Yes, do,

said Cecil Thunder.

Nasty Roche―Yes, do. Yes, go up and tell the rector on him, Dedalus,

said 1620
Nasty Roche,

Nasty Rochebecause he said that he'd come in tomorrow
again to pandy you.

all―Yes, yes. Tell the rector,

all said.

And there were some fellows out of second of grammar lis-
listening and one of them said:

a fellow out of second of grammar―The senate and the Roman people declared that Dedalus had
been wrongly punished.

It was wrong; it was unfair and cruel: and, as he sat in the
refectory, he suffered time after time in memory the same hu-
humiliation until he began to wonder whether it might not really 1630
be that there was something in his face which made him look
like a schemer and he wished he had a little mirror to see. But
there could not be; and it was unjust and cruel and unfair.

He could not eat the blackish fish fritters they got on
Wednesdays in lent and one of his potatoes had the mark of the
spade in it. Yes, he would do what the fellows had told him. He
would go up and tell the rector that he had been wrongly
punished. A thing like that had been done before by somebody
in history, by some great person whose head was in the books
of history. And the rector would declare that he had been 1640
wrongly punished because the senate and the Roman people
always declared that the man who did that had been wrongly
punished. Those were the great men whose names were in
Richmal Magnall's Questions. History was all about those men
and what they did and that was what Peter Parley's Tales about
Greece and Rome were all about. Peter Parley himself was on
the first page in a picture. There was a road over a heath with
grass at the side and little bushes: and Peter Parley had a broad
hat like a protestant minister and a big stick and he was walk-
ing fast along the road to 39.074208 21.824312Greece and 41.902783 12.496366Rome.

1650

It was easy what he had to do. All he had to do was when
the dinner was over and he came out in his turn to go on
walking but not out to the corridor but up the staircase on the
right that led to the castle. He had nothing to do but that: to
turn to the right and walk fast up the staircase and in half a
minute he would be in the low dark narrow corridor that led
through the castle to the rector's room. And every fellow had
said that it was unfair, even the fellow out of second of gram-
mar who had said that about the senate and the Roman people.

What would happen? He heard the fellows of the higher line 1660
stand up at the top of the refectory and heard their steps as
they came down the matting: Paddy Rath and Jimmy Magee
and the Spaniard and the Portuguese and the fifth was big
Corrigan who was going to be flogged by Mr Gleeson. That
was why the prefect of studies had called him a schemer and
pandied him for nothing: and, straining his weak eyes, tired
with the tears, he watched big Corrigan's broad shoulders and
big hanging black head passing in the file. But he had done
something and besides Mr Gleeson would not flog him hard:
and he remembered how big Corrigan looked in the bath. He 1670
had skin the same colour as the turfcoloured bogwater in the
shallow end of the bath and when he walked along the side his
feet slapped loudly on the wet tiles and at every step his thighs
shook a little because he was fat.

The refectory was half empty and the fellows were still
passing out in file. He could go up the staircase because there
was never a priest or a prefect outside the refectory door. But
he could not go. The rector would side with the prefect of
studies and think it was a schoolboy trick and then the prefect
of studies would come in every day the same only it would be 1680
worse because he would be dreadfully waxy at any fellow
going up to the rector about him. The fellows had told him to
go but they would not go themselves. They had forgotten all
about it. No, it was best to forget all about it: and perhaps the
prefect of studies had only said he would come in. No, it was
best to hide out of the way because when you were small and
young you could often escape that way.

The fellows at his table stood up. He stood up and passed
out among them in the file. He had to decide. He was coming
near the door. If he went on with the fellows he could never go 1690
up to the rector because he could not leave the playground for
that. And if he went and was pandied all the same all the
fellows would make fun and talk about young Dedalus going
up to the rector to tell on the prefect of studies.

He was walking down along the matting and he saw the
door before him. It was impossible: he could not. He thought
of the baldy head of the prefect of studies with the cruel no-
nocoloured eyes looking at him and he heard the voice of the
prefect of studies asking him twice what his name was. Why
could he not remember the name when he was told the first 1700
time? Was he not listening the first time or was it to make fun
out of the name? The great men in the history had names like
that and nobody made fun of them. It was his own name that
he should have made fun of if he wanted to make fun. Dolan: it
was like the name of a woman that washed clothes.

He had reached the door and, turning quickly to the right,
walked up the stairs: and, before he could make up his mind to
come back, he had entered the low dark narrow corridor that
led to the castle. And as he crossed the threshold of the door of
the corridor he saw, without turning his head to look, that all 1710
the fellows were looking after him as they went filing by.

He passed along the narrow dark corridor, passing little
doors that were the doors of the rooms of the community. He
peered in front of him and right and left through the gloom and
thought that those must be portraits. It was dark and silent and
his eyes were weak and tired with tears so that he could not
see. But he thought they were the portraits of the saints and
great men of the order who were looking down on him silently
as he passed: saint Ignatius Loyola holding an open book and
pointing to the words Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam in it, saint 1720
Francis Xavier pointing to his chest, Lorenzo Ricci with his
berretta on his head like one of the prefects of the lines, the
three patrons of holy youth, saint Stanislaus Kostka, saint
Aloysius Gonzaga and blessed John Berchmans, all with young
faces because they died when they were young, and Father
Peter Kenny sitting in a chair wrapped in a big cloak.

He came out on the landing above the entrance hall and
looked about him. That was where Hamilton Rowan had
passed and the marks of the soldiers' slugs were there. And it
was there that the old servants had seen the ghost in the white 1730
cloak of a marshal.

An old servant was sweeping at the end of the landing. He
asked him where was the rector's room and the old servant
pointed to the door at the far end and looked after him as he
went on to it and knocked.

There was no answer. He knocked again more loudly and
his heart jumped when he heard a muffled voice say:

the rector―Come in!

He turned the handle and opened the door and fumbled for
the handle of the green baize door inside. He found it and 1740
pushed it open and went in.

He saw the rector sitting at a desk writing. There was a skull
on the desk and a strange solemn smell in the room like the old
leather of chairs.

His heart was beating fast on account of the solemn place he
was in and the silence of the room: and he looked at the skull
and at the rector's kindlooking face.

the rector―Well, my little man, said the rector. What is it?

Stephen swallowed down the thing in his throat and said:

Stephen―I broke my glasses, sir.

1750

The rector opened his mouth and said:

the rector―O!

Then he smiled and said:

the rector―Well, if we broke our glasses we must write home for a new
pair.

Stephen―I wrote home, sir,

said Stephen,

Stephenand Father Arnall said I am
not to study till they come.

the rector―Quite right!

said the rector.

Stephen swallowed down the thing again and tried to keep
his legs and his voice from shaking. 1760

Stephen―But, sir ....

the rector―Yes?

Stephen―Father Dolan came in today and pandied me because I was
not writing my theme.

The rector looked at him in silence and he could feel the
blood rising to his face and the tears about to rise to his eyes.

The rector said:

the rector―Your name is Dedalus, isn't it?

Stephen―Yes, sir.

the rector―And where did you break your glasses?

1770

Stephen―On the cinderpath, sir. A fellow was coming out of the
bicycle house and I fell and they got broken. I don't know the
fellow's name.

The rector looked at him again in silence. Then he smiled
and said:

the rector―O, well, it was a mistake. I am sure Father Dolan did not
know.

Stephen―But I told him I broke them, sir, and he pandied me.

the rector―Did you tell him that you had written home for a new pair?
the rector asked.

1780

Stephen―No, sir.

the rector―O well then,

said the rector,

the rectorFather Dolan did not under-
stand. You can say that I excuse you from your lessons for a
few days.

Stephen said quickly for fear his trembling would prevent
him:

Stephen―Yes, sir, but Father Dolan said he will come in tomorrow to
pandy me again for it.

the rector―Very well,

the rector said.

the rectorIt is a mistake and I shall speak to
Father Dolan myself. Will that do now?

1790

Stephen felt the tears wetting his eyes and murmured:

Stephen―O yes, sir, thanks.

The rector held his hand across the side of the desk where
the skull was and Stephen, placing his hand in it for a moment,
felt a cool moist palm.

the rector―Good day now, said the rector, withdrawing his hand and
bowing.

Stephen―Good day, sir, said Stephen.

He bowed and walked quietly out of the room, closing the
doors carefully and slowly.

1800

But when he had passed the old servant on the landing and
was again in the low narrow dark corridor he began to walk
faster and faster. Faster and faster he hurried on through the
gloom, excitedly. He bumped his elbow against the door at the
end and, hurrying down the staircase, walked quickly through
the two corridors and out into the air.

He could hear the cries of the fellows on the playgrounds.
He broke into a run and, running quicker and quicker, ran
across the cinderpath and reached the third line playground,
panting.

1810

The fellows had seen him running. They closed round him in
a ring, pushing one against another to hear.

the fellows―Tell us! Tell us!

the fellows―What did he say?

the fellows―Did you go in?

the fellows―What did he say?

the fellows―Tell us! Tell us!

He told them what he had said and what the rector had said
and, when he had told them, all the fellows flung their caps
spinning up into the air and cried: 1820

the fellows―Hurroo!

They caught their caps and sent them up again spinning
skyhigh and cried again:

the fellows―Hurroo! Hurroo!

They made a cradle of their locked hands and hoisted him
up among them and carried him along till he struggled to get
free. And when he had escaped from them they broke away in
all directions, flinging their caps again into the air and whis-
tling as they went spinning up and crying:

the fellows―Hurroo!

1830

And they gave three groans for Baldyhead Dolan and three
cheers for Conmee and they said he was the decentest rector
that was ever in Clongowes.

The cheers died away in the soft grey air. He was alone. He
was happy and free: but he would not be anyway proud with
Father Dolan. He would be very quiet and obedient: and he
wished that he could do something kind for him to show him
that he was not proud.

The air was soft and grey and mild and evening was coming.
There was the smell of evening in the air, the smell of the fields 1840
in the country where they digged up turnips to peel them and
eat them when they went out for a walk to 53.257926 -6.585225Major Barton's, the
smell there was in the little wood beyond the pavilion where
the gallnuts were.

The fellows were practising long shies and bowling lobs and
slow twisters. In the soft grey silence he could hear the bump of
the balls: and from here and from there through the quiet air
the sound of the cricket bats: pick, pack, pock, puck: like drops
of water in a fountain falling softly in the brimming bowl.

II

Uncle Charles smoked such black twist that at last his out-
spoken nephew suggested to him to enjoy his morning smoke
in a little outhouse at the end of the garden.

Uncle Charles―Very good, Simon. All serene, Simon, said the old man tran-
quilly. Anywhere you like. The outhouse will do me nicely: it
will be more salubrious.

Simon Dedalus―Damn me, said Mr Dedalus frankly, if I know how you can
smoke such villainous awful tobacco. It's like gunpowder, by
God.

Uncle Charles―It's very nice, Simon, replied the old man. Very cool and
mollifying.

Every morning, therefore, uncle Charles repaired to his out-
house but not before he had creased and brushed scrupulously
his back hair and brushed and put on his tall hat. While he
smoked the brim of his tall hat and the bowl of his pipe were
just visible beyond the jambs of the outhouse door. His arbour,
as he called the reeking outhouse which he shared with the cat
and the garden tools, served him also as a soundingbox: and
every morning he hummed contentedly one of his favourite 20
songs: O, twine me a bower or Blue eyes and golden hair or
The Groves of Blarney while the grey and blue coils of smoke
rose slowly from his pipe and vanished in the pure air.

During the first part of the summer in Blackrock uncle
Charles was Stephen's constant companion. Uncle Charles was
a hale old man with a well tanned skin, rugged features and
white side whiskers. On week days he did messages between
the house in 53.293248 -6.180109Carysfort Avenue and those shops in the main
street of the town with which the family dealt. Stephen was
glad to go with him on these errands for uncle Charles helped 30
him very liberally to handfuls of whatever was exposed in open
boxes and barrels outside the counter. He would seize a hand-
ful of grapes and sawdust or three or four American apples and
thrust them generously into his grandnephew's hand while the
shopman smiled uneasily; and on Stephen's feigning reluctance
to take them, he would frown and say:

Uncle Charles―Take them, sir. Do you hear me, sir? They're good for your
bowels.

When the order list had been booked the two would go on
to the park where an old friend of Stephen's father, Mike 40
Flynn, would be found seated on a bench, waiting for them.
Then would begin Stephen's run round the park. Mike Flynn
would stand at the gate near the railway station, watch in
hand, while Stephen ran round the track in the style Mike
Flynn favoured, his head high lifted, his knees well lifted and
his hands held straight down by his sides. When the morning
practice was over the trainer would make his comments and
sometimes illustrate them by shuffling along for a yard or so
comically in an old pair of blue canvas shoes. A small ring of
wonderstruck children and nursemaids would gather to watch 50
him and linger even when he and uncle Charles had sat down
again and were talking athletics and politics. Though he had
heard his father say that Mike Flynn had put some of the best
runners of modern times through his hands Stephen often
glanced with mistrust at his trainer's flabby stubblecovered
face, as it bent over the long stained fingers through which he
rolled his cigarette, and with pity at the mild lustreless blue
eyes which would look up suddenly from the task and gaze
vaguely into the bluer distance while the long swollen fingers
ceased their rolling and grains and fibres of tobacco fell back 60
into the pouch.

On the way home uncle Charles would often pay a visit to
the chapel and, as the font was above Stephen's reach, the old
man would dip his hand and then sprinkle the water briskly
about Stephen's clothes and on the floor of the porch. While he
prayed he knelt on his red handkerchief and read above his
breath from a thumbblackened prayerbook wherein catch-
words were printed at the foot of every page. Stephen knelt at
his side respecting, though he did not share, his piety. He often
wondered what his granduncle prayed for so seriously. Perhaps 70
he prayed for the souls in purgatory or for the grace of a happy
death: or perhaps he prayed that God might send him back a
part of the big fortune he had squandered in Cork.

On Sundays Stephen with his father and his granduncle took
their constitutional. The old man was a nimble walker in spite
of his corns and often ten or twelve miles of the road were
covered. The little village of 53.287857 -6.203573Stillorgan was the parting of the
ways. Either they went to the left towards the Dublin moun-
tains or along the 53.297702 -6.233964Goatstown road and thence into 53.289154 -6.243264Dundrum,
coming home by 53.269979 -6.224923Sandyford. Trudging along the road or 80
standing in some grimy wayside publichouse his elders spoke
constantly of the subjects nearest their hearts, of Irish politics,
of Munster and of the legends of their own family, to all of
which Stephen lent an avid ear. Words which he did not under-
stand he said over and over to himself till he had learned them
by heart: and through them he had glimpses of the real world
about him. The hour when he too would take his part in the
life of that world seemed drawing near and in secret he began
to make ready for the great part which he felt awaited him the
nature of which he only dimly apprehended.

His evenings were his own; and he pored over a ragged
translation of The Count of Monte Cristo. The figure of that
dark avenger stood forth in his mind for whatever he had heard
or divined in childhood of the strange and terrible. At night he
built up on the parlour table an image of the wonderful island
cave out of transfers and paper flowers and coloured tissue
paper and strips of the silver and golden paper in which choc-
olate is wrapped. When he had broken up this scenery, weary
of its tinsel, there would come to his mind the bright picture of
43.295207 5.364077Marseilles, of sunny trellisses and of Mercedes. Outside 53.300907 -6.177049Black- 100
rock, on the road that led to the mountains, stood a small
whitewashed house in the garden of which grew many rose-
bushes: and in this house, he told himself, another Mercedes
lived. Both on the outward and on the homeward journey he
measured distance by this landmark: and in his imagination he
lived through a long train of adventures, marvellous as those in
the book itself, towards the close of which there appeared an
image of himself, grown older and sadder, standing in a
moonlit garden with Mercedes who had so many years before
slighted his love, and with a sadly proud gesture of refusal, 110
saying:

Count of Monte Cristo―Madam, I never eat muscatel grapes.

He became the ally of a boy named Aubrey Mills and
founded with him a gang of adventurers in the avenue. Aubrey
carried a whistle dangling from his buttonhole and a bicycle
lamp attached to his belt while the others had short sticks
thrust daggerwise through theirs. Stephen, who had read of
Napoleon's plain style of dress, chose to remain unadorned and
thereby heightened for himself the pleasure of taking counsel
with his lieutenant before giving orders. The gang made forays 120
into the gardens of old maids or went down to the castle and
fought a battle on the shaggy weedgrown rocks, coming home
after it weary stragglers with the stale odours of the foreshore
in their nostrils and the rank oils of the seawrack upon their
hands and in their hair.

Aubrey and Stephen had a common milkman and often they
drove out in the milkcar to 53.250224 -6.179926Carrickmines where the cows were
at grass. While the men were milking the boys would take turns
in riding the tractable mare round the field. But when autumn
came the cows were driven home from the grass: and the first 130
sight of the filthy cowyard at 53.300791 -6.177067Stradbrook with its foul green
puddles and clots of liquid dung and steaming brantroughs
sickened Stephen's heart. The cattle which had seemed so beau-
tiful in the country on sunny days revolted him and he could
not even look at the milk they yielded.

The coming of September did not trouble him this year for
he knew he was not to be sent back to 53.310770 -6.684719Clongowes. The practice
in the park came to an end when Mike Flynn went into hospi-
tal. Aubrey was at school and had only an hour or two free in
the evening. The gang fell asunder and there were no more 140
nightly forays or battles on the rocks. Stephen sometimes went
round with the car which delivered the evening milk: and these
chilly drives blew away his memory of the filth of the cowyard
and he felt no repugnance at seeing the cowhairs and hayseeds
on the milkman's coat. Whenever the car drew up before a
house he waited to catch a glimpse of a well scrubbed kitchen
or of a softly lighted hall and to see how the servant would
hold the jug and how she would close the door. He thought it
should be a pleasant life enough, driving along the roads every
evening to deliver milk, if he had warm gloves and a fat bag of 150
gingernuts in his pocket to eat from. But the same foreknowl-
edge which had sickened his heart and made his limbs sag
suddenly as he raced round the park, the same intuition which
had made him glance with mistrust at his trainer's flabby
stubblecovered face as it bent heavily over his long stained
fingers, dissipated any vision of the future. In a vague way he
understood that his father was in trouble and that this was the
reason why he himself had not been sent back to 53.310770 -6.684719Clongowes.
For some time he had felt the slight changes in his house; and
these changes in what he had deemed unchangeable were so 160
many slight shocks to his boyish conception of the world. The
ambition which he felt astir at times in the darkness of his soul
sought no outlet. A dusk like that of the outer world obscured
his mind as he heard the mare's hoofs clattering along the
tramtrack on the Rock Road and the great can swaying and
rattling behind him.

He returned to Mercedes and, as he brooded upon her im-
age, a strange unrest crept into his blood. Sometimes a fever
gathered within him and led him to rove alone in the evening
along the quiet avenues. The peace of the gardens and the 170
kindly lights in the windows poured a tender influence into his
restless heart. The noise of children at play annoyed him and
their silly voices made him feel, even more keenly than he had
felt at 53.310770 -6.684719Clongowes, that he was different from others. He did
not want to play. He wanted to meet in the real world the
unsubstantial image which his soul so constantly beheld. He
did not know where to seek it or how: but a premonition which
led him on told him that this image would, without any overt
act of his, encounter him. They would meet quietly as if they
had known each other and had made their tryst, perhaps at one 180
of the gates or in some more secret place. They would be alone,
surrounded by darkness and silence: and in that moment of
supreme tenderness he would be transfigured. He would fade
into something impalpable under her eyes and then, in a mo-
ment, he would be transfigured. Weakness and timidity and
inexperience would fall from him in that magic moment.

* * *

Two great yellow caravans had halted one morning before
the door and men had come tramping into the house to dis-
mantle it. The furniture had been hustled out through the front
garden which was strewn with wisps of straw and rope ends 190
and into the huge vans at the gate. When all had been safely
stowed the vans had set off noisily down the avenue: and from
the window of the railway carriage, in which he had sat with
his redeyed mother, Stephen had seen them lumbering heavily
along the Merrion Road.

The parlour fire would not draw that evening and Mr Deda-
lus rested the poker against the bars of the grate to attract the
flame. Uncle Charles dozed in a corner of the half furnished
uncarpeted room and near him the family portraits leaned
against the wall. The lamp on the table shed a weak light over 200
the boarded floor, muddied by the feet of the vanmen. Stephen
sat on a footstool beside his father listening to a long and
incoherent monologue. He understood little or nothing of it at
first but he became slowly aware that his father had enemies
and that some fight was going to take place. He felt, too, that
he was being enlisted for the fight, that some duty was being
laid upon his shoulders. The sudden flight from the comfort
and revery of 53.300907 -6.177049Blackrock, the passage through the gloomy foggy
city, the thought of the bare cheerless house in which they were
now to live made his heart heavy: and again an intuition or 210
foreknowledge of the future came to him. He understood also
why the servants had often whispered together in the hall and
why his father had often stood on the hearthrug, with his back
to the fire, talking loudly to uncle Charles who urged him to sit
down and eat his dinner.

Simon Dedalus―There's a crack of the whip left in me yet, Stephen, old chap,
said Mr Dedalus, poking at the dull fire with fierce energy.
We're not dead yet, sonny. No, by the Lord Jesus (God forgive
me) nor half dead.

53.349307 -6.263654Dublin was a new and complex sensation. Uncle Charles 220
had grown so witless that he could no longer be sent out on
errands and the disorder in settling in the new house left Ste-
phen freer than he had been in 53.300907 -6.177049Blackrock. In the beginning he
contented himself with circling timidly round the neighbouring
square or, at most, going half way down one of the side streets:
but when he had made a skeleton map of the city in his mind he
followed boldly one of its central lines until he reached the
customhouse. He passed unchallenged among the docks and
along the quays wondering at the multitude of corks that lay
bobbing on the surface of the water in a thick yellow scum, at 230
the crowds of quay porters and the rumbling carts and the
illdressed bearded policeman. The vastness and strangeness of
the life suggested to him by the bales of merchandise stacked
along the walls or swung aloft out of the holds of steamers
wakened again in him the unrest which had sent him wan-
dering in the evening from garden to garden in search of
Mercedes. And amid this new bustling life he might have
fancied himself in another 43.295207 5.364077Marseilles but that he missed the
bright sky and the sunwarmed trellisses of the wineshops. A
vague dissatisfaction grew up within him as he looked on the 240
quays and on the river and on the lowering skies and yet he
continued to wander up and down day after day as if he really
sought someone that eluded him.

He went once or twice with his mother to visit their rela-
tives: and, though they passed a jovial array of shops lit up and
adorned for Christmas, his mood of embittered silence did not
leave him. The causes of his embitterment were many, remote
and near. He was angry with himself for being young and the
prey of restless foolish impulses, angry also with the change of
fortune which was reshaping the world about him into a vision 250
of squalor and insincerity. Yet his anger lent nothing to the
vision. He chronicled with patience what he saw, detaching
himself from it and tasting its mortifying flavour in secret.

He was sitting on the backless chair in his aunt's kitchen. A
lamp with a reflector hung on the japanned wall of the fire-
place and by its light his aunt was reading the evening paper
that lay on her knees. She looked a long time at a smiling
picture that was set in it and said musingly:

his aunt―The beautiful Mabel Hunter!

A ringletted girl stood on tiptoe to peer at the picture and 260
said softly:

ringletted girl―What is she in, mud?

ringletted girl's mother―In the pantomime, love.

The child leaned her ringletted head against her mother's
sleeve, gazing on the picture and murmured, as if fascinated:

ringletted girl―The beautiful Mabel Hunter!

As if fascinated, her eyes rested long upon those demurely
taunting eyes and she murmured again devotedly:

ringletted girl―Isn't she an exquisite creature?

And the boy who came in from the street, stamping crook- 270
edly under his stone of coal, heard her words. He dropped his
load promptly on the floor and hurried to her side to see. But
she did not raise her easeful head to let him see. He mauled the
edges of the paper with his reddened and blackened hands,
shouldering her aside and complaining that he could not see.

He was sitting in the narrow breakfast room high up in the
old darkwindowed house. The firelight flickered on the wall
and beyond the window a spectral dusk was gathering upon the
river. Before the fire an old woman was busy making tea and,
as she bustled at her task, she told in a low voice of what the 280
priest and the doctor had said. She told too of certain changes
that she had seen in her of late and of her odd ways and
sayings. He sat listening to the words and following the ways
of adventure that lay open in the coals, arches and vaults and
winding galleries and jagged caverns.

Suddenly he became aware of something in the doorway. A
skull appeared suspended in the gloom of the doorway. A
feeble creature like a monkey was there, drawn thither by the
sound of voices at the fire. A whining voice came from the
door, asking: 290

Ellen―Is that Josephine?

The old bustling woman answered cheerily from the fire-
place:

old woman―No, Ellen. It's Stephen.

Ellen―O .... O, good evening, Stephen.

He answered the greeting and saw a silly smile break out
over the face in the doorway.

old woman―Do you want anything, Ellen? asked the old woman at the
fire.

But she did not answer the question and said: 300

Ellen―I thought it was Josephine. I thought you were Josephine,
Stephen.

And, repeating this several times, she fell to laughing feebly.

He was sitting in the midst of a children's party at 53.324608 -6.281580Harold's
Cross. His silent watchful manner had grown upon him and he
took little part in the games. The children, wearing the spoils of
their crackers, danced and romped noisily and, though he tried
to share their merriment, he felt himself a gloomy figure amid
the gay cocked hats and sunbonnets.

But when he had sung his song and withdrawn into a snug 310
corner of the room he began to taste the joy of his loneliness.
The mirth, which in the beginning of the evening had seemed
to him false and trivial, was like a soothing air to him, passing
gaily by his senses, hiding from other eyes the feverish agitation
of his blood while through the circling of the dancers and amid
the music and laughter her glances travelled to his corner,
flattering, taunting, searching, exciting his heart.

In the hall the children who had stayed latest were putting
on their things: the party was over. She had thrown a shawl
about her and, as they went together towards the tram, sprays 320
of her fresh warm breath flew gaily above her cowled head and
her shoes tapped blithely on the glassy road.

It was the last tram. The lank brown horses knew it and
shook their bells to the clear night in admonition. The conductor
tor talked with the driver, both nodding often in the green light
of the lamp. On the empty seats of the tram were scattered a
few coloured tickets. No sound of footsteps came up or down
the road. No sound broke the peace of the night save when the
lank brown horses rubbed their noses together and shook their
bells.

330

They seemed to listen, he on the upper step and she on the
lower. She came up to his step many times and went down to
hers again between their phrases and once or twice stood close
beside him for some moments on the upper step, forgetting to
go down, and then went down. His heart danced upon her
movements like a cork upon a tide. He heard what her eyes
said to him from beneath their cowl and knew that in some dim
past, whether in life or in revery, he had heard their tale before.
He saw her urge her vanities, her fine dress and sash and long
black stockings, and knew that he had yielded to them a thou- 340
sand times. Yet a voice within him spoke above the noise of his
dancing heart, asking him would he take her gift to which he
had only to stretch out his hand. And he remembered the day
when he and Eileen had stood looking into the hotel grounds,
watching the waiters running up a trail of bunting on the
flagstaff and the foxterrier scampering to and fro on the sunny
lawn, and how, all of a sudden, she had broken out into a peal
of laughter and had run down the sloping curve of the path.
Now, as then, he stood listlessly in his place, seemingly a
tranquil watcher of the scene before him.

350

―She too wants me to catch hold of her, he thought. That's
why she came with me to the tram. I could easily catch hold of
her when she comes up to my step: nobody is looking. I could
hold her and kiss her.

But he did neither: and, when he was sitting alone in the
deserted tram, he tore his ticket into shreds and stared gloomily
at the corrugated footboard.

The next day he sat at his table in the bare upper room for
many hours. Before him lay a new pen, a new bottle of ink and
a new emerald exercise. From force of habit he had written at 360
the top of the first page the initial letters of the jesuit motto:
A. M. D. G. On the first line of the page appeared the title of
the verses he was trying to write: To E-- C--. He knew it was
right to begin so for he had seen similar titles in the collected
poems of Lord Byron. When he had written this title and
drawn an ornamental line underneath he fell into a daydream
and began to draw diagrams on the cover of the book. He saw
himself sitting at his table in Bray the morning after the dis-
cussion at the Christmas dinnertable, trying to write a poem
about Parnell on the back of one of his father's second moiety 370
notices. But his brain had then refused to grapple with the
theme and, desisting, he had covered the page with the names
and addresses of certain of his classmates:
Roderick Kickham
John Lawton
Anthony MacSwiney
Simon Moonan

Now it seemed as if he would fail again but, by dint of
brooding on the incident, he thought himself into confidence.
During this process all those elements which he deemed com- 380
mon and insignificant fell out of the scene. There remained no
trace of the tram itself nor of the trammen nor of the horses:
nor did he and she appear vividly. The verses told only of the
night and the balmy breeze and the maiden lustre of the moon.
Some undefined sorrow was hidden in the hearts of the protag-
onists as they stood in silence beneath the leafless trees and
when the moment of farewell had come the kiss, which had
been withheld by one, was given by both. After this the letters
L. D. S. were written at the foot of the page and, having hidden
the book, he went into his mother's bedroom and gazed at his 390
face for a long time in the mirror of her dressingtable.

But his long spell of leisure and liberty was drawing to its
end. One evening his father came home full of news which kept
his tongue busy all through dinner. Stephen had been awaiting
his father's return for there had been mutton hash that day and
he knew that his father would make him dip his bread in the
gravy. But he did not relish the hash for the mention of
53.310770 -6.684719Clongowes had coated his palate with a scum of disgust.

Simon Dedalus―I walked bang into him, said Mr Dedalus for the fourth
time, just at the corner of the square.

400

Mary Dedalus―Then I suppose, said Mrs Dedalus, he will be able to arrange
it. I mean, about Belvedere.

Simon Dedalus―Of course he will, said Mr Dedalus. Don't I tell you he's
provincial of the order now?

Mary Dedalus―I never liked the idea of sending him to the christian brothers
myself, said Mrs Dedalus.

Simon Dedalus―Christian brothers be damned! said Mr Dedalus. Is it with
Paddy Stink and Mickey Mud? No, let him stick to the jesuits
in God's name since he began with them. They'll be of service
to him in after years. Those are the fellows that can get you a 410
position.

Mary Dedalus―And they're a very rich order, aren't they, Simon?

Simon Dedalus―Rather. They live well, I tell you. You saw their table at
53.310770 -6.684719Clongowes. Fed up, by God, like gamecocks.

Mr Dedalus pushed his plate over to Stephen and bade him
finish what was on it.

Simon Dedalus―Now then, Stephen,

he said.

Simon DedalusYou must put your shoulder to
the wheel, old chap. You've had a fine long holiday.

Mary Dedalus―O, I'm sure he'll work very hard now,

said Mrs Dedalus.

Mary DedalusEspecially when he has Maurice with him.

420

Simon Dedalus―O, Holy Paul, I forgot about Maurice,

said Mr Dedalus.

Simon DedalusHere, Maurice! Come here, you thickheaded ruffian! Do you
know I'm going to send you to a college where they'll teach you
to spell c.a.t: cat. And I'll buy you a nice little penny handker-
chief to keep your nose dry. Won't that be grand fun?

Maurice grinned at his father and then at his brother. Mr
Dedalus screwed his glass into his eye and stared hard at both
his sons. Stephen mumbled his bread without answering his
father's gaze.

Simon Dedalus―By the bye,

said Mr Dedalus at length,

Simon Dedalusthe rector, or provin- 430
cial, rather, was telling me that story about you and Father
Dolan. You're an impudent thief, he said.

Mary Dedalus―O, he didn't, Simon!

Simon Dedalus―Not he! said Mr Dedalus. But he gave me a great account of
the whole affair. We were chatting, you know, and one word
borrowed another. And, by the way, who do you think he told
me will get that job in the corporation? But I'll tell you that
after. Well, as I was saying, we were chatting away quite
friendly and he asked me did our friend here wear glasses still
and then he told me the whole story.

440

Mary Dedalus―And was he annoyed, Simon?

Simon Dedalus―Annoyed! Not he! Manly little chap!

he said.

Mr Dedalus imitated the mincing nasal tone of the provin-
cial.

Simon Dedalus―Father Dolan and I, when I told them all at dinner about it,
Father Dolan and I had a great laugh over it. You better mind
yourself, Father Dolan, said I, or young Dedalus will send you
up for twice nine. We had a famous laugh together over it. Ha!
Ha! Ha!

Mr Dedalus turned to his wife and interjected in his natural 450
voice:

Simon Dedalus―Shows you the spirit in which they take the boys there. O, a
jesuit for your life, for diplomacy!

He reassumed the provincial's voice and repeated:

Simon Dedalus―I told them all at dinner about it and Father Dolan and I and
all of us we all had a hearty laugh together over it. Ha! Ha! Ha!

* * *

The night of the Whitsuntide play had come and Stephen
from the window of the dressingroom looked out on the small
grassplot across which lines of Chinese lanterns were stretched.
He watched the visitors come down the steps from the house 460
and pass into the theatre. Stewards in evening dress, old Belve-
dereans, loitered in groups about the entrance to the theatre
and ushered in the visitors with ceremony. Under the sudden
glow of a lantern he could recognise the smiling face of a priest.

The Blessed Sacrament had been removed from the taber-
nacle and the first benches had been driven back so as to leave
the dais of the altar and the space before it free. Against the
walls stood companies of barbells and Indian clubs; the dumb-
bells were piled in one corner: and in the midst of countless
hillocks of gymnasium shoes and sweaters and singlets in 470
untidy brown parcels there stood the stout leatherjacketed
vaulting horse waiting its turn to be carried up on to the stage.
A large bronze shield, tipped with silver, leaned against the
panel of the altar also waiting its turn to be carried up on to the
stage and set in the middle of the winning team at the end of
the gymnastic display.

Stephen, though in deference to his reputation for essay-
writing he had been elected secretary to the gymnasium, had }omit{ no
part in the first section of the programme: but in the play
which formed the second section he had the chief part, that of a 480
farcical pedagogue. He had been cast for it on account of his
stature and grave manners for he was now at the end of his
second year at Belvedere and in number two.

A score of the younger boys in white knickers and singlets
came pattering down from the stage, through the vestry and
into the chapel. The vestry and chapel were peopled with eager
masters and boys. The plump bald sergeantmajor was testing
with his foot the springboard of the vaulting horse. The lean
young man in a long overcoat, who was to give a special
display of intricate club swinging, stood near watching with 490
interest, his silvercoated clubs peeping out of his deep side-
pockets. The hollow rattle of the wooden dumbbells was heard
as another team made ready to go up on the stage: and in
another moment the excited prefect was hustling the boys
through the vestry like a flock of geese, flapping the wings of
his soutane nervously and crying to the laggards to make haste.
A little troop of Neapolitan peasants were practising their steps
at the end of the chapel, some arching their arms above their
heads, some swaying their baskets of paper violets and curtsey-
ing. In a dark corner of the chapel at the gospel side of the altar 500
a stout old lady knelt amid her copious black skirts. When she
stood up a pinkdressed figure, wearing a curly golden wig and
an oldfashioned straw sunbonnet, with black pencilled eye-
brows and cheeks delicately rouged and powdered, was dis-
covered. A low murmur of curiosity ran round the chapel at the
discovery of this girlish figure. One of the prefects, smiling and
nodding his head, approached the dark corner and, having
bowed to the stout old lady, said pleasantly:

a prefect―Is this a beautiful young lady or a doll that you have here,
Mrs Tallon?

510

Then, bending down to peer at the smiling painted face un-
der the leaf of the bonnet, he exclaimed:

a prefect―No! Upon my word I believe it's little Bertie Tallon after all!

Stephen at his post by the window heard the old lady and
the priest laugh together and heard the boys' murmur of ad-
miration behind him as they pressed forward to see the little
boy who had to dance the sunbonnet dance by himself. A
movement of impatience escaped him. He let the edge of the
blind fall and, stepping down from the bench on which he had
been standing, walked out of the chapel.

520

He passed out of the schoolhouse and halted under the shed
that flanked the garden. From the theatre opposite came the
muffled noise of the audience and sudden brazen clashes of the
soldiers' band. The light spread upwards from the glass roof
making the theatre seem a festive ark, anchored amid the hulks
of houses, her frail cables of lanterns looping her to her moor-
ings. A sidedoor of the theatre opened suddenly and a shaft of
light flew across the grassplots. A sudden burst of music issued
from the ark, the prelude of a waltz: and when the sidedoor
closed again the listener could hear the faint rhythm of the 530
music. The sentiment of the opening bars, their languor and
supple movement, evoked the incommunicable emotion which
had been the cause of all his day's unrest and of his impatient
movement of a moment before. His unrest issued from him like
a wave of sound: and on the tide of flowing music the ark was
journeying, trailing her cables of lanterns in her wake. Then a
noise like dwarf artillery broke the movement. It was the
clapping that greeted the entry of the dumbbell team on the
stage.

At the far end of the shed near the street a speck of pink 540
light showed in the darkness and as he walked towards it he
became aware of a faint aromatic odour. Two boys were
standing in the shelter of the doorway, smoking, and before he
reached them he had recognised Heron by his voice.

Heron―Here comes the noble Dedalus!

cried a high throaty voice.

heronWelcome to our trusty friend!

This welcome ended in a soft peal of mirthless laughter as
Heron salaamed and then began to poke the ground with his
cane.

Stephen Dedalus―Here I am

, said Stephen, halting and glancing from Heron to 550
his friend.

The latter was a stranger to him but in the darkness, by the
aid of the glowing cigarette tips, he could make out a pale
dandyish face, over which a smile was travelling slowly, a tall
overcoated figure and a hard hat. Heron did not trouble him-
self about an introduction but said instead:

Heron―I was just telling my friend Wallis what a lark it would be
tonight if you took off the rector in the part of the school-
master. It would be a ripping good joke.

Heron made a poor attempt to imitate for his friend Wallis 560
the rector's pedantic bass and then, laughing at his failure,
asked Stephen to do it.

Heron―Go on, Dedalus

, he urged.

HeronYou can take him off rippingly.

Stephen DedalusHe that will not hear the churcha let him be to theea as the
heathena and the publicana.

The imitation was prevented by a mild expression of anger
from Wallis in whose mouthpiece the cigarette had become too
tightly wedged.

Wallis―Damn this blankety blank holder

, he said, taking it from his
mouth and smiling and frowning upon it tolerantly.

WallisIt's always 570
getting stuck like that. Do you use a holder?

Stephen Dedalus―I don't smoke, answered Stephen.

Heron―No,

said Heron,

HeronDedalus is a model youth. He doesn't
smoke and he doesn't go to bazaars and he doesn't flirt and he
doesn't damn anything or damn all.

Stephen shook his head and smiled in his rival's flushed and
mobile face, beaked like a bird's. He had often thought it
strange that Vincent Heron had a bird's face as well as a bird's
name. A shock of pale hair lay on the forehead like a ruffled
crest: the forehead was narrow and bony and a thin hooked 580
nose stood out between the closeset prominent eyes which were
light and inexpressive. The rivals were school friends. They sat
together in class, knelt together in the chapel, talked together
after beads over their lunches. As the fellows in number one
were undistinguished dullards Stephen and Heron had been
during the year the virtual heads of the school. It was they who
went up to the rector together to ask for a free day or to get a
fellow off.

Heron―O by the way

, said Heron suddenly,

HeronI saw your governor
going in.

590

The smile waned on Stephen's face. Any allusion made to his
father by a fellow or by a master put his calm to rout in a
moment. He waited in timorous silence to hear what Heron
might say next. Heron, however, nudged him expressively with
his elbow and said:

Heron―You're a sly dog, Dedalus!

Stephen Dedalus―Why so?

said Stephen.

Heron―You'd think butter wouldn't melt in your mouth

, said
Heron.

HeronBut I'm afraid you're a sly dog.

Stephen Dedalus―Might I ask you what you are talking about?

said Stephen 600
urbanely.

Heron―Indeed you might

, answered Heron.

Heron>We saw her, Wallis,
didn't we? And deucedly pretty she is too. And so inquisitive!
And what part does Stephen take, Mr Dedalus? And will
Stephen not sing, Mr Dedalus? Your governor was staring at
her through that eyeglass of his for all he was worth so that I
think the old man has found you out too. I wouldn't care a bit,
by Jove. She's ripping, isn't she, Wallis?

Wallis―Not half bad

, answered Wallis quietly as he placed his
holder once more in a corner of his mouth.

610

A shaft of momentary anger flew through Stephen's mind at
these indelicate allusions in the hearing of a stranger. For him
there was nothing amusing in a girl's interest and regard. All
day he had thought of nothing but their leavetaking on the
steps of the tram at 53.324608 -6.281580Harold's Cross, the stream of moody
emotions it had made to course through him and the poem he
had written about it. All day he had imagined a new meeting
with her for he knew that she was to come to the play. The old
restless moodiness had again filled his heart as it had done on
the night of the party but had not found an outlet in verse. The 620
growth and knowledge of two years of boyhood stood between
then and now, forbidding such an outlet: and all day the stream
of gloomy tenderness within him had started forth and re-
turned upon itself in dark courses and eddies, wearying him in
the end until the pleasantry of the prefect and the painted little
boy had drawn from him a movement of impatience.

Heron―So you may as well admit

, Heron went on,

Heronthat we've fairly
found you out this time. You can't play the saint on me any
more, that's one sure five.

A soft peal of mirthless laughter escaped from his lips and, 630
bending down as before, he struck Stephen lightly across the
calf of the leg with his cane, as if in jesting reproof.

Stephen's moment of anger had already passed. He was nei-
ther flattered nor confused but simply wished the banter to
end. He scarcely resented what had seemed to him at first a
silly indelicateness for he knew that the adventure in his mind
stood in no danger from their words: and his face mirrored his
rival's false smile.

Heron―Admit!

repeated Heron, striking him again with his cane
across the calf of the leg.

640

The stroke was playful but not so lightly given as the first
one had been. Stephen felt the skin tingle and glow slightly and
almost painlessly; and bowing submissively, as if to meet his
companion's jesting mood, began to recite the Confiteor. The
episode ended well for both Heron and Wallis laughed indul-
gently at the irreverence.

The confession came only from Stephen's lips and, while
they spoke the words, a sudden memory had carried him to
another scene called up, as if by magic, at the moment when he
had noted the faint cruel dimples at the corners of Heron's 650
smiling lips and had felt the familiar stroke of the cane against
his calf and had heard the familiar word of admonition:

Heron―Admit!

It was towards the close of his first term in the college when
he was in number six. His sensitive nature was still smarting
under the lashes of an undivined and squalid way of life. His
soul was still disquieted and cast down by the dull phenom-
enon of 53.349307 -6.263654Dublin. He had emerged from a two years' spell of
revery to find himself in the midst of a new scene, every event
and figure of which affected him intimately, disheartened him 660
or allured him and, whether alluring or disheartening, filled
him always with unrest and bitter thoughts. All the leisure that
his school life left him was passed in the company of subversive
writers whose gibes and violence of speech set up a ferment in
his brain before they passed out of it into his crude writings.

The essay was for him the chief labour of his week and every
Tuesday, as he marched from home to the school, he read his
fate in the incidents of the way, pitting himself against some
figure ahead of him and quickening his pace to outstrip it be-
fore a certain goal was reached or planting his steps scrupu- 670
lously in the spaces of the patchwork of the footpath and
telling himself that he would be first and not first in the weekly
essay.

On a certain Tuesday the course of his triumphs was rudely
broken. Mr Tate, the English master, pointed his finger at him
and said bluntly:

Mr Tate―This fellow has heresy in his essay.

A hush fell on the class. Mr Tate did not break it but dug
with his hand between his crossed thighs while his heavily
starched linen creaked about his neck and wrists. Stephen did 680
not look up. It was a raw spring morning and his eyes were still
smarting and weak. He was conscious of failure and of detec-
tion, of the squalor of his own mind and home, and felt against
his neck the raw edge of his turned and jagged collar.

A short loud laugh from Mr Tate set the class more at ease.

Mr Tate―Perhaps you didn't know that

, he said.

Stephen Dedalus―Where?

asked Stephen.

Mr Tate withdrew his delving hand and spread out the es-
say.

Mr Tate―Here. It's about the Creator and the soul. Rrm ... rrm ..... 690
rrm ... Ah! without a possibility of ever approaching nearer.
That's heresy.

Stephen murmured:

Stephen Dedalus―I meant without a possibility of ever reaching.

It was a submission and Mr Tate, appeased, folded up the
essay and passed it across to him, saying:

Mr Tate―O ... Ah! ever reaching. That's another story.

But the class was not so soon appeased. Though nobody
spoke to him of the affair after class he could feel about him a
vague general malignant joy.

700

A few nights after this public chiding he was walking with a
letter along the 53.36324 -6.25800Drumcondra Road when he heard a voice cry:

Heron―Halt!

He turned and saw three boys of his own class coming to-
wards him in the dusk. It was Heron who had called out and,
as he marched forward between his two attendants, he cleft the
air before him with a thin cane, in time to their steps. Boland,
his friend, marched beside him, a large grin on his face, while
Nash came on a few steps behind, blowing from the pace and
wagging his great red head.

710

As soon as the boys had turned into 53.362304 -6.249867Clonliffe Roadtogether
they began to speak about books and writers, saying what
books they were reading and how many books there were in
their fathers' bookcases at home. Stephen listened to them in
some wonderment for Boland was the dunce and Nash the idler
of the class. In fact after some talk about their favourite writers
Nash declared for Captain Marryat who, he said, was the
greatest writer.

Heron―Fudge!

said Heron.

HeronAsk Dedalus. Who is the greatest writer,
Dedalus?

720

Stephen noted the mockery in the question and said:

Stephen Dedalus―Of prose, do you mean?

Heron―Yes.

Stephen Dedalus―Newman, I think.

Boland―Is it Cardinal Newman?

asked Boland.

Stephen Dedalus―Yes

, answered Stephen.

The grin broadened on Nash's freckled face as he turned to
Stephen and said:

Nash―And do you like Cardinal Newman, Dedalus?

Heron―O, many people say that Newman has the best prose style,

730
Heron said to the other two in explanation.

HeronOf course, he's not
a poet.

Boland―And who is the best poet, Heron?

asked Boland.

Heron―Lord Tennyson, of course

, answered Heron.

Nash―O, yes, Lord Tennyson

, said Nash.

NashWe have all his poetry at
home in a book.

At this Stephen forgot the silent vows he had been making
and burst out:

Stephen Dedalus―Tennyson a poet! Why, he's only a rhymester!

Heron―O, get out!

said Heron.

HeronEveryone knows that Tennyson is 740
the greatest poet.

Boland―And who do you think is the greatest poet?

asked Boland,
nudging his neighbour.

Stephen Dedalus―Byron, of course

, answered Stephen.

Heron gave the lead and all three joined in a scornful laugh.

Stephen Dedalus―What are you laughing at?

asked Stephen.

Heron―You

, said Heron.

HeronByron the greatest poet! He's only a poet
for uneducated people.

Boland―He must be a fine poet!

said Boland.

Stephen Dedalus―You may keep your mouth shut, said Stephen, turning on 750
him boldly. All you know about poetry is what you wrote up
on the slates in the yard and were going to be sent to the loft
for.

Boland, in fact, was said to have written on the slates in the
yard a couplet about a classmate of his who often rode home
from the college on a pony:

As Tyson was riding into Jerusalem
He fell and hurt his Alec Kafoozelum.

This thrust put the two lieutenants to silence but Heron
went on: 760

Heron―In any case Byron was a heretic and immoral too.

Stephen Dedalus―I don't care what he was, cried Stephen hotly.

Nash―You don't care whether he was a heretic or not? said Nash.

Stephen Dedalus―What do you know about it? shouted Stephen. You never
read a line of anything in your life except a trans or Boland
either.

Boland―I know that Byron was a bad man, said Boland.

Heron―Here, Catch hold of this heretic, Heron called out.

In a moment Stephen was a prisoner.

Heron―Tate made you buck up the other day, Heron went on, about 770
the heresy in your essay.

Boland―I'll tell him tomorrow, said Boland.

Stephen Dedalus―Will you? said Stephen. You'd be afraid to open your lips.

Boland―Afraid?

Stephen Dedalus―Ay. Afraid of your life.

Heron―Behave yourself! cried Heron, cutting at Stephen's legs with
his cane.

It was the signal for their onset. Nash pinioned his arms
behind while Boland seized a long cabbage stump which was
lying in the gutter. Struggling and kicking under the cuts of the 780
cane and the blows of the knotty stump Stephen was borne
back against a barbed wire fence.

Heron―Admit that Byron was no good.

Stephen Dedalus―No.

Heron―Admit.

Stephen Dedalus―No.

Heron―Admit.

Stephen Dedalus―No. No.

At last after a fury of plunges he wrenched himself free. His
tormentors set off towards 53.360891 -6.251230Jones's Road, laughing and jeering 790
at him, while he, }omit{ half blinded with tears, stumbled on, clench-
ing his fists madly and sobbing.

While he was still repeating the Confiteor amid the indul-
gent laughter of his hearers and while the scenes of that
malignant episode were still passing sharply and swiftly before
his mind he wondered why he bore no malice now to those
who had tormented him. He had not forgotten a whit of their
cowardice and cruelty but the memory of it called forth no
anger from him. All the descriptions of fierce love and hatred
which he had met in books had seemed to him therefore unreal. 800
Even that night as he stumbled homewards along 53.360891 -6.251230Jones's Road
he had felt that some power was divesting him of that sudden-
woven anger as easily as a fruit is divested of her soft ripe peel.

He remained standing with his two companions at the end
of the shed, listening idly to their talk or to the bursts of
applause in the theatre. She was sitting there among the others,
perhaps waiting for him to appear. He tried to recall her ap-
pearance but could not. He could remember only that she had
worn a shawl about her head like a cowl and that her dark eyes
had invited and unnerved him. He wondered had he been in her 810
thoughts as she had been in his. Then in the dark and unseen
by the other two he rested the tips of the fingers of one hand
upon the palm of the other hand, scarcely touching it and yet
pressing upon it lightly. But the pressure of her fingers had
been lighter and steadier: and suddenly the memory of their
touch traversed his brain and body like an invisible warm
wave.

A boy came towards them, running along under the shed.
He was excited and breathless.

a boy―O, Dedalus, he cried, Doyle is in a great bake about you. 820
You're to go in at once and get dressed for the play. Hurry up,
you better.

Heron―He's coming now, said Heron to the messenger with a
haughty drawl, when he wants to.

The boy turned to Heron and repeated:

a boy―But Doyle is in an awful bake.

Heron―Will you tell Doyle with my best compliments that I damned
his eyes? answered Heron.

Stephen Dedalus―Well, I must go now, said Stephen who cared little for such
points of honour.

830

Heron―I wouldn't, said Heron, damn me if I would. That's no way
to send for one of the senior boys. In a bake, indeed! I think it's
quite enough that you're taking a part in his bally old play.

This spirit of quarrelsome comradeship which he had ob-
served lately in his rival had not seduced Stephen from his
habits of quiet obedience. He mistrusted the turbulence and
doubted the sincerity of such comradeship which seemed to
him a sorry anticipation of manhood. The question of honour
here raised was, like all such questions, trivial to him. While his
mind had been pursuing its intangible phantoms and turning in 840
irresolution from such pursuit he had heard about him the
constant voices of his father and of his masters, urging him to
be a gentleman above all things and urging him to be a good
catholic above all things. These voices had now come to be
hollowsounding in his ears. When the gymnasium had been
opened he had heard another voice urging him to be strong and
manly and healthy and when the movement towards national
revival had begun to be felt in the college yet another voice had
bidden him be true to his country and help to raise up her
fallen language and tradition. In the profane world, as he 850
foresaw, a worldly voice would bid him raise up his father's
fallen state by his labours and, meanwhile, the voice of his
schoolcomrades urged him to be a decent fellow, to shield
others from blame or to beg them off and to do his best to get
free days for the school. And it was the din of all these hollow-
sounding voices that made him halt irresolutely in the pursuit
of phantoms. He gave them ear only for a time but he was
happy only when he was far from them, beyond their call,
alone or in the company of phantasmal comrades.

In the vestry a plump freshfaced jesuit and an elderly man, in 860
shabby blue clothes, were dabbling in a case of paints and
chalks. The boys who had been painted walked about or stood
still awkwardly, touching their faces in a gingerly fashion with
their furtive fingertips. In the middle of the vestry a young
jesuit, who was then on a visit to the college, stood rocking
himself rhythmically from the tips of his toes to his heels and
back again, his hands thrust well forward into his sidepockets.
His small head set off with glossy red curls and his newly
shaven face agreed well with the spotless decency of his soutane
and with his spotless shoes.

870

As he watched this swaying form and tried to read for him-
self the legend of the priest's mocking smile there came into
Stephen's memory a saying which he had heard from his father
before he had been sent to 53.310770 -6.684719Clongowes, that you could always
tell a jesuit by the style of his clothes. At the same moment he
thought he saw a likeness between his father's mind and that of
this smiling welldressed priest: and he was aware of some des-
ecration of the priest's office or of the vestry itself, whose si-
lence was now routed by loud talk and joking and its air
pungent with the smells of the gasjets and the grease.

880

While his forehead was being wrinkled and his jaws painted
black and blue by the elderly man he listened distractedly to the
voice of the plump young jesuit which bade him speak up and
make his points clearly. He could hear the band playing The
Lily of Killarney and knew that in a few moments the curtain
would go up. He felt no stage fright but the thought of the part
he had to play humiliated him. A remembrance of some of his
lines made a sudden flush rise to his painted cheeks. He saw her
serious alluring eyes watching him from among the audience
and their image at once swept away his scruples, leaving his 890
will compact. Another nature seemed to have been lent him:
the infection of the excitement and youth about him entered
into and transformed his moody mistrustfulness. For one rare
moment he seemed to be clothed in the real apparel of boy-
hood: and, as he stood in the wings among the other players, he
shared the common mirth amid which the drop scene was
hauled upwards by two ablebodied priests with violent jerks
and all awry.

A few moments after he found himself on the stage amid the
garish gas and the dim scenery, acting before the innumerable 900
faces of the void. It surprised him to see that the play which he
had known at rehearsals for a disjointed lifeless thing had
suddenly assumed a life of its own. It seemed now to play itself,
he and his fellow actors aiding it with their parts. When the
curtain fell on the last scene he heard the void filled with
applause and, through a rift in the side scene, saw the simple
body before which he had acted magically deformed, the void
of faces breaking at all points and falling asunder into busy
groups.

He left the stage quickly and rid himself of his mummery 910
and passed out through the chapel into the college garden.
Now that the play was over his nerves cried for some further
adventure. He hurried onwards as if to overtake it. The doors
of the theatre were all open and the audience had emptied out.
On the lines which he had fancied the moorings of an ark a few
lanterns swung in the night breeze, flickering cheerlessly. He
mounted the steps from the garden in haste, eager that some
prey should not elude him, and forced his way through the
crowd in the hall and past the two jesuits who stood watching
the exodus and bowing and shaking hands with the visitors. He 920
pushed onward nervously, feigning a still greater haste and
faintly conscious of the smiles and stares and nudges which his
powdered head left in its wake.

When he came out on the steps he saw his family waiting for
him at the first lamp. In a glance he noted that every figure of
the group was familiar and ran down the steps angrily.

Stephen Dedalus―I have to leave a message down in George's Street,

he said to
his father quickly.

Stephen DedalusI'll be home after you.

Without waiting for his father's questions he ran across the
road and began to walk at breakneck speed down the hill. He 930
hardly knew where he was walking. Pride and hope and desire
like crushed herbs in his heart sent up vapours of maddening
incense before the eyes of his mind. He strode down the hill
amid the tumult of suddenrisen vapours of wounded pride and
fallen hope and baffled desire. They streamed upwards before
his anguished eyes in dense and maddening fumes and passed
away above him till at last the air was clear and cold again.

A film still veiled his eyes but they burned no longer. A
power, akin to that which had often made anger or resentment
fall from him, brought his steps to rest. He stood still and 940
gazed up at the sombre porch of the morgue and from that to
the dark cobbled laneway at its side. He saw the word Lotts on
the wall of the lane and breathed slowly the rank heavy air.

―That is horse piss and rotted straw, he thought. It is a good
odour to breathe. It will calm my heart. My heart is quite calm
now. I will go back.

* * *

Stephen was once again seated beside his father in the corner
of a railway carriage at Kingsbridge. He was travelling with his
father by the night mail to Cork. As the train steamed out of
the station he recalled his childish wonder of years before and 950
every event of his first day at 53.310770 -6.684719Clongowes. But he felt no wonder
now. He saw the darkening lands slipping past him, the silent
telegraphpoles passing his window swiftly every four seconds,
the little glimmering stations, manned by a few silent sentries,
flung by the mail behind her and twinkling for a moment in the
darkness like fiery grains flung backwards by a runner.

He listened without sympathy to his father's evocation of
Cork and of scenes of his youth, a tale broken by sighs or
draughts from his pocket flask whenever the image of some
dead friend appeared in it or whenever the evoker remembered 960
suddenly the purpose of his actual visit. Stephen heard but
could feel no pity. The images of the dead were all strange to
him save that of uncle Charles, an image which had lately been
fading out of memory. He knew, however, that his father's
property was going to be sold by auction and in the manner of
his own dispossession he felt the world give the lie rudely to his
phantasy.

At Maryborough he fell asleep. When he awoke the train
had passed out of Mallow and his father was stretched asleep
on the other seat. The cold light of the dawn lay over the 970
country, over the unpeopled fields and the closed cottages. The
terror of sleep fascinated his mind as he watched the silent
country or heard from time to time his father's deep breath or
sudden sleepy movement. The neighbourhood of unseen
sleepers filled him with strange dread as though they could
harm him; and he prayed that the day might come quickly. His
prayer, addressed neither to God nor saint, began with a shiver,
as the chilly morning breeze crept through the chink of the
carriage door to his feet, and ended in a trail of foolish words
which he made to fit the insistent rhythm of the train: and 980
silently, at intervals of four seconds, the telegraphpoles held the
galloping notes of the music between punctual bars. This furi-
ous music allayed his dread and, leaning against the window-
ledge, he let his eyelids close again.

They drove in a jingle across Cork while it was still early
morning and Stephen finished his sleep in a bedroom of the
Victoria Hotel. The bright warm sunlight was streaming
through the window and he could hear the din of traffic. His
father was standing before the dressingtable, examining his
hair and face and moustache with great care, craning his neck 990
across the waterjug and drawing it back sideways to see the
better. While he did so he sang softly to himself with quaint
accent and phrasing:

Simon Dedalus

'Tis youth and folly
Makes young men marry,
So here, my love, I'll
No longer stay.
What can't be cured, sure,
Must be injured, sure,
So I'll go to 1000
Amerikay.
My love she's handsome,
My love she's boney:
She's like good whisky
When it is new;
But when 'tis old
And growing cold
It fades and dies like
The mountain dew.

The consciousness of the warm sunny city outside his win- 1010
dow and the tender tremors with which his father's voice
festooned the strange sad happy air drove off all the mists of
the night's ill humour from Stephen's brain. He got up quickly
to dress and, when the song had ended, said:

Stephen Dedalus―That's much prettier than any of your other come-all-yous.

Simon Dedalus―Do you think so? asked Mr Dedalus.

Stephen Dedalus―I like it, said Stephen.

Simon Dedalus―It's a pretty old air, said Mr Dedalus, twirling the points of
his moustache. Ah, but you should have heard Mick Lacy sing
it! Poor Mick Lacy! He had little turns for it, grace notes he 1020
used to put in that I haven't got. That was the boy }omit{ could sing a
come-all-you, if you like.

Mr Dedalus had ordered drisheens for breakfast and during
the meal he crossexamined the waiter for local news. For the
most part they spoke at cross purposes when a name was
mentioned, the waiter having in mind its present holder and Mr
Dedalus his father or perhaps his grandfather.

Simon Dedalus―Well, I hope they haven't moved the Queen's College any-
how, said Mr Dedalus, for I want to show it to this youngster
of mine.

1030

Along the Mardyke the trees were in bloom. They entered
the grounds of the college and were led by the garrulous porter
across the quadrangle. But their progress across the gravel was
brought to a halt after every dozen or so paces by some reply of
the porter's.

Simon Dedalus―Ah, do you tell me so? And is poor Pottlebelly dead?

porter―Yes, sir. Dead, sir.

During these halts Stephen stood awkwardly behind the two
men, weary of the subject and waiting restlessly for the slow
march to begin again. By the time they had crossed the quad- 1040
rangle his restlessness had risen to fever. He wondered how his
father, whom he knew for a shrewd suspicious man, could be
duped by the servile manners of the porter: and the lively
southern speech which had entertained him all the morning
now irritated his ears.

They passed into the anatomy theatre where Mr Dedalus,
the porter aiding him, searched the desks for his initials. Ste-
phen remained in the background, depressed more than ever by
the darkness and silence of the theatre and by the air it wore of
jaded and formal study. On the desk before him he read the 1050
word Foetus cut several times in the dark stained wood. The
sudden legend startled his blood: he seemed to feel the absent
students of the college about him and to shrink from their
company. A vision of their life, which his father's words had
been powerless to evoke, sprang up before him out of the word
cut in the desk. A broadshouldered student with a moustache
was cutting in the letters with a jackknife, seriously. Other
students stood or sat near him laughing at his handiwork. One
jogged his elbow. The big student turned on him, frowning. He
was dressed in loose grey clothes and had tan boots.

1060

Stephen's name was called. He hurried down the steps of the
theatre so as to be as far away from the vision as he could be
and, peering closely at his father's initials, hid his flushed face.

But the word and the vision capered before his eyes as he
walked back across the quadrangle and towards the college
gate. It shocked him to find in the outer world a trace of what
he had deemed till then a brutish and individual malady of his
own mind. His recent monstrous reveries came thronging into
his memory. They too had sprung up before him, suddenly and
furiously, out of mere words. He had soon given in to them and 1070
allowed them to sweep across and abase his intellect, wonder-
ing always where they came from, from what den of monstrous
images, and always weak and humble towards others, restless
and sickened of himself when they had swept over him.

Simon Dedalus―Ay, bedad! And there's the Groceries sure enough! cried Mr
Dedalus. You often heard me speak of the Groceries, didn't
you, Stephen. Many's the time we went down there when our
names had been marked, a crowd of us, Harry Peard and little
Jack Mountain and Bob Dyas and Maurice Moriarty, the
Frenchman, and Tom O'Grady and Mick Lacy that I told you 1080
of this morning and Joey Corbet and poor little goodhearted
Johnny Keevers of the Tantiles.

The leaves of the trees along the Mardyke were astir and
whispering in the sunlight. A team of cricketers passed, agile
young men in flannels and blazers, one of them carrying the
long green wicketbag. In a quiet bystreet a German band of five
players in faded uniforms and with battered brass instruments
was playing to an audience of street arabs and leisurely mess-
enger boys. A maid in a white cap and apron was watering a
box of plants on a sill which shone like a slab of limestone in 1090
the warm glare. From another window open to the air came the
sound of a piano, scale after scale rising into the treble.

Stephen walked on at his father's side, listening to stories he
had heard before, hearing again the names of the scattered and
dead revellers who had been the companions of his father's
youth. And a faint sickness sighed in his heart. He recalled his
own equivocal position in Belvedere, a free boy, a leader afraid
of his own authority, proud and sensitive and suspicious, bat-
tling against the squalor of his life and against the riot of his
mind. The letters cut in the stained wood of the desk stared 1100
upon him, mocking his bodily weakness and futile enthusiasms
and making him loathe himself for his own mad and filthy
orgies. The spittle in his throat grew bitter and foul to swallow
and the faint sickness climbed to his brain so that for a moment
he closed his eyes and walked on in darkness.

He could still hear his father's voice.

Simon Dedalus―When you kick out for yourself, Stephen, }omit{ (as I daresay you
will one of those days) }omit{ remember, whatever you do, to mix
with gentlemen. When I was a young fellow I tell you I enjoyed
myself. I mixed with fine decent fellows. Everyone of us could 1110
do something. One fellow had a good voice, another fellow
was a good actor, another could sing a good comic song, an-
other was a good oarsman or a good racketplayer, another
could tell a good story and so on. We kept the ball rolling
anyhow and enjoyed ourselves and saw a bit of life and we
were none the worse of it either. But we were all gentlemen,
Stephen, (at least I hope we were) }omit{ and bloody good honest
Irishmen too. That's the kind of fellows I want you to associate
with, fellows of the right kidney. I'm talking to you as a friend,
Stephen. I don't believe in playing the stern father. I don't 1120
believe a son should be afraid of his father. No, I treat you as
your grandfather treated me when I was a young chap. We
were more like brothers than father and son. I'll never forget
the first day he caught me smoking. I was standing at the end
of the South Terrace one day with some maneens like myself
and sure we thought we were grand fellows because we had
pipes stuck in the corners of our mouths. Suddenly the gov-
ernor passed. He didn't say a word or stop even. But the next
day, Sunday, we were out for a walk together and when we
were coming home he took out his cigar case and said: By the 1130
bye, Simon, I didn't know you smoked: or something like that.
– Of course I tried to carry it off as best I could. If you want a
good smoke, he said, try one of these cigars. An American
captain made me a present of them last night in Queenstown.

Stephen heard his father's voice break into a laugh which
was almost a sob.

Simon Dedalus―He was the handsomest man in Cork at that time, by God he
was! The women used to stand to look after him in the street.

He heard the sob passing loudly down his father's throat
and opened his eyes with a nervous impulse. The sunlight 1140
breaking suddenly on his sight turned the sky and clouds into a
fantastic world of sombre masses with lakelike spaces of dark
rosy light. His very brain was sick and powerless. He could
scarcely interpret the letters of the signboards of the shops. By
his monstrous way of life he seemed to have put himself be-
yond the limits of reality. Nothing moved him or spoke to him
from the real world unless he heard in it an echo of the
infuriated cries within him. He could respond to no earthly or
human appeal, dumb and insensible to the call of summer and
gladness and companionship, wearied and dejected by his fa- 1150
ther's voice. He could scarcely recognise as his his own
thoughts, and repeated slowly to himself:

―I am Stephen Dedalus. I am walking beside my father whose
name is Simon Dedalus. We are in Cork, in Ireland. Cork is a
city. Our room is in the Victoria Hotel. Victoria and Stephen
and Simon. Simon and Stephen and Victoria. Names.

The memory of his childhood suddenly grew dim. He tried
to call forth some of its vivid moments but could not. He
recalled only names: Dante, Parnell, Clane, 53.310770 -6.684719Clongowes. A little
boy had been taught geography by an old woman who kept 1160
two brushes in her wardrobe. Then he had been sent away
from home to a college. In the college he had made his first
communion and eaten slim jim out of his cricket cap and
watched the firelight leaping and dancing on the wall of a little
bedroom in the infirmary and dreamed of being dead, of mass
being said for him by the rector in a black and gold cope, of
being buried then in the little graveyard of the community off
the main avenue of limes. But he had not died then. Parnell had
died. There had been no mass for the dead in the chapel and no
procession. He had not died but he had faded out like a film in 1170
the sun. He had been lost or had wandered out of existence for
he no longer existed. How strange to think of him passing out
of existence in such a way, not by death but by fading out in
the sun or by being lost and forgotten somewhere in the uni-
verse! It was strange to see his small body appear again for a
moment: a little boy in a grey belted suit. His hands were in his
sidepockets and his trousers were tucked in at the knees by
elastic bands.

On the evening of the day on which the property was sold
Stephen followed his father meekly about the city from bar to 1180
bar. To the sellers in the market, to the barmen and barmaids,
to the beggars who importuned him for a lob Mr Dedalus told
the same tale, that he was an old Corkonian, that he had been
trying for thirty years to get rid of his Cork accent up in Dublin
and that Peter Pickackafox beside him was his eldest son but
that he was only a Dublin jackeen.

They had set out early in the morning from Newcombe's
coffeehouse where Mr Dedalus' cup had rattled noisily against
its saucer and Stephen had tried to cover that shameful sign of
his father's drinkingbout of the night before by moving his 1190
chair and coughing. One humiliation had succeeded another:
the false smiles of the market sellers, the curvettings and
oglings of the barmaids with whom his father flirted, the com-
pliments and encouraging words of his father's friends. They
had told him that he had a great look of his grandfather and
Mr Dedalus had agreed that he was an ugly likeness. They had
unearthed traces of a Cork accent in his speech and made him
admit that the Lee was a much finer river than the Liffey. One
of them in order to put his Latin to the proof had made him
translate short passages from Dilectus and asked him whether 1200
it was correct to say: Tempora mutantur nos et mutamur in illis
or Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis. Another, a brisk
old man, whom Mr Dedalus called Johnny Cashman, had
covered him with confusion by asking him to say which were
prettier, the Dublin girls or the Cork girls.

Simon Dedalus―He's not that way built, said Mr Dedalus. Leave him alone.
He's a levelheaded thinking boy who doesn't bother his head
about that kind of nonsense.

little old man―Then he's not his father's son, said the little old man.

Simon Dedalus―I don't know, I'm sure, said Mr Dedalus, smiling com- 1210
placently.

little old man―Your father, said the little old man to Stephen, was the
boldest flirt in the city of Cork in his day. Do you know that?

Stephen looked down and studied the tiled floor of the bar
into which they had drifted.

Simon Dedalus―Now don't be putting ideas into his head, said Mr Dedalus.
Leave him to his Maker.

little old man―Yerra, sure I wouldn't put any ideas into his head. I'm old
enough to be his grandfather. And I am a grandfather, said the
little old man to Stephen. Do you know that?

1220

Stephen Dedalus―Are you? asked Stephen.

little old man―Bedad I am, said the little old man. I have two bouncing
grandchildren out at Sunday's Well. Now then! What age do
you think I am? And I remember seeing your grandfather in his
red coat riding out to hounds. That was before you were born.

Simon Dedalus―Ay, or thought of, said Mr Dedalus.

little old man―Bedad I did! repeated the little old man. And, more than
that, I can remember even your greatgrandfather, old John Ste-
phen Dedalus, and a fierce old fireeater he was. Now then!
There's a memory for you!

1230

another of the company―That's three generations - four generations, said another of
the company. Why, Johnny Cashman, you must be nearing the
century.

little old man―Well, I'll tell you the truth, said the little old man. I'm just
twentyseven years of age.

Simon Dedalus―We're as old as we feel, Johnny, said Mr Dedalus. And just
finish what you have there and we'll have another. Here, Tim
or Tom or whatever your name is, give us the same again here.
By God, I don't feel more than eighteen myself. There's that
son of mine there not half my age and I'm a better man than he 1240
is any day of the week.

another of the company―Draw it mild now, Dedalus. I think it's about time for you to
take a back seat, said the gentleman who had spoken before.

Simon Dedalus―No, by God! asserted Mr Dedalus. I'll sing a tenor song
against him or I'll vault a fivebarred gate against him or I'll run
with him after the hounds across the country as I did thirty
years ago along with the Kerry Boy and the best man for it.

little old man―But he'll beat you here, said the little old man, tapping his
forehead and raising his glass to drain it.

Simon Dedalus―Well, I hope he'll be as good a man as his father. That's all I 1250
can say, said Mr Dedalus.

little old man―If he is, he'll do, said the little old man.

Simon Dedalus―And thanks be to God, Johnny, said Mr Dedalus, that we
lived so long and did so little harm.

little old man―But did so much good, Simon, said the little old man
gravely. Thanks be to God we lived so long and did so much
good.

Stephen watched the three glasses being raised from the
counter as his father and his two cronies drank to the memory
of their past. An abyss of fortune or of temperament sundered 1260
him from them. His mind seemed older than theirs: it shone
coldly on their strifes and happiness and regrets like a moon
upon a younger earth. No life or youth stirred in him as it had
stirred in them. He had known neither the pleasure of compan-
ionship with others nor the vigour of rude male health nor filial
piety. Nothing stirred within his soul but a cold and cruel and
loveless lust. His childhood was dead or lost and with it his
soul capable of simple joys: and he was drifting amid life like
the barren shell of the moon.

Art thou pale for weariness 1270
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth
Wandering companionless ....?

He repeated to himself the lines of Shelley's fragment. Its
alternation of sad human ineffectiveness with vast inhuman
cycles of activity chilled him: and he forgot his own human and
ineffectual grieving.

* * *

Stephen's mother and his brother and one of his cousins
waited at the corner of quiet Foster Place while he and his
father went up the steps and along the colonnade where the
highland sentry was parading. When they had passed into the 1280
great hall and stood at the counter Stephen drew forth his
orders on the governor of the bank of Ireland for thirty and
three pounds; and these sums, the moneys of his exhibition and
essay prize, were paid over to him rapidly by the teller in notes
and in coin respectively. He bestowed them in his pockets with
feigned composure and suffered the friendly teller, to whom his
father chatted, to take his hand across the broad counter and
wish him a brilliant career in after life. He was impatient of
their voices and could not keep his feet at rest. But the teller
still deferred the serving of others to say that he was living in 1290
changed times and that there was nothing like giving a boy the
best education that money could buy. Mr Dedalus lingered in
the hall gazing about him and up at the roof and telling Ste-
phen, who urged him to come out, that they were standing in
the house of commons of the old Irish parliament.

Simon Dedalus―God help us!

he said piously.

Simon DedalusTo think of the men of those
times, Stephen, Hely Hutchinson and Flood and Henry Grattan
and Charles Kendal Bushe, and the noblemen we have now,
leaders of the Irish people at home and abroad. Why, by God,
they wouldn't be seen dead in a ten acre field with them. No, 1300
Stephen, old chap, I'm sorry to say that they are only as I roved
out one fine May morning in the merry month of sweet July.

A keen October wind was blowing round the bank. The
three figures standing at the edge of the muddy path had
pinched cheeks and watery eyes. Stephen looked at his thinly
clad mother and remembered that a few days before he had
seen a mantle priced at twenty guineas in the window of Bar-
nardo's.

Simon Dedalus―Well that's done, said Mr Dedalus.

Stephen Dedalus―We had better go to dinner, said Stephen. Where?

1310

Simon Dedalus―Dinner? said Mr Dedalus. Well, I suppose we had better,
what?

Mary Dedalus―Some place that's not too dear, said Mrs Dedalus.

Simon Dedalus―Underdone's?

Mary Dedalus―Yes. Some quiet place.

Stephen Dedalus―Come along, said Stephen quickly. It doesn't matter about
the dearness.

He walked on before them with short nervous steps, smiling.
They tried to keep up with him, smiling also at his eagerness.

Simon Dedalus―Take it easy like a good young fellow, said his father. We're 1320
not out for the half mile, are we?

For a swift season of merrymaking the money of his prizes
ran through Stephen's fingers. Great parcels of groceries and
delicacies and dried fruits arrived from the city. Every day he
drew up a bill of fare for the family and every night led a party
of three or four to the theatre to see Ingomar or The Lady of
Lyons. In his coat pockets he carried squares of Vienna choc-
olate for his guests while his trousers' pockets bulged with
masses of silver and copper coins. He bought presents for
everyone, overhauled his room, wrote out resolutions, marshal- 1330
led his books up and down their shelves, pored upon all kinds
of price lists, drew up a form of commonwealth for the
household by which every member of it held some office,
opened a loan bank for his family and pressed loans on willing
borrowers so that he might have the pleasure of making out
receipts and reckoning the interests on the sums lent. When he
could do no more he drove up and down the city in trams.
Then the season of pleasure came to an end. The pot of pink
enamel paint gave out and the wainscot of his bedroom re-
mained with its unfinished and illplastered coat.

1340

His household returned to its usual way of life. His mother
had no further occasion to upbraid him for squandering his
money. He too returned to his old life at school and all his
novel enterprises fell to pieces. The commonwealth fell, the
loan bank closed its coffers and its books on a sensible loss, the
rules of life which he had drawn about himself fell into desue-
tude.

How foolish his aim had been! He had tried to build a
breakwater of order and elegance against the sordid tide of life
without him and to dam up, by rules of conduct and active 1350
interests and new filial relations, the powerful recurrence of the
tides within him. Useless. From without as from within the
waters had flowed over his barriers: their tides began once
more to jostle fiercely above the crumbled mole.

He saw clearly too his own futile isolation. He had not gone
one step nearer the lives he had sought to approach nor bridged
the restless shame and rancour that divided him from father
and mother and brother and sister. He felt that he was hardly
of the one blood with them but stood to them rather in the
mystical kinship of fosterage, fosterchild and fosterbrother.

1360

He burned to appease the fierce longings of his heart before
which everything else was idle and alien. He cared little that he
was in mortal sin, that his life had grown to be a tissue of
subterfuges and falsehood. Beside the savage desire within him
to realise the enormities which he brooded on nothing was
sacred. He bore cynically with the shameful details of his secret
riots in which he exulted to defile with patience whatever im-
age had attracted his eyes. By day and by night he moved
among distorted images of the outer world. A figure that had
seemed to him by day demure and innocent came towards him 1370
by night through the winding darkness of sleep, her face trans-
figured by a lecherous cunning, her eyes bright with brutish
joy. Only the morning pained him with its dim memory of dark
orgiastic riot, its keen and humiliating sense of transgression.

He returned to his wanderings. The veiled autumnal even-
ings led him from street to street as they had led him years
before along the quiet avenues of Blackrock. But no vision of
trim front gardens or of kindly lights in the windows poured a
tender influence upon him now. Only at times, in the pauses of
his desire, when the luxury that was wasting him gave room to 1380
a softer languor, the image of Mercedes traversed the back-
ground of his memory. He saw again the small white house and
the garden of rosebushes on the road that led to the mountains
and he remembered the sadly proud gesture of refusal which he
was to make there, standing with her in the moonlit garden
after years of estrangement and adventure. At those moments
the soft speeches of Claude Melnotte rose to his lips and eased
his unrest. A tender premonition touched him of the tryst he
had then looked forward to and, in spite of the horrible reality
which lay between his hope of then and now, of the holy 1390
encounter he had then imagined at which weakness and timid-
ity and inexperience were to fall from him.

Such moments passed and the wasting fires of lust sprang up
again. The verses passed from his lips and the inarticulate cries
and the unspoken brutal words rushed forth from his brain to
force a passage. His blood was in revolt. He wandered up and
down the dark slimy streets peering into the gloom of lanes and
doorways, listening eagerly for any sound. He moaned to him-
self like some baffled prowling beast. He wanted to sin with
another of his kind, to force another being to sin with him and 1400
to exult with her in sin. He felt some dark presence moving
irresistibly upon him from the darkness, a presence subtle and
murmurous as a flood filling him wholly with itself. Its mur-
mur besieged his ears like the murmur of some multitude in
sleep; its subtle streams penetrated his being. His hands
clenched convulsively and his teeth set together as he suffered
the agony of its penetration. He stretched out his arms in the
street to hold fast the frail swooning form that eluded him and
incited him: and the cry that he had strangled for so long in his
throat issued from his lips. It broke from him like a wail of 1410
despair from a hell of sufferers and died in a wail of furious
entreaty, a cry for an iniquitous abandonment, a cry which was
but the echo of an obscene scrawl which he had read on the
oozing wall of a urinal.

He had wandered into a maze of narrow and dirty streets.
From the foul laneways he heard bursts of hoarse riot and
wrangling and the drawling of drunken singers. He walked
onward, undismayed, wondering whether he had strayed into
the quarter of the jews. Women and girls dressed in long vivid
gowns traversed the street from house to house. They were 1420
leisurely and perfumed. A trembling seized him and his eyes
grew dim. The yellow gasflames arose before his troubled vi-
sion against the vapoury sky, burning as if before an altar.
Before the doors and in the lighted halls groups were gathered,
arrayed as for some rite. He was in another world: he had
awakened from a slumber of centuries.

He stood still in the middle of the roadway, his heart clam-
ouring against his bosom in a tumult. A young woman dressed
in a long pink gown laid her hand on his arm to detain him and
gazed into his face. She said gaily: 1430

prostitute―Good night, Willie dear!

Her room was warm and lightsome. A huge doll sat with her
legs apart in the copious easychair beside the bed. He tried to
bid his tongue speak that he might seem at ease, watching her
as she undid her gown, noting the proud conscious movements
of her perfumed head.

As he stood silent in the middle of the room she came over
to him and embraced him gaily and gravely. Her round arms
held him firmly to her and he, seeing her face lifted to him in
serious calm and feeling the warm calm rise and fall of her 1440
breast, all but burst into hysterical weeping. Tears of joy and
relief shone in his delighted eyes and his lips parted though they
would not speak.

She passed her tinkling hand through his hair, calling him a
little rascal.

prostitute―Give me a kiss,

she said.

His lips would not bend to kiss her. He wanted to be held
firmly in her arms, to be caressed slowly, slowly, slowly. In her
arms he felt that he had suddenly become strong and fearless
and sure of himself. But his lips would not bend to kiss her.

1450

With a sudden movement she bowed his head and joined her
lips to his and he read the meaning of her movements in her
frank uplifted eyes. It was too much for him. He closed his
eyes, surrendering himself to her, body and mind, conscious of
nothing in the world but the dark pressure of her softly parting
lips. They pressed upon his brain as upon his lips as though
they were the vehicle of a vague speech; and between them he
felt an unknown and timid pressure, darker than the swoon of
sin, softer than sound or odour.

III

The swift December dusk had come tumbling clownishly after
its dull day and as he stared through the dull square of the
window of the schoolroom he felt his belly crave for its food.
He hoped there would be stew for dinner, turnips and carrots
and bruised potatoes and fat mutton pieces to be ladled out in
thick peppered flourfattened sauce. Stuff it into you, his belly
counselled him.

It would be a gloomy secret night. After early nightfall the
yellow lamps would light up here and there the squalid quarter 10
of the brothels. He would follow a devious course up and down
the streets, circling always nearer and nearer in a tremor of fear
and joy, until his feet led him suddenly round a dark corner.
The whores would be just coming out of their houses making
ready for the night, yawning lazily after their sleep and settling
the hairpins in their clusters of hair. He would pass by them
calmly waiting for a sudden movement of his own will or a
sudden call to his sinloving soul from their soft perfumed flesh.
Yet as he prowled in quest of that call his senses, stultified only
by his desire, would note keenly all that wounded and shamed 20
them, his eyes a ring of porter froth on a clothless table or a
photograph of two soldiers standing to attention or a gaudy
playbill, his ears the drawling jargon of greeting:

a whore―Hello, Bertie, any good in your mind?

a whore―Is that you, pigeon?

a whore―Number ten. Fresh Nelly is waiting on you.

a whore―Goodnight, husband! Coming in to have a short time?

The equation on the page of his scribbler began to spread
out a widening tail, eyed and starred like a peacock's: and
when the eyes and stars of its indices had been eliminated be- 30
gan slowly to fold itself together again. The indices appearing
and disappearing were eyes opening and closing; the eyes
opening and closing were stars being born and being quenched.
The vast cycle of starry life bore his weary mind outward to its
verge and inward to its centre, a distant music accompanying
him outward and inward. What music? The music came nearer
and he recalled the words, the words of Shelley's fragment
upon the moon wandering companionless, pale for weariness.
The stars began to crumble and a cloud of fine stardust fell
through space.

The dull light fell more faintly upon the page whereon an-
other equation began to unfold itself slowly and to spread
abroad its widening tail. It was his own soul going forth to
experience, unfolding itself sin by sin, spreading abroad the
balefire of its burning stars and folding back upon itself, fading
slowly, quenching its own lights and fires. They were
quenched: and the cold darkness filled chaos.

A cold lucid indifference reigned in his soul. At his first
violent sin he had felt a wave of vitality pass out of him and
had feared to find his body or his soul maimed by the excess. 50
Instead the vital wave had carried him on its bosom out of
himself and back again when it receded: and no part of body or
soul had been maimed but a dark peace had been established
between them. The chaos in which his ardour extinguished
itself was a cold indifferent knowledge of himself. He had
sinned mortally not once but many times and he knew that,
while he stood in danger of eternal damnation for the first sin
alone, by every succeeding sin he multiplied his guilt and his
punishment. His days and works and thoughts could make no
atonement for him, the fountains of sanctifying grace having 60
ceased to refresh his soul. At most by an alms given to a
beggar, whose blessing he fled from, he might hope wearily to
win for himself some measure of actual grace. Devotion had
gone by the board. What did it avail to pray when he knew that
his soul lusted after its own destruction? A certain pride, a
certain awe, withheld him from offering to God even one
prayer at night though he knew it was in God's power to take
away his life while he slept and hurl his soul hellward ere he
could beg for mercy. His pride in his own sin, his loveless awe
of God told him that his offence was too grievous to be atoned 70
for in whole or in part by a false homage to the Allseeing and
Allknowing.

a voice―Well now, Ennis, I declare you have a head and so has my
stick! Do you mean to say that you are not able to tell me what
a surd is?

The blundering answer stirred the embers of his contempt of
his fellows. Towards others he felt neither shame nor fear. On
Sunday mornings as he passed the churchdoor he glanced
coldly at the worshippers who stood bareheaded, four deep,
outside the church, morally present at the mass which they 80
could neither see nor hear. Their dull piety and the sickly smell
of the cheap hairoil with which they had anointed their heads
repelled him from the altar they prayed at. He stooped to the
evil of hypocrisy with others, sceptical of their innocence which
he could cajole so easily.

On the wall of his bedroom hung an illuminated scroll, the
certificate of his prefecture in the college of the sodality of the
Blessed Virgin Mary. On Saturday mornings when the sodality
met in the chapel to recite the little office his place was a
cushioned kneelingdesk at the right of the altar from which he 90
led his wing of boys through the responses. The falsehood of
his position did not pain him. If at moments he felt an impulse
to rise from his post of honour and, confessing before them all
his unworthiness, to leave the chapel, a glance at their faces
restrained him. The imagery of the psalms of prophecy soothed
his barren pride. The glories of Mary held his soul captive:
spikenard and myrrh and frankincense, symbolising the
preciousness of God's gifts to her soul, rich garments, symbol-
ising her royal lineage, her emblems, the lateflowering plant
and lateblossoming tree, symbolising the agelong gradual 100
growth of her cultus among men. When it fell to him to read
the lesson towards the close of the office he read it in a veiled
voice, lulling his conscience to its music:

Quasi cedrus exaltata sum in Libanon et quasi cu-
pressus in monte Sion. Quasi palma exaltata sum in
Gades et quasi plantatio rosae in Jericho. Quasi uliva
speciosa in campis et quasi platanus exaltata sum juxta
aquam in plateis. Sicut cinnamomum et balsamum aro-
matizans odorem dedi et quasi myrrha electa dedi
suavitatem odoris.

110

His sin, which had covered him from the sight of God, had
led him nearer to the refuge of sinners. Her eyes seemed to
regard him with mild pity; her holiness, a strange light glowing
faintly upon her frail flesh, did not humiliate the sinner who
approached her. If ever he was impelled to cast sin from him
and to repent the impulse that moved him was the wish to be
her knight. If ever his soul, reentering her dwelling shyly after
the frenzy of his body's lust had spent itself, was turned to-
wards her whose emblem is the morning star, bright and
musical, telling of heaven and infusing peace, it was when her 120
names were murmured softly by lips whereon there still lin-
gered foul and shameful words, the savour itself of a lewd kiss.

That was strange. He tried to think how it could be but the
dusk, deepening in the schoolroom, covered over his thought.
The bell rang. The master marked the sums and cuts to be done
for the next lesson and went out. Heron, beside Stephen, began
to hum tunelessly:

My excellent friend Bombados.

Ennis, who had gone to the yard, came back, saying:

Ennis―The boy from the house is coming up for the rector.

130
A tall boy behind Stephen rubbed his hands and said:

a tall boy―That's game ball. We can scut the whole hour. He won't be
in till after half two. Then you can ask him questions on the
catechism, Dedalus.

Stephen, leaning back and drawing idly on his scribbler,
listened to the talk about him which Heron checked from time
to time by saying:

Vincent Heron―Shut up, will you. Don't make such a bally racket!

It was strange too that he found an arid pleasure in follow-
ing up to the end the rigid lines of the doctrines of the church 140
and penetrating into obscure silences only to hear and feel the
more deeply his own condemnation. The sentence of saint
James which says that he who offends against one command-
ment becomes guilty of all had seemed to him first a swollen
phrase until he had begun to grope in the darkness of his own
state. From the evil seed of lust all other deadly sins had sprung
forth: pride in himself and contempt of others, covetousness in
using money for the purchase of unlawful pleasure, envy of
those whose vices he could not reach to and calumnious
murmuring against the pious, gluttonous enjoyment of food, 150
the dull glowering anger amid which he brooded upon his
longing, the swamp of spiritual and bodily sloth in which his
whole being had sunk.

As he sat in his bench gazing calmly at the rector's shrewd
harsh face his mind wound itself in and out of the curious
questions proposed to it. If a man had stolen a pound in his
youth and had used that pound to amass a huge fortune how
much was he obliged to give back, the pound he had stolen
only or the pound together with the compound interest accru-
ing upon it or all his huge fortune? If a layman in giving 160
baptism pour the water before saying the words is the child
baptised? Is baptism with a mineral water valid? How comes it
that while the first beatitude promises the kingdom of heaven
to the poor of heart the second beatitude promises also to the
meek that they shall possess the land? Why was the sacrament
of the eucharist instituted under the two species of bread and
wine if Jesus Christ be present body and blood, soul and divin-
ity, in the bread alone and in the wine alone? Does a tiny
particle of the consecrated bread contain all the body and
blood of Jesus Christ or a part only of the body and blood? If 170
the wine change into vinegar and the host crumble into cor-
ruption after they have been consecrated is Jesus Christ still
present under their species as God and as man?

a boy―Here he is! Here he is!

A boy from his post at the window had seen the rector come
from the house. All the catechisms were opened and all heads
bent upon them silently. The rector entered and took his seat
on the dais. A gentle kick from the tall boy in the bench behind
urged Stephen to ask a difficult question.

The rector did not ask for a catechism to hear the lesson 180
from. He clasped his hands on the desk and said:

Father Conmee―The retreat will begin on Wednesday afternoon in honour of
saint Francis Xavier whose feast day is Saturday. The retreat
will go on from Wednesday to Friday. On Friday confessions
will be heard all the afternoon after beads. If any boys have
special confessors perhaps it will be better for them not to
change. Mass will be on Saturday morning at nine o'clock and
general communion for the whole college. Saturday will be a
free day. Sunday of course. But Saturday and Sunday being free
days some boys might be inclined to think that Monday is a 190
free day also. Beware of making that mistake. I think you,
Lawless, are likely to make that mistake.

Lawless―I, sir? Why, sir?

A little wave of quiet mirth broke forth over the class of
boys from the rector's grim smile. Stephen's heart began slowly
to fold and fade with fear like a withering flower.

The rector went on gravely:

Father Conmee―You are all familiar with the story of the life of saint Francis
Xavier, I suppose, the patron of your college. He came of an
old and illustrious Spanish family and you remember that he 200
was one of the first followers of saint Ignatius. They met in 48.853157 2.343094
Paris where Francis Xavier was professor of philosophy at the
university. This young and brilliant nobleman and man of let-
ters entered heart and soul into the ideas of our glorious
founder and you know that he, at his own desire, was sent by
saint Ignatius to preach to the Indians. He is called, as you
know, the apostle of the Indies. He went from country to
country in the east, from Africa to India, from India to Japan,
baptising the people. He is said to have baptised as many as ten
thousand idolaters in one month. It is said that his right arm 210
had grown powerless from having been raised so often over the
heads of those whom he baptised. He wished then to go to
China to win still more souls for God but he died of fever on
the 21.705010 112.791206island of Sancian. A great saint, saint Francis Xavier! A
great soldier of God!

The rector paused and then, shaking his clasped hands be-
fore him, went on:

Father Conmee―He had the faith in him that moves mountains. Ten thou-
sand souls won for God in a single month! That is a true
conqueror, true to the motto of our order ad majorem Dei 220
gloriam! A saint who has great power in heaven, remember:
power to intercede for us in our grief, power to obtain what-
ever we pray for if it be for the good of our souls, power above
all to obtain for us the grace to repent if we be in sin. A great
saint, saint Francis Xavier! A great fisher of souls!

He ceased to shake his clasped hands and, resting them
against his forehead, looked right and left of them keenly at his
listeners out of his dark stern eyes.

In the silence their dark fire kindled the dusk into a tawny
glow. Stephen's heart had withered up like a flower of the 230
desert that feels the simoom coming from afar.

* * *

Father Arnall―Remember only thy last things and thou shalt not sin for
ever – words taken, my dear little brothers in Christ, from the
book of Ecclesiastes, seventh chapter, fortieth verse. In the
name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.
Amen.

Stephen sat in the front bench of the chapel. Father Arnall
sat at a table to the left of the altar. He wore about his shoul-
ders a heavy cloak; his pale face was drawn and his voice
broken with rheum. The figure of his old master, so strangely 240
rearisen, brought back to Stephen's mind his life at 53.310624 -6.684096Clongowes:
the wide playgrounds, swarming with boys, the square ditch,
the little cemetery off the main avenue of limes where he had
dreamed of being buried, the firelight on the wall of the infirm-
ary where he lay sick, the sorrowful face of Brother Michael.
His soul, as these memories came back to him, became again a
child's soul.

Father Arnall―We are assembled here today, my dear little brothers in
Christ, for one brief moment far away from the busy bustle of
the outer world to celebrate and to honour one of the greatest 250
of saints, the apostle of the Indies, the patron saint also of your
college, saint Francis Xavier. Year after year for much longer
than any of you, my dear little boys, can remember or than I
can remember the boys of this college have met in this very
chapel to make their annual retreat before the feast day of their
patron saint. Time has gone on and brought with it its changes.
Even in the last few years what changes can most of you not
remember? Many of the boys who sat in those front benches a
few short years ago are perhaps now in distant lands, in the
burning tropics or immersed in professional duties or in sem- 260
inaries or voyaging over the vast expanse of the deep or, it may
be, already called by the great God to another life and to the
rendering up of their stewardship. And still as the years roll by,
bringing with them changes for good and bad, the memory of
the great saint is honoured by the boys of his college who make
every year their annual retreat on the days preceding the feast
day set apart by our holy mother the church to transmit to all
the ages the name and fame of one of the greatest sons of
catholic Spain.

Father Arnall―Now what is the meaning of this word retreat and why is it 270
allowed on all hands to be a most salutary practice for all who
desire to lead before God and in the eyes of men a truly chris-
tian life? A retreat, my dear boys, signifies a withdrawal for a
while from the cares of our life, the cares of this workaday
world, in order to examine the state of our conscience, to
reflect on the mysteries of holy religion and to understand
better why we are here in this world. During these few days I
intend to put before you some thoughts concerning the four
last things. They are, as you know from your catechism, death,
judgment, hell and heaven. We shall try to understand them 280
fully during these few days so that we may derive from the
understanding of them a lasting benefit to our souls. And re-
member, my dear boys, that we have been sent into this world
for one thing and for one thing alone: to do God's holy will
and to save our immortal souls. All else is worthless. One thing
alone is needful, the salvation of one's soul. What doth it profit
a man to gain the whole world if he suffer the loss of his
immortal soul? Ah, my dear boys, believe me there is nothing in
this wretched world that can make up for such a loss.

Father Arnall―I will ask you therefore, my dear boys, to put away from 290
your minds during these few days all worldly thoughts,
whether of study or pleasure or ambition, and to give all your
attention to the state of your souls. I need hardly remind you
that during the days of the retreat all boys are expected to
preserve a quiet and pious demeanour and to shun all loud
unseemly pleasure. The elder boys, of course, will see that this
custom is not infringed and I look especially to the prefects and
officers of the sodality of Our Blessed Lady and of the sodality
of the holy angels to set a good example to their fellowstu-
dents.

300

Father Arnall―Let us try therefore to make this retreat in honour of saint
Francis with our whole heart and our whole mind. God's bless-
ing will then be upon all your year's studies. But, above and
beyond all, let this retreat be one to which you can look back in
after years when maybe you are far from this college and
among very different surroundings, to which you can look back
with joy and thankfulness and give thanks to God for having
granted you this occasion of laying the first foundation of a
pious honourable zealous christian life. And if, as may so
happen, there be at this moment in these benches any poor soul 310
which has had the unutterable misfortune to lose God's holy
grace and to fall into grievous sin I fervently trust and pray that
this retreat may be the turningpoint in the life of that soul. I
pray to God through the merits of His zealous servant Francis
Xavier that such a soul may be led to sincere repentance and
that the holy communion on saint Francis' day of this year may
be a lasting covenant between God and that soul. For just and
unjust, for saint and sinner alike, may this retreat be a mem-
orable one.

Father Arnall―Help me, my dear little brothers in Christ. Help me by your 320
pious attention, by your own devotion, by your outward de-
meanour. Banish from your minds all worldly thoughts and
think only of the last things, death, judgment, hell and heaven.
He who remembers these things, says Ecclesiastes, shall not sin
for ever. He who remembers the last things will act and think
with them always before his eyes. He will live a good life and
die a good death, believing and knowing that, if he has sacri-
ficed much in this earthly life, it will be given to him a
hundredfold and a thousandfold more in the life to come, in the
kingdom without end – a blessing, my dear boys, which I wish 330
you from my heart; one and all, in the name of the Father and
of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

As he walked home with silent companions a thick fog
seemed to compass his mind. He waited in stupor of mind till it
should lift and reveal what it had hidden. He ate his dinner
with surly appetite and, when the meal was over and the
greasestrewn plates lay abandoned on the table, he rose and
went to the window, clearing the thick scum from his mouth
with his tongue and licking it from his lips. So he had sunk to
the state of a beast that licks his chaps after meat. This was the 340
end: and a faint glimmer of fear began to pierce the fog of his
mind. He pressed his face against the pane of the window and
gazed out into the darkening street. Forms passed this way and
that way through the dull light. And that was life. The letters
of the name of Dublin lay heavily upon his mind, pushing one
another surlily hither and thither with slow boorish insistence.
His soul was fattening and congealing into a gross grease,
plunging ever deeper in its dull fear into a sombre threatening
dusk, while the body that was his stood, listless and dishon-
oured, gazing out of darkened eyes, helpless, perturbed and 350
human for a bovine god to stare upon.

The next day brought death and judgment, stirring his soul
slowly from its listless despair. The faint glimmer of fear be-
came a terror of spirit as the hoarse voice of the preacher blew
death into his soul. He suffered its agony. He felt the deathchill
touch the extremities and creep onward towards the heart, the
film of death veiling the eyes, the bright centres of the brain
extinguished one by one like lamps, the last sweat oozing upon
the skin, the powerlessness of the dying limbs, the speech
thickening and wandering and failing, the heart throbbing 360
faintly and more faintly, all but vanquished, the breath, the
poor timid breath, the poor helpless human spirit, sobbing and
sighing, gurgling and rattling in the throat. No help! No help!
He, he himself, his body to which he had yielded was dying.
Into the grave with it! Nail it down into a wooden box, the
corpse. Carry it out of the house on the shoulders of hirelings.
Thrust it out of men's sight into a long hole in the ground, into
the grave, to rot, to feed the mass of its creeping worms and to
be devoured by scuttling plumpbellied rats.

And while the friends were still standing in tears by the 370
bedside the soul of the sinner was judged. At the last moment
of consciousness the whole earthly life passed before the vision
of the soul and, ere it had time to reflect, the body had died and
the soul stood terrified before the judgmentseat. God, who had
long been merciful, would then be just. He had long been
patient, pleading with the sinful soul, giving it time to repent,
sparing it yet awhile. But that time had gone. Time was to sin
and to enjoy, time was to scoff at God and at the warnings of
His holy church, time was to defy His majesty, to disobey His
commands, to hoodwink one's fellow men, to commit sin after 380
sin and sin after sin and to hide one's corruption from the sight
of men. But that time was over. Now it was God's turn: and He
was not to be hoodwinked or deceived. Every sin would then
come forth from its lurkingplace, the most rebellious against
the divine will and the most degrading to our poor corrupt
nature, the tiniest imperfection and the most heinous atrocity.
What did it avail then to have been a great emperor, a great
general, a marvellous inventor, the most learned of the learned?
All were as one before the judgmentseat of God. He would
reward the good and punish the wicked. One single instant was 390
enough for the trial of a man's soul. One single instant after the
body's death, the soul had been weighed in the balance. The
particular judgment was over and the soul had passed to the
abode of bliss or to the prison of purgatory or had been hurled
howling into hell.

Nor was that all. God's justice had still to be vindicated
before men: after the particular there still remained the general
judgment. The last day had come. The doomsday was at hand.
The stars of heaven were falling upon the earth like the figs
cast by the figtree which the wind has shaken. The sun, the 400
great luminary of the universe, had become as sackcloth of
hair. The moon was bloodred. The firmament was as a scroll
rolled away. The archangel Michael, the prince of the heavenly
host, appeared glorious and terrible against the sky. With one
foot on the sea and one foot on the land he blew from the
archangelical trumpet the brazen death of time. The three
blasts of the angel filled all the universe. Time is, time was but
time shall be no more. At the last blast the souls of universal
humanity throng towards the valley of Jehoshaphat, rich and
poor, gentle and simple, wise and foolish, good and wicked. 410
The soul of every human being that has ever existed, the souls
of all those who shall yet be born, all the sons and daughters of
Adam, all are assembled on that supreme day. And lo the
supreme judge is coming! No longer the lowly Lamb of God,
no longer the meek Jesus of Nazareth, no longer the Man of
Sorrows, no longer the Good Shepherd, He is seen now coming
upon the clouds, in great power and majesty, attended by nine
choirs of angels, angels and archangels, principalities, powers
and virtues, thrones and dominations, cherubim and seraphim,
God Omnipotent, God Everlasting. He speaks: and His voice is 420
heard even at the farthest limits of space, even in the bottom-
less abyss. Supreme Judge, from His sentence there will be and
can be no appeal. He calls the just to His side bidding them
enter into the kingdom, the eternity of bliss prepared for them.
The unjust He casts from Him, crying in His offended majesty:
Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire which was
prepared for the devil and his angels. O what agony then for
the miserable sinners! Friend is torn apart from friend, children are torn
from their parents, husbands from their wives. The poor sinner
holds out his arms to those who were dear and near to him in 430
this earthly world, to those whose simple piety perhaps he
made a mock of, to those who counselled him and tried to lead
him on the right path, to a kind brother, to a loving sister, to
the mother and father who loved him so dearly. But it is too
late: the just turn away from the wretched damned souls which
now appear before the eyes of all in their hideous and evil
character. O you hypocrites, O you whited sepulchres, O you
who present a smooth smiling face to the world while your soul
within is a foul swamp of sin, how will it fare with you in that
terrible day?

440

And this day will come, shall come, must come: the day of
death and the day of judgment. It is appointed unto man to die
and after death the judgment. Death is certain. The time and
manner are uncertain, whether from long disease or from some
unexpected accident: the Son of God cometh at an hour when
you little expect Him. Be therefore ready every moment, seeing
that you may die at any moment. Death is the end of us all.
Death and judgment, brought into the world by the sin of our
first parents, are the dark portals that close our earthly exist-
ence, the portals that open into the unknown and the unseen, 450
portals through which every soul must pass, alone, unaided
save by its good works, without friend or brother or parents or
master to help it, alone and trembling. Let that thought be ever
before our minds and then we cannot sin. Death, a cause of
terror to the sinner, is a blessed moment for him who has
walked in the right path, fulfilling the duties of his station in
life, attending to his morning and evening prayers, approaching
the holy sacrament frequently and performing good and mer-
ciful works. For the pious and believing catholic, for the just
man, death is no cause of terror. Was it not Addison, the great 460
English writer, who, when on his deathbed, sent for the wicked
young earl of Warwick to let him see how a christian can meet
his end? He it is and he alone, the pious and believing christian,
who can say in his heart:

O grave, where is thy victory?
O death, where is thy sting?

Every word of it was for him. Against his sin, foul and
secret, the whole wrath of God was aimed. The preacher's
knife had probed deeply into his diseased conscience and he felt
now that his soul was festering in sin. Yes, the preacher was 470
right. God's turn had come. Like a beast in its lair his soul had
lain down in its own filth but the blasts of the angel's trumpet
had driven him forth from the darkness of sin into the light.
The words of doom cried by the angel shattered in an instant
his presumptuous peace. The wind of the last day blew through
his mind; his sins, the jeweleyed harlots of his imagination, fled
before the hurricane, squeaking like mice in their terror and
huddled under a mane of hair.

As he crossed the square, walking homeward, the light
laughter of a girl reached his burning ears. The frail gay sound 480
smote his heart more strongly than a trumpetblast, and, not
daring to lift his eyes, he turned aside and gazed, as he walked,
into the shadow of the tangled shrubs. Shame rose from his
smitten heart and flooded his whole being. The image of Emma
appeared before him and, under her eyes, the flood of shame
rushed forth anew from his heart. If she knew to what his mind
had subjected her or how his brutelike lust had torn and
trampled upon her innocence! Was that boyish love? Was that
chivalry? Was that poetry? The sordid details of his orgies stank
under his very nostrils: the sootcoated packet of pictures which 490
he had hidden in the flue of the fireplace and in the presence of
whose shameless or bashful wantonness he lay for hours sin-
ning in thought and deed: his monstrous dreams, peopled by
apelike creatures and by harlots with gleaming jewel eyes: the
foul long letters he had written in the joy of guilty confession
and carried secretly for days and days only to throw them
under cover of night among the grass in the corner of a field or
beneath some hingeless door or in some niche in the hedges
where a girl might come upon them as she walked by and read
them secretly. Mad! Mad! Was it possible he had done these 500
things? A cold sweat broke out upon his forehead as the foul
memories condensed within his brain.

When the agony of shame had passed from him he tried to
raise his soul from its abject powerlessness. God and the
Blessed Virgin were too far from him: God was too great and
stern and the Blessed Virgin too pure and holy. But he imagined
that he stood near Emma in a wide land and, humbly and in
tears, bent and kissed the elbow of her sleeve.

In a wide land under a tender lucid evening sky, a cloud
drifting westward amid a pale green sea of heaven, they stood 510
together, children that had erred. Their error had offended
deeply God's majesty, though it was the error of two children,
but it had not offended her whose beauty is not like earthly
beauty, dangerous to look upon, but like the morning star
which is its emblem, bright and musical. The eyes were not
offended which she turned upon them nor reproachful. She
placed their hands together, hand in hand, and said, speaking
to their hearts:

Virgin Mary―Take hands, Stephen and Emma. It is a beautiful evening
now in heaven. You have erred but you are always my children. 520
It is one heart that loves another heart. Take hands together,
my dear children, and you will be happy together and your
hearts will love each other.

The chapel was flooded by the dull scarlet light that filtered
through the lowered blinds: and through the fissure between
the last blind and the sash a shaft of wan light entered like a
spear and touched the embossed brasses of the candlesticks
upon the altar that gleamed like the battleworn mail armour of
angels.

Rain was falling on the chapel, on the garden, on the college. 530
It would rain for ever, noiselessly. The water would rise inch
by inch, covering the grass and shrubs, covering the trees and
houses, covering the monuments and the mountain tops. All
life would be choked off, noiselessly: birds, men, elephants,
pigs, children: noiselessly floating corpses amid the litter of the
wreckage of the world. Forty days and forty nights the rain
would fall till the waters covered the face of the earth.

It might be. Why not?

Father Arnall―Hell has enlarged its soul and opened its mouth without any
limits – words taken, my dear little brothers in Christ Jesus, 540
from the book of Isaias, fifth chapter, fourteenth verse. In the
name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.
Amen.

The preacher took a chainless watch from a pocket within
his soutane and, having considered its dial for a moment in
silence, placed it silently before him on the table.

He began to speak in a quiet tone.

Father Arnall―Adam and Eve, my dear boys, were, as you know, our first
parents and you will remember that they were created by God
in order that the seats in heaven left vacant by the fall of 550
Lucifer and his rebellious angels might be filled again. Lucifer,
we are told, was a son of the morning, a radiant and mighty
angel; yet he fell: he fell and there fell with him a third part of
the host of heaven: he fell and was hurled with his rebellious
angels into hell. What his sin was we cannot say. Theologians
consider that it was the sin of pride, the sinful thought con-
ceived in an instant: non serviam: I will not serve. That instant
was his ruin. He offended the majesty of God by the sinful
thought of one instant and God cast him out of heaven into hell
for ever.

560

Father Arnall―Adam and Eve were then created by God and placed in
Eden, that lovely garden in the plain of Damascus that lovely garden resplendent
with sunlight and colour, teeming with luxuriant vegetation.
The fruitful earth gave them her bounty: beasts and birds were
their willing servants: they knew not the ills our flesh is heir to,
disease and poverty and death: all that a great and generous
God could do for them was done. But there was one condition
imposed on them by God: obedience to His word. They were
not to eat of the fruit of the forbidden tree.

Father Arnall―Alas, my dear little boys, they too fell. The devil, once a 570
shining angel, a son of the morning, now a foul fiend came to
them in the shape of a serpent, the subtlest of all the beasts of
the field. He envied them. He, the fallen great one, could not
bear to think that man, a being of clay, should possess the
inheritance which he by his sin had forfeited for ever. He came
to the woman, the weaker vessel, and poured the poison of his
eloquence into her ear, promising her (O, the blasphemy of that
promise!) that if she and Adam ate of the forbidden fruit they
would become as gods, nay as God Himself. Eve yielded to the
wiles of the archtempter. She ate the apple and gave it also to 580
Adam who had not the moral courage to resist her. The poison
tongue of Satan had done its work. They fell.

Father Arnall―And then the voice of God was heard in that garden, calling
His creature man to account: and Michael, prince of the heav-
enly host, with a sword of flame in his hand appeared before
the guilty pair and drove them forth from Eden into the world,
the world of sickness and striving, of cruelty and disappoint-
ment, of labour and hardship, to earn their bread in the sweat
of their brow. But even then how merciful was God! He took
pity on our poor degraded first parents and promised that in 590
the fulness of time He would send down from heaven One who
would redeem them, make them once more children of God
and heirs to the kingdom of heaven: and that One, that
Redeemer of fallen man, was to be God's onlybegotten Son, the
Second Person of the Most Blessed Trinity, the Eternal Word.

Father Arnall―He came. He was born of a virgin pure, Mary the virgin
mother. He was born in a poor cowhouse in Judea and lived as
a humble carpenter for thirty years until the hour of His
mission had come. And then, filled with love for men, He went
forth and called to men to hear the new gospel.

600

Father Arnall―Did they listen? Yes, they listened but would not hear. He
was seized and bound like a common criminal, mocked at as a
fool, set aside to give place to a public robber, scourged with
five thousand lashes, crowned with a crown of thorns, hustled
through the streets by the jewish rabble and the Roman sol-
diery, stripped of His garments and hanged upon a gibbet and
His side was pierced with a lance and from the wounded body
of Our Lord water and blood issued continually.

Father Arnall―Yet even then, in that hour of supreme agony, Our Merciful
Redeemer had pity for mankind. Yet even there, on the hill of 610
Calvary, He founded the holy catholic church against which, it
is promised, the gates of hell shall not prevail. He founded it
upon the rock of ages and endowed it with His grace, with
sacraments and sacrifice, and promised that if men would obey
the word of His church they would still enter into eternal life
but if, after all that had been done for them, they still persisted
in their wickedness there remained for them an eternity of
torment: hell.

The preacher's voice sank. He paused, joined his palms for
an instant, parted them. Then he resumed: 620

Father Arnall―Now let us try for a moment to realise, as far as we can, the
nature of that abode of the damned which the justice of an
offended God has called into existence for the eternal punish-
ment of sinners. Hell is a strait and dark and foulsmelling
prison, an abode of demons and lost souls, filled with fire and
smoke. The straitness of this prison house is expressly designed
by God to punish those who refused to be bound by His laws.
In earthly prisons the poor captive has at least some liberty of
movement, were it only within the four walls of his cell or in
the gloomy yard of his prison. Not so in hell. There, by reason 630
of the great number of the damned, the prisoners are heaped
together in their awful prison the walls of which are said to be
four thousand miles thick: and the damned are so utterly
bound and helpless that, as a blessed saint, saint Anselm, writes
in his book on similitudes, they are not even able to remove
from the eye a worm that gnaws it.

Father Arnall―They lie in exterior darkness. For, remember, the fire of hell
gives forth no light. As, at the command of God, the fire of the
Babylonian furnace lost its heat but not its light so, at the
command of God, the fire of hell, while retaining the intensity 640
of its heat, burns eternally in darkness. It is a neverending
storm of darkness, dark flames and dark smoke of burning
brimstone, amid which the bodies are heaped one upon another
without even a glimpse of air. Of all the plagues with which the
land of the Pharaohs was smitten one plague alone, that of
darkness, was called horrible. What name, then, shall we give
to the darkness of hell which is to last not for three days alone
but for all eternity?

Father Arnall―The horror of this strait and dark prison is increased by its
awful stench. All the filth of the world, all the offal and scum 650
of the world, we are told, shall run there as to a vast reeking
sewer when the terrible conflagration of the last day has purged
the world. The brimstone too which burns there in such pro-
digious quantity fills all hell with its intolerable stench: and the
bodies of the damned themselves exhale such a pestilential
odour that, as saint Bonaventure says, one of them alone would
suffice to infect the whole world. The very air of this world,
that pure element, becomes foul and unbreathable when it has
been long enclosed. Consider then what must be the foulness of
the air of hell. Imagine some foul and putrid corpse that has 660
lain rotting and decomposing in the grave, a jellylike mass of
liquid corruption. Imagine such a corpse a prey to flames,
devoured by the fire of burning brimstone and giving off dense
choking fumes of nauseous loathsome decomposition. And
then imagine this sickening stench, multiplied a millionfold and
a millionfold again from the millions upon millions of fetid
carcases massed together in the reeking darkness, a huge and
rotting human fungus. Imagine all this and you will have some
idea of the horror of the stench of hell.

Father Arnall―But this stench is not, horrible though it is, the greatest 670
physical torment to which the damned are subjected. The
torment of fire is the greatest torment to which the tyrant has
ever subjected his fellowcreatures. Place your finger for a mo-
ment in the flame of a candle and you will feel the pain of fire.
But our earthly fire was created by God for the benefit of man,
to maintain in him the spark of life and to help him in the
useful arts whereas the fire of hell is of another quality and was
created by God to torture and punish the unrepentant sinner.
Our earthly fire also consumes more or less rapidly according
as the object which it attacks is more or less combustible so 680
that human ingenuity has even succeeded in inventing chemical
preparations to check or frustrate its action. But the sulphu-
reous brimstone which burns in hell is a substance which is
specially designed to burn for ever and for ever with unspeak-
able fury. Moreover our earthly fire destroys at the same time
as it burns so that the more intense it is the shorter is its dur-
ation: but the fire of hell has this property that it preserves that
which it burns and though it rages with incredible intensity it
rages for ever.

Father Arnall―Our earthly fire again, no matter how fierce or widespread it 690
may be, is always of a limited extent: but the lake of fire in hell
is boundless, shoreless and bottomless. It is on record that the
devil himself, when asked the question by a certain soldier, was
obliged to confess that if a whole mountain were thrown into
the burning ocean of hell it would be burned up in an instant
like a piece of wax. And this terrible fire will not afflict the
bodies of the damned only from without but each lost soul will
be a hell unto itself, the boundless fire raging in its very vitals.
O, how terrible is the lot of those wretched beings! The blood
seethes and boils in the veins, the brains are boiling in the skull, 700
the heart in the breast glowing and bursting, the bowels a
redhot mass of burning pulp, the tender eyes flaming like mol-
ten balls.

Father Arnall―And yet what I have said as to the strength and quality and
boundlessness of this fire is as nothing when compared to its
intensity, an intensity which it has as being the instrument
chosen by divine design for the punishment of soul and body
alike. It is a fire which proceeds directly from the ire of God,
working not of its own activity but as an instrument of divine
vengeance. As the waters of baptism cleanse the soul with the 710
body so do the fires of punishment torture the spirit with the
flesh. Every sense of the flesh is tortured and every faculty of
the soul therewith: the eyes with impenetrable utter darkness,
the nose with noisome odours, the ears with yells and howls
and execrations, the taste with foul matter, leprous corruption,
nameless suffocating filth, the touch with redhot goads and
spikes, with cruel tongues of flame. And through the several
torments of the senses the immortal soul is tortured eternally in
its very essence amid the leagues upon leagues of glowing fires
kindled in the abyss by the offended majesty of the Omnipotent 720
God and fanned into everlasting and ever increasing fury by the
breath of the anger of the Godhead.

Father Arnall―Consider finally that the torment of this infernal prison is
increased by the company of the damned themselves. Evil com-
pany on earth is so noxious that even the plants, as if by
instinct, withdraw from the company of whatsoever is deadly
or hurtful to them. In hell all laws are overturned: there is no
thought of family or country, of ties or relationship. The
damned howl and scream at one another, their torture and rage
intensified by the presence of beings tortured and raging like 730
themselves. All sense of humanity is forgotten. The yells of the
suffering sinners fill the remotest corners of the vast abyss. The
mouths of the damned are full of blasphemies against God and
of hatred for their fellow sufferers and of curses against those
souls which were their accomplices in sin. In olden times it was
the custom to punish the parricide, the man who had raised his
murderous hand against his father, by casting him into the
depths of the sea in a sack in which were placed a cock, a
monkey and a serpent. The intention of those lawgivers who
framed such a law, which seems cruel in our times, was to 740
punish the criminal by the company of hateful and hurtful
beasts. But what is the fury of those dumb beasts compared
with the fury of execration which bursts from the parched lips
and aching throats of the damned in hell when they behold in
their companions in misery those who aided and abetted them
in sin, those whose words sowed the first seeds of evil thinking
and evil living in their minds, those whose immodest sugges-
tions led them on to sin, those whose eyes tempted and allured
them from the path of virtue. They turn upon those accom-
plices and upbraid them and curse them. But they are helpless 750
and hopeless: it is too late now for repentance.

Father Arnall―Last of all consider the frightful torment to those damned
souls, tempters and tempted alike, of the company of the devils.
These devils will afflict the damned in two ways, by their pres-
ence and by their reproaches. We can have no idea of how
horrible these devils are. Saint Catherine of Siena once saw a
devil and she has written that, rather than look again for one
single instant on such a frightful monster, she would prefer to
walk until the end of her life along a track of red coals. These
devils, who were once beautiful angels, have become as hideous 760
and ugly as they once were beautiful. They mock and jeer at
the lost souls whom they dragged down to ruin. It is they, the
foul demons, who are made in hell the voices of conscience.
Why did you sin? Why did you lend an ear to the temptings of
fiends? Why did you turn aside from your pious practices and
good works? Why did you not shun the occasions of sin? Why
did you not leave that evil companion? Why did you not give
up that lewd habit, that impure habit? Why did you not listen
to the counsels of your confessor? Why did you not, even after
you had fallen the first or the second or the third or the fourth 770
or the hundredth time, repent of your evil ways and turn to
God who only waited for your repentance to absolve you of
your sins? Now the time for repentance has gone by. Time is,
time was but time shall be no more! Time was to sin in secrecy,
to indulge in that sloth and pride, to covet the unlawful, to
yield to the promptings of your lower nature, to live like the
beasts of the field, nay worse than the beasts of the field for
they, at least, are but brutes and have not reason to guide them:
time was but time shall be no more. God spoke to you by so
many voices but you would not hear. You would not crush out 780
that pride and anger in your heart, you would not restore those
illgotten goods, you would not obey the precepts of your holy
church nor attend to your religious duties, you would not
abandon those wicked companions, you would not avoid those
dangerous temptations. Such is the language of those fiendish
tormentors, words of taunting and of reproach, of hatred and
of disgust. Of disgust, yes! For even they, the very devils, when
they sinned sinned by such a sin as alone was compatible with
such angelical natures, a rebellion of the intellect: and they,
even they, the foul devils must turn away, revolted and dis- 790
gusted, from the contemplation of those unspeakable sins by
which degraded man outrages and defiles the temple of the
Holy Ghost, defiles and pollutes himself.

Father Arnall―O, my dear little brothers in Christ, may it never be our lot
to hear that language! May it never be our lot, I say! In the last
day of terrible reckoning I pray fervently to God that not a
single soul of those who are in this chapel today may be found
among those miserable beings whom the Great Judge shall
command to depart for ever from His sight, that not one of us
may ever hear ringing in his ears the awful sentence of rejec- 800
tion: Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire which
was prepared for the devil and his angels!

He came down the aisle of the chapel, his legs shaking and
the scalp of his head trembling as though it had been touched
by ghostly fingers. He passed up the staircase and into the
corridor along the walls of which the overcoats and water-
proofs hung like gibbeted malefactors, headless and dripping
and shapeless. And at every step he feared that he had already
died, that his soul had been wrenched forth of the sheath of his
body, that he was plunging headlong through space.

810

He could not grip the floor with his feet and sat heavily at
his desk, opening one of his books at random and poring over
it. Every word for him! It was true. God was almighty. God
could call him now, call him as he sat at his desk, before he had
time to be conscious of the summons. God had called him. Yes?
What? Yes? His flesh shrank together as it felt the approach of
the ravenous tongues of flames, dried up as it felt about it the
swirl of stifling air. He had died. Yes. He was judged. A wave
of fire swept through his body: the first. Again a wave. His
brain began to glow. Another. His brain was simmering and 820
bubbling within the cracking tenement of the skull. Flames
burst forth from his skull like a corolla, shrieking like voices:

Flames―Hell! Hell! Hell! Hell! Hell!

Voices spoke near him:

a voice―On hell.

a voice―I suppose he rubbed it into you well.

a voice―You bet he did. He put us all into a blue funk.

a voice―That's what you fellows want: and plenty of it to make you
work.

He leaned back weakly in his desk. He had not died. God 830
had spared him still. He was still in the familiar world of the
school. Mr Tate and Vincent Heron stood at the window,
talking, jesting, gazing out at the bleak rain, moving their }|lb n="30833"/| heads.

Mr Tate―I wish it would clear up. I had arranged to go for a spin on
the bike with some fellows out by 53.450924 -6.150138Malahide. But the roads
must be kneedeep.

Vincent Heron―It might clear up, sir.

The voices that he knew so well, the common words, the
quiet of the classroom when the voices paused and the silence 840
was filled by the sound of softly browsing cattle as the other
boys munched their lunches tranquilly, lulled his aching soul.

There was still time. O Mary, refuge of sinners, intercede for
him! O Virgin Undefiled, save him from the gulf of death!

The English lesson began with the hearing of the history.
Royal persons, favourites, intriguers, bishops passed like mute
phantoms behind their veil of names. All had died: all had been
judged. What did it profit a man to gain the whole world if he
lost his soul? At last he had understood: and human life lay
around him, a plain of peace whereon antlike men laboured in 850
brotherhood, their dead sleeping under quiet mounds. The el-
bow of his companion touched him and his heart was touched:
and when he spoke to answer a question of his master he heard
his own voice full of the quietude of humility and contrition.

His soul sank back deeper into depths of contrite peace, no
longer able to suffer the pain of dread and sending forth, as she
sank, a faint prayer. Ah yes, he would still be spared; he would
repent in his heart and be forgiven: and then those above, those
in heaven, would see what he would do to make up for the
past: a whole life, every hour of life. Only wait. 860

Stephen Dedalus―All, God! All, all!

A messenger came to the door to say that confessions were
being heard in the chapel. Four boys left the room; and he
heard others passing down the corridor. A tremulous chill blew
round his heart, no stronger than a little wind, and yet, listen-
ing and suffering silently, he seemed to have laid an ear against
the muscle of his own heart, feeling it close and quail, listening
to the flutter of its ventricles.

No escape. He had to confess, to speak out in words what he
had done and thought, sin after sin. How? How? 870

Stephen Dedalus―Father, I ...

The thought slid like a cold shining rapier into his tender
flesh: confession. But not there in the chapel of the college. He
would confess all, every sin of deed and thought, sincerely: but
not there among his school companions. Far away from there
in some dark place he would murmur out his own shame: and
he besought God humbly not to be offended with him if he did
not dare to confess in the college chapel: and in utter abjection
of spirit he craved forgiveness mutely of the boyish hearts
about him.

880

Time passed.

He sat again in the front bench of the chapel. The daylight
without was already failing and, as it fell slowly through the
dull red blinds, it seemed that the sun of the last day was going
down and that all souls were being gathered for the judgment.

Father Arnall―I am cast away from the sight of Thine eyes: words taken,
my dear little brothers in Christ, from the Book of Psalms,
thirtieth chapter, twentythird verse. In the name of the Father
and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.

The preacher began to speak in a quiet friendly tone. His 890
face was kind and he joined gently the fingers of each hand,
forming a frail cage by the union of their tips.

Father Arnall―This morning we endeavoured, in our reflection upon hell,
to make what our holy founder calls in his book of spiritual
exercises, the composition of place. We endeavoured, that is, to
imagine with the senses of the mind, in our imagination, the
material character of that awful place and of the physical tor-
ments which all who are in hell endure. This evening we shall
consider for a few moments the nature of the spiritual torments
of hell.

900

Father Arnall―Sin, remember, is a twofold enormity. It is a base consent to
the promptings of our corrupt nature, to the lower instincts, to
that which is gross and beastlike; and it is also a turning away
from the counsel of our higher nature, from all that is pure and
holy, from the Holy God Himself. For this reason mortal sin is
punished in hell by two different forms of punishment, physical
and spiritual.

Father Arnall―Now of all these spiritual pains by far the greatest is the pain
of loss, so great, in fact, that in itself it is a torment greater
than all the others. Saint Thomas, the greatest doctor of the 910
church, the angelic doctor, as he is called, says that the worst
damnation consists in this that the understanding of man is
totally deprived of divine light and his affection obstinately
turned away from the goodness of God. God, remember, is a
being infinitely good and therefore the loss of such a being
must be a loss infinitely painful. In this life we have not a very
clear idea of what such a loss must be but the damned in hell,
for their greater torment, have a full understanding of that
which they have lost and understand that they have lost it
through their own sins and have lost it for ever. At the very 920
instant of death the bonds of the flesh are broken asunder and
the soul at once flies towards God. The soul tends towards
God as towards the centre of her existence. Remember, my
dear little boys, our souls long to be with God. We come from
God, we live by God, we belong to God: we are His, inalien-
ably His. God loves with a divine love every human soul and
every human soul lives in that love. How could it be otherwise?
Every breath that we draw, every thought of our brain, every
instant of life proceed from God's inexhaustible goodness. And
if it be pain for a mother to be parted from her child, for a man 930
to be exiled from hearth and home, for friend to be sundered
from friend, O think what pain, what anguish it must be for
the poor soul to be spurned from the presence of the supremely
good and loving Creator Who has called that soul into exist-
ence from nothingness and sustained it in life and loved it with
an immeasurable love. This, then, to be separated for ever from
its greatest good, from God, and to feel the anguish of that
separation, knowing full well that it is unchangeable, this is the
greatest torment which the created soul is capable of bearing,
poena damni, the pain of loss.

940

Father Arnall―The second pain which will afflict the souls of the damned in
hell is the pain of conscience. Just as in dead bodies worms are
engendered by putrefaction so in the souls of the lost there
arises a perpetual remorse from the putrefaction of sin, the
sting of conscience, the worm, as Pope Innocent the Third calls
it, of the triple sting. The first sting inflicted by this cruel worm
will be the memory of past pleasures. O what a dreadful mem-
ory will that be! In the lake of alldevouring flame the proud
king will remember the pomps of his court, the wise but wicked
man his libraries and instruments of research, the lover of ar- 950
tistic pleasures his marbles and pictures and other art treasures,
he who delighted in the pleasures of the table his gorgeous
feasts, his dishes prepared with such delicacy, his choice wines;
the miser will remember his hoard of gold, the robber his
illgotten wealth, the angry and revengeful and merciless mur-
derers their deeds of blood and violence in which they revelled,
the impure and adulterous the unspeakable and filthy pleasures
in which they delighted. They will remember all this and loathe
themselves and their sins. For how miserable will all those
pleasures seem to the soul condemned to suffer in hellfire for 960
ages and ages. How they will rage and fume to think that they
have lost the bliss of heaven for the dross of earth, for a few
pieces of metal, for vain honours, for bodily comforts, for a
tingling of the nerves. They will repent indeed: and this is the
second sting of the worm of conscience, a late and fruitless
sorrow for sins committed. Divine justice insists that the under-
standing of those miserable wretches be fixed continually on
the sins of which they were guilty and, moreover, as saint
Augustine points out, God will impart to them His own
knowledge of sin so that sin will appear to them in all its 970
hideous malice as it appears to the eyes of God Himself. They
will behold their sins in all their foulness and repent but it will
be too late and then they will bewail the good occasions which
they neglected. This is the last and deepest and most cruel sting
of the worm of conscience. The conscience will say: You had
time and opportunity to repent and would not. You were
brought up religiously by your parents. You had the sacraments
and graces and indulgences of the church to aid you. You had
the minister of God to preach to you, to call you back when
you had strayed, to forgive you your sins, no matter how many, 980
how abominable, if only you had confessed and repented. No.
You would not. You flouted the ministers of holy religion, you
turned your back on the confessional, you wallowed deeper
and deeper in the mire of sin. God appealed to you, threatened
you, entreated you to return to Him. O what shame, what
misery! The ruler of the universe entreated you, a creature
of clay, to love Him Who made you and to keep His law.
No. You would not. And now, though you were to flood all
hell with your tears if you could still weep, all that sea of
repentance would not gain for you what a single tear of true 990
repentance shed during your mortal life would have gained for
you. You implore now a moment of earthly life wherein to
repent: in vain. That time is gone: gone for ever.

Father Arnall―Such is the threefold sting of conscience, the viper which
gnaws the very heart's core of the wretches in hell so that filled
with hellish fury they curse themselves for their folly and curse
the evil companions who have brought them to such ruin and
curse the devils who tempted them in life and now mock them
and torture them in eternity and even revile and curse the
Supreme Being Whose goodness and patience they scorned and 1000
slighted but Whose justice and power they cannot evade.

Father Arnall―The next spiritual pain to which the damned are subjected is
the pain of extension. Man, in this earthly life, though he be
capable of many evils, is not capable of them all at once inas-
much as one evil corrects and counteracts another just as one
poison frequently corrects another. In hell on the contrary one
torment, instead of counteracting another, lends it still greater
force: and moreover as the internal faculties are more perfect
than the external senses so are they more capable of suffering.
Just as every sense is afflicted with a fitting torment so is every 1010
spiritual faculty; the fancy with horrible images, the sensitive
faculty with alternate longing and rage, the mind and under-
standing with an interior darkness more terrible even than the
exterior darkness which reigns in that dreadful prison. The
malice, impotent though it be, which possesses these demon
souls is an evil of boundless extension, of limitless duration, a
frightful state of wickedness which we can scarcely realise
unless we bear in mind the enormity of sin and the hatred God
bears to it.

Father Arnall―Opposed to this pain of extension and yet coexistent with it 1020
we have the pain of intensity. Hell is the centre of all evils and,
as you know, things are more intense at their centres than at
their remotest points. There are no contraries or admixtures of
any kind to temper or soften in the least the pains of hell. Nay,
things which are good in themselves become evil in hell. Com-
pany, elsewhere a source of comfort to the afflicted, will be
there a continual torment: knowledge, so much longed for as
the chief good of the intellect, will there be hated worse than
ignorance: light, so much coveted by all creatures from the lord
of creation down to the humblest plant in the forest, will be 1030
loathed intensely. In this life our sorrows are either not very
long or not very great because nature either overcomes them by
habits or puts an end to them by sinking under their weight.
But in hell the torments cannot be overcome by habit for while
they are of terrible intensity they are at the same time of con-
tinual variety, each pain, so to speak, taking fire from another
and reendowing that which has enkindled it with a still fiercer
flame. Nor can nature escape from these intense and various
tortures by succumbing to them for the soul in hell is sustained
and maintained in evil so that its suffering may be the greater. 1040
Boundless extension of torment, incredible intensity of suffer-
ing, unceasing variety of torture – this is what the divine
majesty, so outraged by sinners, demands, this is what the
holiness of heaven, slighted and set aside for the lustful and low
pleasures of the corrupt flesh, requires, this is what the blood
of the innocent Lamb of God, shed for the redemption of
sinners, trampled upon by the vilest of the vile, insists upon.

Father Arnall―Last and crowning torture of all the tortures of that awful
place is the eternity of hell. Eternity! O dread and dire word.
Eternity! What mind of man can understand it? And, remem- 1050
ber, it is an eternity of pain. Even though the pains of hell were
not so terrible as they are yet they would become infinite as
they are destined to last for ever. But while they are everlasting
they are at the same time, as you know, intolerably intense,
unbearably extensive. To bear even the sting of an insect for all
eternity would be a dreadful torment. What must it be then to
bear the manifold tortures of hell for ever. For ever! For all
eternity! Not for a year or for an age but for ever. Try to
imagine the awful meaning of this. You have often seen the
sand on the seashore. How fine are its tiny grains! And how 1060
many of those tiny little grains go to make up the small handful
which a child grasps in its play. Now imagine a mountain of
that sand, a million miles high, reaching from the earth to the
farthest heavens, and a million miles broad, extending to re-
motest space, and a million miles in thickness: and imagine
such an enormous mass of countless particles of sand multi-
plied as often as there are leaves in the forest, drops of water in
the mighty ocean, feathers on birds, scales on fish, hairs on
animals, atoms in the vast expanse of the air: and imagine that
at the end of every million years a little bird came to that 1070
mountain and carried away in its beak a tiny grain of that sand.
How many millions upon millions of centuries would pass be-
fore that bird had carried away even a square foot of that
mountain, how many eons upon eons of ages before it had
carried away all. Yet at the end of that immense stretch of time
not even one instant of eternity could be said to have ended. At
the end of all those billions and trillions of years eternity would
have scarcely begun. And if that mountain rose again after it
had been all carried away and if the bird came again and
carried it all away again grain by grain: and if it so rose and 1080
sank as many times as there are stars in the sky, atoms in the
air, drops of water in the sea, leaves on the trees, feathers upon
birds, scales upon fish, hairs upon animals, at the end of all
those innumerable risings and sinkings of that immeasurably
vast mountain not one single instant of eternity could be said to
have ended: even then, at the end of such a period, after that
eon of time the mere thought of which makes our very brain
reel dizzily, eternity would have scarcely begun.

Father Arnall―A holy saint (one of our own fathers I believe it was) was
once vouchsafed a vision of hell. It seemed to him that he stood 1090
in the midst of a great hall, dark and silent save for the ticking
of a great clock. The ticking went on unceasingly; and it
seemed to this saint that the sound of the ticking was the
ceaseless repetition of the words: ever, never; ever, never. Ever
to be in hell, never to be in heaven; ever to be shut off from the
presence of God, never to enjoy the beatific vision; ever to be
eaten with flames, gnawed by vermin, goaded with burning
spikes, never to be free from those pains; ever to have the
conscience upbraid one, the memory enrage, the mind filled
with darkness and despair, never to escape; ever to curse and 1100
revile the foul demons who gloat fiendishly over the misery of
their dupes, never to behold the shining raiment of the blessed
spirits; ever to cry out of the abyss of fire to God for an instant,
a single instant, of respite from such awful agony, never to
receive, even for an instant, God's pardon; ever to suffer, never
to enjoy; ever to be damned, never to be saved; ever, never;
ever, never. O what a dreadful punishment! An eternity of
endless agony, of endless bodily and spiritual torment, without
one ray of hope, without one moment of cessation, of agony
limitless in extent, limitless in intensity, of torment infinitely 1110
lasting, infinitely varied, of torture that sustains eternally that
which it eternally devours, of anguish that everlastingly preys
upon the spirit while it racks the flesh, an eternity, every instant
of which is itself an eternity, and that eternity an eternity of
woe. Such is the terrible punishment decreed for those who die
in mortal sin by an almighty and a just God.

Father Arnall―Yes, a just God! Men, reasoning always as men, are aston-
ished that God should mete out an everlasting and infinite pun-
ishment in the fires of hell for a single grievous sin. They
reason thus because, blinded by the gross illusion of the flesh 1120
and the darkness of human understanding, they are unable to
comprehend the hideous malice of mortal sin. They reason thus
because they are unable to comprehend that even venial sin is
of such a foul and hideous nature that even if the omnipotent
Creator could end all the evil and misery in the world, the
wars, the diseases, the robberies, the crimes, the deaths, the
murders, on condition that He allowed a single venial sin to
pass unpunished, a single venial sin, a lie, an angry look, a
moment of wilful sloth, He, the great omnipotent God could
not do so because sin, be it in thought or deed, is a trans- 1130
gression of His law and God would not be God if He did not
punish the transgressor.

Father Arnall―A sin, an instant of rebellious pride of the intellect, made
Lucifer and a third part of the cohorts of angels fall from their
glory. A sin, an instant of folly and weakness, drove Adam and
Eve out of Eden and brought death and suffering into the
world. To retrieve the consequences of that sin the onlybegot-
ten Son of God came down to earth, lived and suffered and
died a most painful death, hanging for three hours on the cross.

Father Arnall―O, my dear little brethren in Christ Jesus, will we then 1140
offend that good Redeemer and provoke His anger? Will we
trample again upon that torn and mangled corpse? Will we spit
upon that face so full of sorrow and love? Will we too, like the
cruel jews and the brutal soldiers, mock that gentle and com-
passionate Saviour Who trod alone for our sakes the awful
winepress of sorrow? Every word of sin is a wound in His
tender side. Every sinful act is a thorn piercing His head. Every
impure thought, deliberately yielded to, is a keen lance trans-
fixing that sacred and loving heart. No, no. It is impossible for
any human being to do that which offends so deeply the divine 1150
majesty, that which is punished by an eternity of agony, that
which crucifies again the Son of God and makes a mockery of
Him.

Father Arnall―I pray to God that my poor words may have availed today to
confirm in holiness those who are in a state of grace, to
strengthen the wavering, to lead back to the state of grace the
poor soul that has strayed if any such be among you. I pray to
God, and do you pray with me, that we may repent of our sins.
I will ask you now, all of you, to repeat after me the act of
contrition, kneeling here in this humble chapel in the presence 1160
of God. He is there in the tabernacle burning with love for
mankind, ready to comfort the afflicted. Be not afraid. No
matter how many or how foul the sins if only you repent of
them they will be forgiven you. Let no worldly shame hold you
back. God is still the merciful Lord Who wishes not the eternal
death of the sinner but rather that he be converted and live.

Father Arnall―He calls you to Him. You are His. He made you out of
nothing. He loved you as only a God can love. His arms are
open to receive you even though you have sinned against Him.
Come to Him, poor sinner, poor vain and erring sinner. Now is 1170
the acceptable time. Now is the hour.

The priest rose and turning towards the altar knelt upon the
step before the tabernacle in the fallen gloom. He waited till all
in the chapel had knelt and every least noise was still. Then
raising his head he repeated the act of contrition, phrase by
phrase, with fervour. The boys answered him phrase by phrase.
Stephen, his tongue cleaving to his palate, bowed his head,
praying with his heart.

—O my God!—
—O my God!— 1180
—I am heartily sorry—
—I am heartily sorry—
—for having offended Thee—
—for having offended Thee—
—and I detest my sins—
—and I detest my sins—
—above every other evil—
—above every other evil—
—because they displease Thee, my God—
—because they displease Thee, my God— 1190
—Who art so deserving—
—Who art so deserving—
—of all my love—
—of all my love—
—and I firmly purpose—
—and I firmly purpose—
—by Thy holy grace—
—by Thy holy grace—
—never more to offend Thee—
—never more to offend Thee— 1200
—and to amend my life—
—and to amend my life—

* * *

He went up to his room after dinner in order to be alone
with his soul: and at every step his soul seemed to sigh: at every
step his soul mounted with his feet, sighing in the ascent,
through a region of viscid gloom.

He halted on the landing before the door and then, grasping
the porcelain knob, opened the door quickly. He waited in fear,
his soul pining within him, praying silently that death might
not touch his brow as he passed over the threshold, that the 1210
fiends that inhabit darkness might not be given power over
him. He waited still at the threshold as at the entrance to some
dark cave. Faces were there; eyes: they waited and watched.

murmuring faces―We knew perfectly well of course that though it was bound
to come to the light he would find considerable difficulty in
endeavouring to try to induce himself to try to endeavour to
ascertain the spiritual plenipotentiary and so we knew of
course perfectly well—

Murmuring faces waited and watched; murmurous voices
filled the dark shell of the cave. He feared intensely in spirit 1220
and in flesh but, raising his head bravely, he strode into the
room firmly. A doorway, a room, the same room, same win-
dow. He told himself calmly that those words had absolutely
no sense which had seemed to rise murmurously from the dark.
He told himself that it was simply his room with the door
open.

He closed the door and, walking swiftly to the bed, knelt
beside it and covered his face with his hands. His hands were
cold and damp and his limbs ached with chill. Bodily unrest
and chill and weariness beset him, routing his thoughts. Why 1230
was he kneeling there like a child saying his evening prayers?
To be alone with his soul, to examine his conscience, to meet
his sins face to face, to recall their times and manners and
circumstances, to weep over them. He could not weep. He
could not summon them to his memory. He felt only an ache of
soul and body, his whole being, memory, will, understanding,
flesh, benumbed and weary.

That was the work of devils, to scatter his thoughts and
overcloud his conscience, assailing him at the gates of the cow-
ardly and sincorrupted flesh: and, praying God timidly to 1240
forgive him his weakness, he crawled up on to the bed and,
wrapping the blankets closely about him, covered his face again
with his hands. He had sinned. He had sinned so deeply against
heaven and before God that he was not worthy to be called
God's child.

Could it be that he, Stephen Dedalus, had done those things?
His conscience sighed in answer. Yes, he had done them, se-
cretly, filthily, time after time, and, hardened in sinful impeni-
tence, he had dared to wear the mask of holiness before the
tabernacle itself while his soul within was a living mass of 1250
corruption. How came it that God had not struck him dead?
The leprous company of his sins closed about him, breathing
upon him, bending over him from all sides. He strove to forget
them in an act of prayer, huddling his limbs closer together and
binding down his eyelids: but the senses of the soul would not
be bound and, though his eyes were shut fast, he saw the places
where he had sinned and, though his ears were tightly covered,
he heard. He desired with all his will not to hear or see. He
desired till his frame shook under the strain of his desire and
until the senses of his soul closed. They closed for an instant 1260
and then opened. He saw.

A field of stiff weeds and thistles and tufted nettlebunches.
Thick among the tufts of rank stiff growth lay battered canis-
ters and clots and coils of solid excrement. A faint marshlight
struggled upwards from all the ordure through the bristling
greygreen weeds. An evil smell, faint and foul as the light,
curled upwards sluggishly out of the canisters and from the
stale crusted dung.

Creatures were in the field; one, three, six: creatures were
moving in the field, hither and thither. Goatish creatures with 1270
human faces, hornybrowed, lightly bearded and grey as india-
rubber. The malice of evil glittered in their hard eyes, as they
moved hither and thither, trailing their long tails behind them.
A rictus of cruel malignity lit up greyly their old bony faces.
One was clasping about his ribs a torn flannel waistcoat, an-
other complained monotonously as his beard stuck in the
tufted weeds. Soft language issued from their spittleless lips as
they swished in slow circles round and round the field, winding
hither and thither through the weeds, dragging their long tails
amid the rattling canisters. They moved in slow circles, circling 1280
closer and closer, to enclose, to enclose, soft language issuing
from their lips, their long swishing tails besmeared with stale
shite, thrusting upwards their terrific faces .....

Help!

He flung the blankets from him madly to free his face and
neck. That was his hell. God had allowed him to see the hell
reserved for his sins: stinking, bestial, malignant, a hell of lech-
erous goatish fiends. For him! For him!

He sprang from the bed, the reeking odour pouring down
his throat, clogging and revolting his entrails. Air! The air of 1290
heaven! He stumbled towards the window, groaning and al-
most fainting with sickness. At the washstand a convulsion
seized him within: and, clasping his cold forehead wildly, he
vomited profusely in agony.

When the fit had spent itself he walked weakly to the win-
dow and, lifting the sash, sat in a corner of the embrasure and
leaned his elbow upon the sill. The rain had drawn off; and
amid the moving vapours from point to point of light the city
was spinning about herself a soft cocoon of yellowish haze.
Heaven was still and faintly luminous and the air sweet to 1300
breathe, as in a thicket drenched with showers: and amid peace
and shimmering lights and quiet fragrances he made a covenant
with his heart.

He prayed:

Stephen Dedalus―He once had meant to come on earth in heavenly glory but
we sinned: and then He could not safely visit us but with a
shrouded majesty and a bedimmed radiance for He was God.
So He came Himself in weakness not in power and He sent
thee, a creature in His stead, with a creature's comeliness and
lustre suited to our state. And now thy very face and form, dear 1310
mother, speak to us of the Eternal; not like earthly beauty,
dangerous to look upon, but like the morning star which is thy
emblem, bright and musical, breathing purity, telling of heaven
and infusing peace. O harbinger of day! O light of the pilgrim!
Lead us still as thou hast led. In the dark night, across the bleak
wilderness guide us on to our Lord Jesus, guide us home.

His eyes were dimmed with tears and, looking humbly up to
heaven, he wept for the innocence he had lost.

When evening had fallen he left the house and the first touch
of the damp dark air and the noise of the door as it closed 1320
behind him made ache again his conscience, lulled by prayer
and tears. Confess! Confess! It was not enough to lull the con-
science with a tear and a prayer. He had to kneel before the
minister of the Holy Ghost and tell over his hidden sins truly
and repentantly. Before he heard again the footboard of the
housedoor trail over the threshold as it opened to let him in,
before he saw again the table in the kitchen set for supper he
would have knelt and confessed. It was quite simple.

The ache of conscience ceased and he walked onward swiftly
through the dark streets. There were so many flagstones on the 1330
footpath of that street and so many streets in that city and so
many cities in the world. Yet eternity had no end. He was in
mortal sin. Even once was a mortal sin. It could happen in an
instant. But how so quickly? By seeing or by thinking of seeing.
The eyes see the thing, without having wished first to see. Then
in an instant it happens. But does that part of the body under-
stand or what? The serpent, the most subtle beast of the field.
It must understand when it desires in one instant and then
prolongs its own desire instant after instant, sinfully. It feels
and understands and desires. What a horrible thing! Who made 1340
it to be like that, a bestial part of the body able to understand
bestially and desire bestially? Was that then he or an inhuman
thing moved by a lower soul than his soul? His soul sickened at
the thought of a torpid snaky life feeding itself out of the tender
marrow of his life and fattening upon the slime of lust. O why
was that so? O why?

He cowered in the shadow of the thought, abasing himself in
the awe of God Who had made all things and all men. Mad-
ness. Who could think such a thought? And, cowering in
darkness and abject, he prayed mutely to his angel guardian to 1350
drive away with his sword the demon that was whispering to
his brain.

The whisper ceased and he knew then clearly that his own
soul had sinned in thought and word and deed wilfully through
his own body. Confess! He had to confess every sin. How could
he utter in words to the priest what he had done? Must, must.
Or how could he explain without dying of shame? Or how
could he have done such things without shame? A madman, a
loathsome madman! Confess! O he would indeed to be free and
sinless again! Perhaps the priest would know. O dear God!

1360

He walked on and on through illlit streets, fearing to stand
still for a moment lest it might seem that he held back from
what awaited him, fearing to arrive at that towards which he
still turned with longing. How beautiful must be a soul in the
state of grace when God looked upon it with love!

Frowsy girls sat along the curbstones before their baskets.
Their dank hair hung trailed over their brows. They were not
beautiful to see as they crouched in the mire. But their souls
were seen by God; and if their souls were in a state of grace
they were radiant to see: and God loved them, seeing them.

1370

A wasting breath of humiliation blew bleakly over his soul
to think of how he had fallen, to feel that those souls were
dearer to God than his. The wind blew over him and passed on
to the myriads and myriads of other souls on whom God's
favour shone now more and now less, stars now brighter and
now dimmer, sustained and failing. And the glimmering souls
passed away, sustained and failing, merged in a moving breath.
One soul was lost; a tiny soul: his. It flickered once and went
out, forgotten, lost. The end: black cold void waste.

Consciousness of place came ebbing back to him slowly over 1380
a vast tract of time unlit, unfelt, unlived. The squalid scene
composed itself around him; the common accents, the burning
gasjets in the shops, odours of fish and spirits and wet sawdust,
moving men and women. An old woman was about to cross
the street, an oilcan in her hand. He bent down and asked her
was there a chapel near.

an old woman―A chapel, sir? Yes, sir. Church Street chapel.

Stephen Dedalus―Church?

She shifted the can to her other hand and directed him: and,
as she held out her reeking withered right hand under its fringe 1390
of shawl, he bent lower towards her, saddened and soothed by
her voice.

Stephen Dedalus―Thank you.

an old woman―You are quite welcome, sir.

The candles on the high altar had been extinguished but the
fragrance of incense still floated down the dim nave. Bearded
workmen with pious faces were guiding a canopy out through
a sidedoor, the sacristan aiding them with quiet gestures and
words. A few of the faithful still lingered, praying before one of
the sidealtars or kneeling in the benches near the confessionals. 1400
He approached timidly and knelt at the last bench in the body,
thankful for the peace and silence and fragrant shadow of the
church. The board on which he knelt was narrow and worn
and those who knelt near him were humble followers of Jesus.
Jesus too had been born in poverty and had worked in the shop
of a carpenter, cutting boards and planing them, and had first
spoken of the kingdom of God to poor fishermen, teaching all
men to be meek and humble of heart.

He bowed his head upon his hands, bidding his heart be
meek and humble that he might be like those who knelt beside 1410
him and his prayer as acceptable as theirs. He prayed beside
them but it was hard. His soul was foul with sin and he dared
not ask forgiveness with the simple trust of those whom Jesus,
in the mysterious ways of God, had called first to His side, the
carpenters, the fishermen, poor and simple people following a
lowly trade, handling and shaping the wood of trees, mending
their nets with patience.

A tall figure came down the aisle and the penitents stirred:
and, at the last moment glancing up swiftly, he saw a long grey
beard and the brown habit of a capuchin. The priest entered 1420
the box and was hidden. Two penitents rose and entered the
confessional at either side. The wooden slide was drawn back
and the faint murmur of a voice troubled the silence.

His blood began to murmur in his veins, murmuring like a
sinful city summoned from its sleep to hear its doom. Little
flakes of fire fell and powdery ashes fell softly, alighting on the
houses of men. They stirred, waking from sleep, troubled by
the heated air.

The slide was shot back. The penitent emerged from the side
of the box. The farther slide was drawn. A woman entered 1430
quietly and deftly where the first penitent had knelt. The faint
murmur began again.

He could still leave the chapel. He could stand up, put one
foot before the other and walk out softly and then run, run, run
swiftly through the dark streets. He could still escape from the
shame. O what shame! His face was burning with shame. Had
it been any terrible crime but that one sin! Had it been murder!
Little fiery flakes fell and touched him at all points, shameful
thoughts, shameful words, shameful acts. Shame covered him
wholly like fine glowing ashes falling continually. To say it in 1440
words! His soul, stifling and helpless, would cease to be.

The slide was shot back. A penitent emerged from the far-
ther side of the box. The near slide was drawn. A penitent
entered where the other penitent had come out. A soft whisper-
ing noise floated in vaporous cloudlets out of the box. It was
the woman: soft whispering cloudlets, soft whispering vapour,
whispering and vanishing.

He beat his breast with his fist humbly, secretly under cover
of the wooden armrest. He would be at one with others and
with God. He would love his neighbour. He would love God 1450
Who had made and loved him. He would kneel and pray with
others and be happy. God would look down on him and on
them and would love them all.

It was easy to be good. God's yoke was sweet and light. It
was better never to have sinned, to have remained always a
child, for God loved little children and suffered them to come
to Him. It was a terrible and a sad thing to sin. But God was
merciful to poor sinners who were truly sorry. How true that
was! That was indeed goodness.

The slide was shot to suddenly. The penitent came out. He 1460
was next. He stood up in terror and walked blindly into the
box.

At last it had come. He knelt in the silent gloom and raised
his eyes to the white crucifix suspended above him. God could
see that he was sorry. He would tell all his sins. His confession
would be long, long. Everybody in the chapel would know then
what a sinner he had been. Let them know. It was true. But
God had promised to forgive him if he was sorry. He was
sorry. He clasped his hands and raised them towards the white
form, praying with his darkened eyes, praying with all his 1470
trembling body, swaying his head to and fro like a lost crea-
ture, praying with whimpering lips.

Stephen Dedalus―Sorry! Sorry! O sorry!

The slide clicked back and his heart bounded in his breast.
The face of an old priest was at the grating, averted from him,
leaning upon a hand. He made the sign of the cross and prayed
of the priest to bless him for he had sinned. Then, bowing his
head, he repeated the Confiteor in fright. At the words my
most grievous fault he ceased, breathless.

Priest―How long is it since your last confession, my child?

1480

Stephen Dedalus―A long time, father.

Priest―A month, my child?

Stephen DedalusLonger, father.

PriestThree months, my child?

Stephen Dedalus―Longer, father.

Priest―Six months?

Stephen Dedalus―Eight months, father.

He had begun. The priest asked:

Priest―And what do you remember since that time?

He began to confess his sins: masses missed, prayers not 1490
said, lies.

Priest―Anything else, my child?

Sins of anger, envy of others, gluttony, vanity, disobedience.

Priest―Anything else, my child?

Stephen Dedalus―Sloth.

Priest―Anything else, my child?

There was no help. He murmured:

Stephen Dedalus―I .... committed sins of impurity, father.

The priest did not turn his head.

Priest―With yourself, my child?

1500

Stephen Dedalus―And ... with others.

Priest―With women, my child?

Stephen Dedalus―Yes, father.

PriestWere they married women, my child?

He did not know. His sins trickled from his lips, one by one,
trickled in shameful drops from his soul festering and oozing
like a sore, a squalid stream of vice. The last sins oozed forth,
sluggish, filthy. There was no more to tell. He bowed his head,
overcome.

The priest was silent. Then he asked: 1510

Priest―How old are you, my child?

Stephen Dedalus―Sixteen, father.

The priest passed his hand several times over his face. Then,
resting his forehead against his hand, he leaned towards the
grating and, with eyes still averted, spoke slowly. His voice was
weary and old.

Priest―You are very young, my child,

he said,

Priestand let me implore of
you to give up that sin. It is a terrible sin. It kills the body and
it kills the soul. It is the cause of many crimes and misfortunes.
Give it up, my child, for God' sake. It is dishonourable and 1520
unmanly. You cannot know where that wretched habit will
lead you or where it will come against you. As long as you
commit that sin, my poor child, you will never be worth one
farthing to God. Pray to our mother Mary to help you. She will
help you, my child. Pray to Our Blessed Lady when that sin
comes into your mind. I am sure you will do that, will you not?
You repent of all those sins. I am sure you do. And you will
promise God now that by His holy grace you will never offend
Him any more by that wicked sin. You will make that solemn
promise to God, will you not?

1530

Stephen Dedalus―Yes, father.

The old and weary voice fell like sweet rain upon his quak-
ing parching heart. How sweet and sad!

Priest―Do so, my poor child. The devil has led you astray. Drive
him back to hell when he tempts you to dishonour your body
in that way - the foul spirit who hates Our Lord. Promise God
now that you will give up that sin, that wretched wretched sin.

Blinded by his tears and by the light of God's mercifulness
he bent his head and heard the grave words of absolution
spoken and saw the priest's hand raised above him in token of 1540
forgiveness.

Priest―God bless you, my child. Pray for me.

He knelt to say his penance, praying in a corner of the dark
nave: and his prayers ascended to heaven from his purified
heart like perfume streaming upwards from a heart of white
rose.

The muddy streets were gay. He strode homeward, con-
scious of an invisible grace pervading and making light his
limbs. In spite of all he had done it. He had confessed and God
had pardoned him. His soul was made fair and holy once more, 1550
holy and happy.

It would be beautiful to die if God so willed. It was beautiful
to live if God so willed, to live in grace a life of peace and
virtue and forbearance with others.

He sat by the fire in the kitchen, not daring to speak for
happiness. Till that moment he had not known how beautiful
and peaceful life could be. The green square of paper pinned
round the lamp cast down a tender shade. On the dresser was a
plate of sausages and white pudding and on the shelf there were
eggs. They would be for the breakfast in the morning after the 1560
communion in the college chapel. White pudding and eggs and
sausages and cups of tea. How simple and beautiful was life
after all! And life lay all before him.

In a dream he fell asleep. In a dream he rose and saw that it
was morning. In a waking dream he went through the quiet
morning towards the college.

The boys were all there, kneeling in their places. He knelt
among them, happy and shy. The altar was heaped with fra-
grant masses of white flowers: and in the morning light the pale
flames of the candles among the white flowers were clear and 1570
silent as his own soul.

He knelt before the altar with his classmates, holding the
altar cloth with them over a living rail of hands. His hands
were trembling: and his soul trembled as he heard the priest
pass with the ciborium from communicant to communicant.

Priest―Corpus Domini nostri.

Could it be? He knelt there sinless and timid: and he would
hold upon his tongue the host and God would enter his purified
body.

Priest―In vitam eternam. Amen.

1580

Another life! A life of grace and virtue and happiness! It was
true. It was not a dream from which he would wake. The past
was past.

Priest―Corpus Domini nostri.

The ciborium had come to him.

IV

Sunday was dedicated to the mystery of the Holy Trinity,
Monday to the Holy Ghost, Tuesday to the Guardian Angels,
Wednesday to Saint Joseph, Thursday to the Most Blessed Sac-
rament of the Altar, Friday to the Suffering Jesus, Saturday to
the Blessed Virgin Mary.

Every morning he hallowed himself anew in the presence of
some holy image or mystery. His day began with an heroic
offering of its every moment of thought or action for the intentions
tions of the sovereign pontiff and with an early mass. The raw 10
morning air whetted his resolute piety; and often as he knelt
among the few worshippers at the sidealtar, following with his
interleaved prayerbook the murmur of the priest, he glanced up
for an instant towards the vested figure standing in the gloom
between the two candles which were the old and the new
testaments and imagined that he was kneeling at mass in the
catacombs.

His daily life was laid out in devotional areas. By means of
ejaculations and prayers he stored up ungrudgingly for the
souls in purgatory centuries of days and quarantines and years; 20
yet the spiritual triumph which he felt in achieving with ease so
many fabulous ages of canonical penances did not wholly re-
ward his zeal of prayer since he could never know how much
temporal punishment he had remitted by way of suffrage for
the agonising souls: and, fearful lest in the midst of the purga-
torial fire, which differed from the infernal only in that it was
not everlasting, his penance might avail no more than a drop of
moisture, he drove his soul daily through an increasing circle of
works of supererogation.

Every part of his day, divided by what he regarded now as 30
the duties of his station in life, circled about its own centre of
spiritual energy. His life seemed to have drawn near to eternity;
every thought, word and deed, every instance of consciousness
could be made to revibrate radiantly in heaven: and at times his
sense of such immediate repercussion was so lively that he
seemed to feel his soul in devotion pressing like fingers the
keyboard of a great cash register and to see the amount of his
purchase start forth immediately in heaven, not as a number but
as a frail column of incense or as a slender flower.

The rosaries too which he said constantly - for he carried his 40
beads loose in his trousers' pockets that he might tell them as
he walked the streets - transformed themselves into coronals of
flowers of such vague unearthly texture that they seemed to
him as hueless and odourless as they were nameless. He offered
up each of his three daily chaplets that his soul might grow
strong in each of the three theological virtues, in faith in the
Father Who had created him, in hope in the Son Who had
redeemed him, and in love of the Holy Ghost Who had sanc-
tified him, and this thrice triple prayer he offered to the Three
Persons through Mary in the name of her joyful and sorrowful 50
and glorious mysteries.

On each of the seven days of the week he further prayed that
one of the seven gifts of the Holy Ghost might descend upon
his soul and drive out of it day by day the seven deadly sins
which had defiled it in the past; and he prayed for each gift on
its appointed day, confident that it would descend upon him,
though it seemed strange to him at times that wisdom and
understanding and knowledge were so distinct in their nature
that each should be prayed for apart from the others. Yet he
believed that at some future stage of his spiritual progress this 60
difficulty would be removed when his sinful soul had been
raised up from its weakness and enlightened by the Third Person
son of the Most Blessed Trinity. He believed this all the more,
and with trepidation, because of the divine gloom and silence
wherein dwelt the unseen Paraclete, Whose symbols were a
dove and a mighty wind, to sin against Whom was a sin be-
yond forgiveness, the eternal, mysterious secret Being to
Whom, as God, the priests offered up mass once a year, robed
in the scarlet of the tongues of fire.

The imagery through which the nature and kinship of the 70
Three Persons of the Trinity were darkly shadowed forth in the
books of devotion which he read - the Father contemplating
from all eternity as in a mirror His Divine Perfections and
thereby begetting eternally the Eternal Son and the Holy Spirit
proceeding out of Father and Son from all eternity - were easier
of acceptance by his mind by reason of their august incompre-
hensibility than was the simple fact that God had loved his soul
from all eternity, for ages before he had been born into the
world, for ages before the world itself had existed. He had
heard the names of the passions of love and hate pronounced 80
solemnly on the stage and in the pulpit, had found them set
forth solemnly in books, and had wondered why his soul was
unable to harbour them for any time or to force his lips to utter
their names with conviction. A brief anger had often invested
him but he had never been able to make it an abiding passion
and had always felt himself passing out of it as if his very body
were being divested with ease of some outer skin or peel. He
had felt a subtle, dark and murmurous presence penetrate his
being and fire him with a brief iniquitous lust: it too had
slipped beyond his grasp leaving his mind lucid and indifferent. 90
This, it seemed, was the only love and that the only hate his
soul would harbour.

But he could no longer disbelieve in the reality of love since
God Himself had loved his individual soul with divine love
from all eternity. Gradually, as his soul was enriched with
spiritual knowledge, he saw the whole world forming one vast
symmetrical expression of God's power and love. Life became a
divine gift for every moment and sensation of which, were it
even the sight of a single leaf hanging on the twig of a tree, his
soul should praise and thank the Giver. The world for all its 100
solid substance and complexity no longer existed for his soul
save as a theorem of divine power and love and universality. So
entire and unquestionable was this sense of the divine meaning
in all nature granted to his soul that he could scarcely understand
stand why it was in any way necessary that he should continue
to live. Yet that was part of the divine purpose and he
dared not question its use, he above all others who had sinned
so deeply and so foully against the divine purpose. Meek and
abased by this consciousness of the one eternal omnipresent
perfect reality his soul took up again her burden of pieties, 110
masses and prayers and sacraments and mortifications, and
only then for the first time since he had brooded on the great
mystery of love did he feel within him a warm movement like
that of some newly born life or virtue of the soul itself. The
attitude of rapture in sacred art, the raised and parted hands,
the parted lips and eyes as of one about to swoon, became for
him an image of the soul in prayer, humiliated and faint before
her Creator.

But he had been forewarned of the dangers of spiritual exal-
tation and did not allow himself to desist from even the least or 120
lowliest devotion, striving also by constant mortification to
undo the sinful past rather than to achieve a saintliness fraught
with peril. Each of his senses was brought under a rigorous
discipline. In order to mortify the sense of sight he made it his
rule to walk in the street with downcast eyes, glancing neither
to right nor left and never behind him. His eyes shunned every
encounter with the eyes of women. From time to time also he
balked them by a sudden effort of the will, as by lifting them
suddenly in the middle of an unfinished sentence and closing
the book. To mortify his hearing he exerted no control over his 130
voice which was then breaking, neither sang nor whistled and
made no attempt to flee from noises which caused him painful
nervous irritation such as the sharpening of knives on the
knifeboard, the gathering of cinders on the fireshovel and the
twigging of the carpet. To mortify his smell was more difficult
as he found in himself no instinctive repugnance to bad odours,
whether they were the odours of the outdoor world such as
those of dung and tar or the odours of his own person among
which he had made many curious comparisons and experiments.
ments. He found in the end that the only odour against which 140
his sense of smell revolted was a certain stale fishy stink like
that of longstanding urine: and whenever it was possible he
subjected himself to this unpleasant odour. To mortify the taste
he practised strict habits at table, observed to the letter all the
fasts of the church and sought by distraction to divert his mind
from the savours of different foods. But it was to the mortification
cation of touch that he brought the most assiduous ingenuity of
inventiveness. He never consciously changed his position in
bed, sat in the most uncomfortable positions, suffered patiently
every itch and pain, kept away from the fire, remained on his 150
knees all through the mass except at the gospels, left parts of
his neck and face undried so that air might sting them and,
whenever he was not saying his beads, carried his arms stiffly
at his sides like a runner and never in his pockets or clasped
behind him.

He had no temptations to sin mortally. It surprised him
however to find that at the end of his course of intricate piety
and selfrestraint he was so easily at the mercy of childish and
unworthy imperfections. His prayers and fasts availed him little
for the suppression of anger at hearing his mother sneeze or at 160
being disturbed in his devotions. It needed an immense effort of
his will to master the impulse which urged him to give outlet to
such irritation. Images of the outbursts of trivial anger which
he had often noted among his masters, their twitching mouths,
closeshut lips and flushed cheeks, recurred to his memory, dis-
couraging him, for all his practice of humility, by the comparison.
son. To merge his life in the common tide of other lives was
harder for him than any fasting or prayer, and it was his
constant failure to do this to his own satisfaction which caused
in his soul at last a sensation of spiritual dryness together with 170
a growth of doubts and scruples. His soul traversed a period of
desolation in which the sacraments themselves seemed to have
turned into dried up sources. His confession became a channel
for the escape of scrupulous and unrepented imperfections. His
actual reception of the eucharist did not bring him the same
dissolving moments of virginal selfsurrender as did those spiritual
tual communions made by him sometimes at the close of some
visit to the Blessed Sacrament. The book which he used for
these visits was an old neglected book written by saint Alphonsus
sus Liguori, with fading characters and sere foxpapered leaves. 180
A faded world of fervent love and virginal responses seemed to
be evoked for his soul by the reading of its pages in which the
imagery of the canticles was interwoven with the communicant's
cant's prayers. An inaudible voice seemed to caress the soul,
telling her names and glories, bidding her arise as for espousal
and come away, bidding her look forth, a spouse, from Amana
and from the mountains of the leopards; and the soul seemed to
answer with the same inaudible voice, surrendering herself:

Inter ubera mea commorabitur.

This idea of surrender had a perilous attraction for his mind 190
now that he felt his soul beset once again by the insistent voices
of the flesh which began to murmur to him again during his
prayers and meditations. It gave him an intense sense of power
to know that he could by a single act of consent, in a moment
of thought, undo all that he had done. He seemed to feel a
flood slowly advancing towards his naked feet and to be waiting
ing for the first faint timid noiseless wavelet to touch his
fevered skin. Then, almost at the instant of that touch, almost
at the verge of sinful consent, he found himself standing far
away from the flood upon a dry shore, saved by a sudden act of 200
the will or a sudden ejaculation: and, seeing the silver line of
the flood far away and beginning again its slow advance to-
wards his feet, a new thrill of power and satisfaction shook his
soul to know that he had not yielded nor undone all.

When he had eluded the flood of temptation many times in
this way he grew troubled and wondered whether the grace
which he had refused to lose was not being filched from him
little by little. The clear certitude of his own immunity grew
dim and to it succeeded a vague fear that his soul had really
fallen unawares. It was with difficulty that he won back his old 210
consciousness of his state of grace by telling himself that he had
prayed to God at every temptation and that the grace which he
had prayed for must have been given to him inasmuch as God
was obliged to give it. The very frequency and violence of
temptations showed him at last the truth of what he had heard
about the trials of the saints. Frequent and violent temptations
were a proof that the citadel of the soul had not fallen and that
the devil raged to make it fall.

Often when he had confessed his doubts and scruples, some
momentary inattention at prayer, a movement of trivial anger 220
in his soul or a subtle wilfulness in speech or act, he was bidden
by his confessor to name some sin of his past life before absolution
ution was given him. He named it with humility and shame and
repented of it once more. It humiliated and shamed him to
think that he would never be freed from it wholly, however
holily he might live or whatever virtues or perfections he might
attain. A restless feeling of guilt would always be present with
him: he would confess and repent and be absolved, confess and
repent again and be absolved again, fruitlessly. Perhaps that
first hasty confession wrung from him by the fear of hell had 230
not been good? Perhaps, concerned only for his imminent
doom, he had not had sincere sorrow for his sin? But the surest
sign that his confession had been good and that he had had
sincere sorrow for his sin was, he knew, the amendment of his
life.

Stephen Dedalus―I have amended my life, have I not? he asked himself.

* * *

The director stood in the embrasure of the window, his back
to the light, leaning an elbow on the brown crossblind and, as
he spoke and smiled, slowly dangling and looping the cord of
the other blind. Stephen stood before him, following for a mo- 240
ment with his eyes the waning of the long summer daylight
above the roofs or the slow deft movements of the priestly
fingers. The priest's face was in total shadow but the waning
daylight from behind him touched the deeply grooved temples
and the curves of the skull. Stephen followed also with his ears
the accents and intervals of the priest's voice as he spoke
gravely and cordially of indifferent themes, the vacation which
had just ended, the colleges of the order abroad, the transference
ence of masters. The grave and cordial voice went on easily
with its tale, and in the pauses Stephen felt bound to set it on 250
again with respectful questions. He knew that the tale was a
prelude and his mind waited for the sequel. Ever since the
message of summons had come for him from the director his
mind had struggled to find the meaning of the message; and
during the long restless time he had sat in the college parlour
waiting for the director to come in his eyes had wandered from
one sober picture to another around the walls and his mind had
wandered from one guess to another until the meaning of the
summons had almost become clear. Then, just as he was wishing
ing that some unforeseen cause might prevent the director from 260
coming he had heard the handle of the door turning and the
swish of a soutane.

The director had begun to speak of the dominican and fran-
ciscan orders and of the friendship between saint Thomas and
saint Bonaventure. The capuchin dress, he thought, was rather
too .......

Stephen's face gave back the priest's indulgent smile and, not
being anxious to give an opinion, he made a slight dubitative
movement with his lips.

the director―I believe, continued the director, that there is some talk now 270
among the capuchins themselves of doing away with it and
following the example of the other franciscans.

Stephen Dedalus―I suppose they would retain it in the cloister, said Stephen.

the director―O certainly, said the director. For the cloister it is all right
but for the street I really think it would be better to do away
with it, don't you?

Stephen Dedalus―It must be troublesome, I imagine.

Priest―Of course it is, of course. Just imagine when I was in Bel-
gium I used to see them out cycling in all kinds of weather with
this thing up about their knees! It was really ridiculous. Les 280
jupes, they call them in Belgium.

The vowel was so modified as to be indistinct.

Stephen Dedalus―What do they call them?

Priest―Les jupes.

Stephen DedalusO.

Stephen smiled again in answer to the smile which he could
not see on the priest's shadowed face, its image or spectre only
passing rapidly across his mind as the low discreet accent fell
upon his ear. He gazed calmly before him at the waning sky,
glad of the cool of the evening and the faint yellow glow 290
which hid the tiny flame kindling upon his cheek.

The names of articles of dress worn by women or of certain
soft and delicate stuffs used in their making brought always to
his mind a delicate and sinful perfume. As a boy he had imagined
ined the reins by which horses are driven as slender silken
bands and it shocked him to feel at 53.293003 -6.168866Stradbrook the greasy
leather of harness. It had shocked him too when he had felt for
the first time beneath his tremulous fingers the brittle texture of
a woman's stocking for, retaining nothing of all he read save
that which seemed to him an echo or a prophecy of his own 300
state, it was only amid softworded phrases or within rosesoft
stuffs that he dared to conceive of the soul or body of a woman
moving with tender life.

But the phrase on the priest's lips was disingenuous for he
knew that a priest should not speak lightly on that theme. The
phrase had been spoken lightly with design and he felt that his
face was being searched by the eyes in the shadow. Whatever
he had heard or read of the craft of jesuits he had put aside
frankly as not borne out by his own experience. His masters,
even when they had not attracted him, had seemed to him 310
always intelligent and serious priests, athletic and highspirited
prefects. He thought of them as men who washed their bodies
briskly with cold water and wore clean cold linen. During all
the years he had lived among them in 53.310601 -6.695541Clongowes and in 52.207800 -8.211070Bel-
vedere he had received only two pandies and, though these had
been dealt him in the wrong, he knew that he had often escaped
punishment. During all those years he had never heard from
any of his masters a flippant word: it was they who had taught
him christian doctrine and urged him to live a good life and,
when he had fallen into grievous sin, it was they who had led 320
him back to grace. Their presence had made him diffident of
himself when he was a muff in Clongowes and it had made him
diffident of himself also while he had held his equivocal
position in Belvedere. A constant sense of this had remained
with him up to the last year of his school life. He had never
once disobeyed or allowed turbulent companions to seduce him
from his habit of quiet obedience: and, even when he doubted
some statement of a master, he had never presumed to doubt
openly. Lately some of their judgments had sounded a little
childish in his ears and had made him feel a regret and pity as 330
though he were slowly passing out of an accustomed world and
were hearing its language for the last time. One day when some
boys had gathered round a priest under the shed near the
chapel he had heard the priest say:

―I believe that Lord Macaulay was a man who probably never
committed a mortal sin in his life, that is to say, a deliberate
mortal sin.

Some of the boys had then asked the priest if Victor Hugo
were not the greatest French writer. The priest had answered
that Victor Hugo had never written half so well when he had 340
turned against the church as he had written when he was a
catholic.

Priest―But there are many eminent French critics, said the priest,
who consider that even Victor Hugo, great as he certainly was,
had not so pure a French style as Louis Veuillot.

The tiny flame which the priest's allusion had kindled upon
Stephen's cheek had sunk down again and his eyes were still
fixed calmly on the colorless sky. But an unresting doubt flew
hither and thither before his mind. Masked memories passed
quickly before him: he recognised scenes and persons yet he 350
was conscious that he had failed to perceive some vital circumstance
stance in them. He saw himself walking about the grounds
watching the sports in 53.348746 -6.275034Clongowes and eating slim jim out of his
cricketcap. Some jesuits were walking round the cycletrack in
the company of ladies. The echoes of certain expressions used
in 53.348746 -6.275034Clongowes sounded in remote caves of his mind.

His ears were listening to these distant echoes amid the si-
lence of the parlour when he became aware that the priest was
addressing him in a different voice.

―I sent for you today, Stephen, because I wished to speak to 360
you on a very important subject.

―Yes, sir.

―Have you ever felt that you had a vocation?

Stephen parted his lips to answer yes and then withheld the
word suddenly. The priest waited for the answer and added:

―I mean have you ever felt within yourself, in your soul, a
desire to join the order. Think.

―I have sometimes thought of it, said Stephen.

The priest let the blindcord fall to one side and, uniting his
hands, leaned his chin gravely upon them, communing with 370
himself.

Priest―In a college like this,

he said at length,

Priestthere is one boy or
perhaps two or three boys whom God calls to the religious life.
Such a boy is marked off from his companions by his piety, by
the good example he shows to others. He is looked up to by
them; he is chosen perhaps as prefect by his fellow sodalists.
And you, Stephen, have been such a boy in this college, prefect
of Our Blessed Lady's sodality. Perhaps you are the boy in this
college whom God designs to call to Himself.

A strong note of pride reinforcing the gravity of the priest's 380
voice made Stephen's heart quicken in response.

―To receive that call, Stephen, said the priest, is the greatest
honour that the Almighty God can bestow upon a man. No
king or emperor on this earth has the power of the priest
of God. No angel or archangel in heaven, no saint, not even
the Blessed Virgin herself has the power of a priest of God: the
power of the keys, the power to bind and to loose from sin, the
power of exorcism, the power to cast out from the creatures of
God the evil spirits that have power over them, the power, the
authority, to make the great God of Heaven come down upon 390
the altar and take the form of bread and wine. What an awful
power, Stephen!

A flame began to flutter again on Stephen's cheek as he
heard in this proud address an echo of his own proud musings.
How often had he seen himself as a priest wielding calmly and
humbly the awful power of which angels and saints stood in
reverence! His soul had loved to muse in secret on this desire.
He had seen himself, a young and silentmannered priest, en-
tering a confessional swiftly, ascending the altarsteps, in-
censing, genuflecting, accomplishing the vague acts of the 400
priesthood which pleased him by reason of their semblance of
reality and of their distance from it. In that dim life which he
had lived through in his musings he had assumed the voices and
gestures which he had noted with various priests. He had bent
his knee sideways like such a one, he had shaken the thurible
only slightly like such a one, his chasuble had swung open like
that of such another as he had turned to the altar again after
having blessed the people. And above all it had pleased him to
fill the second place in those dim scenes of his imagining. He
shrank from the dignity of celebrant because it displeased him 410
to imagine that all the vague pomp should end in his own
person or that the ritual should assign to him so clear and final
an office. He longed for the minor sacred offices, to be vested
with the tunicle of subdeacon at high mass, to stand aloof from
the altar, forgotten by the people, his shoulders covered with a
humeral veil, holding the paten within its folds, or, when the
sacrifice had been accomplished, to stand as deacon in a dal-
matic of cloth of gold on the step below the celebrant, his
hands joined and his face towards the people, and sing the
chant Ite, missa est. If ever he had seen himself celebrant it was 420
as in the pictures of the mass in his child's massbook, in a
church without worshippers, save for the angel of the sacrifice,
at a bare altar and served by an acolyte scarcely more boyish
than himself. In vague sacrificial or sacramental acts alone his
will seemed drawn to go forth to encounter reality: and it was
partly the absence of an appointed rite which had always con-
strained him to inaction whether he had allowed silence to
cover his anger or pride or had suffered only an embrace he
longed to give.

He listened in reverent silence now to the priest's appeal and 430
through the words he heard even more distinctly a voice bid-
ding him approach, offering him secret knowledge and secret
power. He would know then what was the sin of Simon Magus
and what the sin against the Holy Ghost for which there was
no forgiveness. He would know obscure things, hidden from
others, from those who were conceived and born children of
wrath. He would know the sins, the sinful longings and sinful
thoughts and sinful acts, of others, hearing them murmured
into his ears in the confessional under the shame of a darkened
chapel by the lips of women and of girls: but rendered immune 440
mysteriously at his ordination by the imposition of hands his
soul would pass again uncontaminated to the white peace of
the altar. No touch of sin would linger upon the hands with
which he would elevate and break the host; no touch of sin
would linger on his lips in prayer to make him eat and drink
damnation to himself, not discerning the body of the Lord. He
would hold his secret knowledge and secret power, being as
sinless as the innocent: and he would be a priest for ever
according to the order of Melchisedec.

―I will offer up my mass tomorrow morning, said the director, 450
tor, that Almighty God may reveal to you His holy will. And
let you, Stephen, make a novena to your holy patron saint, the first
martyr, who is very powerful with God, that God may en-
lighten your mind. But you must be quite sure, Stephen, that
you have a vocation because it would be terrible if you found
afterwards that you had none. Once a priest always a priest,
remember. Your catechism tells you that the sacrament of Holy
Orders is one of those which can be received only once because
it imprints on the soul an indelible spiritual mark which can
never be effaced. It is before you must weigh well, not after. It 460
is a solemn question, Stephen, because on it may depend the
salvation of your eternal soul. But we will pray to God to-
gether.

He held open the heavy hall door and gave his hand as if
already to a companion in the spiritual life. Stephen passed out
on to the wide platform above the steps and was conscious of
the caress of mild evening air. Towards 53.354445 -6.263812Findlater's church a
quartet of young men were striding along with linked arms,
swaying their heads and stepping to the agile melody of their
leader's concertina. The music passed in an instant, as the first 470
bars of sudden music always did, over the fantastic fabrics of
his mind, dissolving them painlessly and noiselessly as a sudden
wave dissolves the sandbuilt turrets of children. Smiling at the
trivial air he raised his eyes to the priest's face and, seeing in it
a mirthless reflection of the sunken day, detached his hand
slowly which had acquiesced faintly in that companionship.

As he descended the steps the impression which effaced his
troubled selfcommunion was that of a mirthless mask reflecting
a sunken day from the threshold of the college. The shadow,
then, of the life of the college passed gravely over his consciousness. 480
ness. It was a grave and ordered and passionless life that
awaited him, a life without material cares. He wondered how
he would pass the first night in the novitiate and with what
dismay he would wake the first morning in the dormitory. The
troubling odour of the long corridors of 53.348746 -6.275034Clongowes came back
to him and he heard the discreet murmur of the burning
gasflames. At once from every part of his being unrest began to
irradiate. A feverish quickening of his pulses followed and a din
of meaningless words drove his reasoned thoughts hither and
thither confusedly. His lungs dilated and sank as if he were 490
inhaling a warm moist unsustaining air and he smelt again the
warm moist air which hung in the bath in 53.348746 -6.275034Clongowes above the
sluggish turfcoloured water.

Some instinct, waking at these memories, stronger than edu-
cation or piety, quickened within him at every near approach
to that life, an instinct subtle and hostile, and armed him
against acquiescence. The chill and order of the life repelled
him. He saw himself rising in the cold of the morning and filing
down with the others to early mass and trying vainly to
struggle with his prayers against the fainting sickness of his 500
stomach. He saw himself sitting at dinner with the community
of a college. What, then, had become of that deeprooted shyness of
his which had made him loth to eat or drink under a strange
roof? What had come of the pride of his spirit which had
always made him conceive himself as a being apart in every
order?

The Reverend Stephen Dedalus, S.J.

His name in that new life leaped into characters before his
eyes and to it there followed a mental sensation of an unde-
fined face or colour of a face. The colour faded and became 510
strong like a changing glow of pallid brick red. Was it the raw
reddish glow he had so often seen on wintry mornings on the
shaven gills of the priests? The face was eyeless and sourfavoured
voured and devout, shot with pink tinges of suffocated anger.
Was it not a mental spectre of the face of one of the jesuits
whom some of the boys called Lantern Jaws and others Foxy
Campbell?

He was passing at that moment before the 53.358000 -6.259655jesuit house in
Gardiner Street, and wondered vaguely which window would
be his if he ever joined the order. Then he wondered at the 520
vagueness of his wonder, at the remoteness of his soul
from what he had hitherto imagined her sanctuary, at the frail
hold which so many years of order and obedience had of him
when once a definite and irrevocable act of his threatened to
end for ever, in time and in eternity, his freedom. The voice of
the director urging upon him the proud claims of the church
and the mystery and power of the priestly office repeated itself
idly in his memory. His soul was not there to hear and greet it
and he knew now that the exhortation he had listened to had
already fallen into an idle formal tale. He would never swing 530
the thurible before the tabernacle as priest. His destiny was to
be elusive of social or religious orders. The wisdom of the
priest's appeal did not touch him to the quick. He was destined
to learn his own wisdom apart from others or to learn the
wisdom of others himself wandering among the snares of the
world.

The snares of the world were its ways of sin. He would fall.
He had not yet fallen but he would fall silently, in an instant.
Not to fall was too hard, too hard: and he felt the silent lapse
of his soul, as it would be at some instant to come, falling, 540
falling but not yet fallen, still unfallen but about to fall.

He crossed the bridge over the stream of the 53.361845 -6.242480Tolka and
turned his eyes coldly for an instant towards the faded blue
shrine of the Blessed Virgin which stood fowlwise on a pole in
the middle of a hamshaped encampment of poor cottages.
Then, bending to the left, he followed the lane which led up to
his house. The faint sour stink of rotted cabbages came to-
wards him from the kitchengardens on the rising ground above
the river. He smiled to think that it was this disorder, the
misrule and confusion of his father's house and the stagnation 550
of vegetable life, which was to win the day in his soul. Then a
short laugh broke from his lips as he thought of that solitary
farmhand in the kitchengardens behind their house whom they
had nicknamed the man with the hat. A second laugh, taking
rise from the first after a pause, broke from him involuntarily
as he thought of how the man with the hat worked, considering
in turn the four points of the sky and then regretfully plunging
his spade in the earth.

He pushed open the latchless door of the porch and passed
through the naked hallway into the kitchen. A group of his 560
brothers and sisters was sitting round the table. Tea was nearly
over and only the last of the second watered tea remained in
the bottoms of the small glassjars and jampots which did ser-
vice for teacups. Discarded crusts and lumps of sugared bread,
turned brown by the tea which had been poured over them, lay
scattered on the table. Little wells of tea lay here and there on
the board and a knife with a broken ivory handle was stuck
through the pith of a ravaged turnover.

The sad quiet greyblue glow of the dying day came through
the window and the open door, covering over and allaying 570
quietly a sudden instinct of remorse in Stephen's heart. All that
had been denied them had been freely given to him, the eldest:
but the quiet glow of evening showed him in their faces no sign
of rancour.

He sat near them at the table and asked where his father and
mother were. One answered:

―Goneboro toboro lookboro atboro aboro houseboro.

Still another removal! A boy named Fallon in Belvedere had
often asked him with a silly laugh why they moved so often. A
frown of scorn darkened quickly his forehead as he heard again 580
the silly laugh of the questioner.

He asked:

―Why are we on the move again, if it's a fair question?

The same sister answered:

―Becauseboro theboro landboro lordboro willboro putboro
usboro outboro.

The voice of his youngest brother from the farther side of
the fireplace began to sing the air Oft in the Stilly Night. One
by one the others took up the air until a full choir of voices was
singing. They would sing so for hours, melody after melody, 590
glee after glee, till the last pale light died down on the horizon,
till the first dark nightclouds came forth and night fell.

He waited for some moments, listening, before he too took
up the air with them. He was listening with pain of spirit to the
overtone of weariness behind their frail fresh innocent voices.
Even before they set out on life's journey they seemed weary
already of the way.

He heard the choir of voices in the kitchen echoed and mul-
tiplied through an endless reverberation of the choirs of endless
generations of children: and heard in all the echoes an echo also 600
of the recurring note of weariness and pain. All seemed weary
of life even before entering upon it. And he remembered that
Newman had heard this note also in the broken lines of Virgil
giving utterance, like the voice of Nature herself, to that pain
and weariness yet hope of better things which has been the
experience of her children in every time.

* * *

He could wait no longer.

From the door of Byron's publichouse to the gate of Clontarf
tarf Chapel, from the gate of 53.364179 -6.201478Clontarf Chapel to the door of
Byron's publichouse and then back again to the chapel and 610
then back again to the publichouse he had paced slowly at first,
planting his steps scrupulously in the spaces of the patchwork
of the footpath, then timing their fall to the fall of verses. A full
hour had passed since his father had gone in with Dan Crosby,
the tutor, to find out for him something about the 53.310485 -6.225058university.
For a full hour he had paced up and down, waiting: but he
could wait no longer.

He set off abruptly for 53.359381 -6.179831the Bull, walking rapidly lest his
father's shrill whistle might call him back; and in a few mo-
ments he had rounded the curve at the police barrack and was 620
safe.

Yes, his mother was hostile to the idea, as he had read from
her listless silence. Yet her mistrust pricked him more keenly
than his father's pride and he thought coldly how he had
watched the faith which was fading down in his soul aging and
strengthening in her eyes. A dim antagonism gathered force
within him and darkened his mind as a cloud against her dis-
loyalty: and when it passed, cloudlike, leaving his mind serene
and dutiful towards her again, he was made aware dimly and
without regret of a first noiseless sundering of their lives.

630

The university! So he had passed beyond the challenge of the
sentries who had stood as guardians of his boyhood and had
sought to keep him among them that he might be subject to
them and serve their ends. Pride after satisfaction uplifted him
like long slow waves. The end he had been born to serve yet
did not see had led him to escape by an unseen path: and now it
beckoned to him once more and a new adventure was about to
be opened to him. It seemed to him that he heard notes of fitful
music leaping upwards a tone and downwards a diminished
fourth, upwards a tone and downwards a major third, like 640
triplebranching flames leaping fitfully, flame after flame, out of
a midnight wood. It was an elfin prelude, endless and formless;
and, as it grew wilder and faster, the flames leaping out of
time, he seemed to hear from under the boughs and grasses
wild creatures racing, their feet pattering like rain upon the
leaves. Their feet passed in pattering tumult over his mind, the
feet of hares and rabbits, the feet of harts and hinds and ante-
lopes, until he heard them no more and remembered only a
proud cadence from Newman: Whose feet are as the feet of
harts and underneath the everlasting arms.

650

The pride of that dim image brought back to his mind the
dignity of the office he had refused. All through his boyhood he
had mused upon that which he had so often thought to be his
destiny and when the moment had come for him to obey the
call he had turned aside, obeying a wayward instinct. Now
time lay between: the oils of ordination would never anoint his
body. He had refused. Why?

He turned seaward from the road at 53.365979 -6.174239Dollymount and as he
passed on to the thin wooden bridge he felt the planks shaking
with the tramp of heavily shod feet. A squad of christian 660
brothers was on its way back from the 53.369769 -6.147334Bull and had begun to
pass, two by two, across the bridge. Soon the whole bridge was
trembling and resounding. The uncouth faces passed him two
by two, stained yellow or red or livid by the sea, and as he
strove to look at them with ease and indifference, a faint stain
of personal shame and commiseration rose to his own face.
Angry with himself he tried to hide his face from their eyes by
gazing down sideways into the shallow swirling water under
the bridge but he still saw a reflection therein of their topheavy
silk hats, and humble tapelike collars and loosely hanging cleri- 670
cal clothes.

Stephen Dedalus―Brother Hickey.
Brother Quaid.
Brother MacArdle.
Brother Keogh.

Their piety would be like their names, like their faces, like
their clothes, and it was idle for him to tell himself that their
humble and contrite hearts, it might be, paid a far richer tribute
of devotion than his had ever been, a gift tenfold more acceptable
able than his elaborate adoration. It was idle for him to move 680
himself to be generous towards them, to tell himself that if he
ever came to their gates, stripped of his pride, beaten and in
beggar's weeds, that they would be generous towards him,
loving him as themselves. Idle and embittering, finally, to ar-
gue, against his own dispassionate certitude, that the com-
mandment of love bade us not to love our neighbour as
ourselves with the same amount and intensity of love but to
love him as ourselves with the same kind of love.

He drew forth a phrase from his treasure and spoke it softly
to himself:

690

―A day of dappled seaborne clouds.

The phrase and the day and the scene harmonised in a
chord. Words. Was it their colours? He allowed them to glow
and fade, hue after hue: sunrise gold, the russet and green of
apple orchards, azure of waves, the greyfringed fleece of
clouds. No, it was not their colours: it was the poise and
balance of the period itself. Did he then love the rhythmic rise
and fall of words better than their associations of legend and
colour? Or was it that, being as weak of sight as he was shy of
mind, he drew less pleasure from the reflection of the glowing 700
sensible world through the prism of a language manycoloured
and richly storied than from the contemplation of an inner
world of individual emotions mirrored perfectly in a lucid
supple periodic prose?

He passed from the trembling bridge on to firm land again.
At that instant, as it seemed to him, the air was chilled and
looking askance towards the water he saw a flying squall dark-
ening and crisping suddenly the tide. A faint click at his heart, a
faint throb in his throat told him once more of how his flesh
dreaded the cold infrahuman odour of the sea: yet he did not 710
strike across the downs on his left but held straight on along
the spine of rocks that pointed against the river's mouth.

A veiled sunlight lit up faintly the grey sheet of water where
the river was embayed. In the distance along the course of the
slowflowing Liffey slender masts flecked the sky and, more
distant still, the dim fabric of the city lay prone in haze. Like a
scene on some vague arras, old as man's weariness, the image
of the seventh city of christendom was visible to him across the
timeless air, no older nor more weary nor less patient of subjection
tion than in the days of the thingmote.

720

Disheartened, he raised his eyes towards the slowdrifting
clouds, dappled and seaborne. They were voyaging across the
deserts of the sky, a host of nomads on the march, voyaging
high over Ireland, westward bound. The Europe they had come
from lay out there beyond the 53.13 -5.32Irish Sea, Europe of strange
tongues and valleyed and woodbegirt and citadelled and of
entrenched and marshalled races. He heard a confused music
within him as of memories and names which he was almost
conscious of but could not capture even for an instant; then the
music seemed to recede, to recede, to recede: and from each 730
receding trail of nebulous music there fell always one long-
drawn calling note, piercing like a star the dusk of silence.
Again! Again! Again! Again! A voice from beyond the world
was calling.

a voice―Hello, Stephanos!

a voice―Here comes The Dedalus!

a voice―Ao! ... Eh, give it over, Dwyer, I'm telling you or I'll give you
a stuff in the kisser for yourself .... Ao!

a voice―Good man, Towser! Duck him!

a voice―Come along, Dedalus! Bous Stephanoumenos! Bous Steph- 740
aneforos!

a voice―Duck him! Guzzle him now, Towser!

a voice―Help! Help! ... Ao!

He recognised their speech collectively before he distin-
guished their faces. The mere sight of that medley of wet
nakedness chilled him to the bone. Their bodies, corpsewhite
or suffused with a pallid golden light or rawly tanned by the
sun, gleamed with the wet of the sea. Their divingstone, poised
on its rude supports and rocking under their plunges, and the
roughhewn stones of the sloping breakwater over which they 750
scrambled in their horseplay, gleamed with cold wet lustre. The
towels with which they smacked their bodies were heavy with
cold seawater: and drenched with cold brine was their matted
hair.

He stood still in deference to their calls and parried their
banter with easy words. How characterless they looked: Shuley
without his deep unbuttoned collar, Ennis without his scarlet
belt with the snaky clasp, and Connolly without his 52.613969 0.886402Norfolk
coat with the flapless sidepockets! It was a pain to see them and
a swordlike pain to see the signs of adolescence that made 760
repellent their pitiable nakedness. Perhaps they had taken refuge
uge in number and noise from the secret dread in their souls.
But he, apart from them and in silence, remembered in what
dread he stood of the mystery of his own body.

―Stephanos Dedalos! Bous Stephanoumenos! Bous Stephane-
foros!

Their banter was not new to him and now it
flattered his mild proud sovereignty. Now, as never before, his
strange name seemed to him a prophecy. So timeless seemed
the grey warm air, so fluid and impersonal his own mood, that 770
all ages were as one to him. A moment before the ghost of
the ancient kingdom of the Danes had looked forth through the
vesture of the hazewrapped city. Now, at the name of the
fabulous artificer, he seemed to hear the noise of dim waves
and to see a winged form flying above the waves and slowly
climbing the air. What did it mean? Was it a quaint device
opening a page of some medieval book of prophecies and sym-
bols, a hawklike man flying sunward above the sea, a prophecy
of the end he had been born to serve and had been following
through the mists of childhood and boyhood, a symbol of the 780
artist forging anew in his workshop out of the sluggish matter
of the earth a new soaring impalpable imperishable being?

His heart trembled; his breath came faster and a wild spirit
passed over his limbs as though he were soaring sunward. His
heart trembled in an ecstasy of fear and his soul was in flight.
His soul was soaring in an air beyond the world and the body
he knew was purified in a breath and delivered of incertitude
and made radiant and commingled with the element of the
spirit. An ecstasy of flight made radiant his eyes and wild his
breath and tremulous and wild and radiant his windswept 790
limbs. 790

a voice―One! Two! ... Look out!

a voice―O, cripes, I'm drownded!

a voice―One! Two! Three and away!

a voice―Me next! Me next!

a voice―One! ... Uk!

a voice―Stephaneforos!

His throat ached with a desire to cry aloud, the cry of a
hawk or eagle on high, to cry piercingly of his deliverance to
the winds. This was the call of life to his soul not the dull gross 800
voice of the world of duties and despair, not the inhuman voice
that had called him to the pale service of the altar. An instant
of wild flight had delivered him and the cry of triumph which
his lips withheld cleft his brain.

a voice―Stephaneforos!

What were they now but cerements shaken from the body of
death death - the fear he had walked in night and day, the incertitude
that had ringed him round, the shame that had abased him
within and without - cerements, the linens of the grave?

His soul had arisen from the grave of boyhood, spurning her 810
graveclothes. Yes! Yes! Yes! He would create proudly out of the
freedom and power of his soul, as the great artificer whose
name he bore, a living thing, new and soaring and beautiful,
impalpable, imperishable.

He started up nervously from the stoneblock for he could no
longer quench the flame in his blood. He felt his cheeks aflame
and his throat throbbing with song. There was a lust of wan-
dering in his feet that burned to set out for the ends of the
earth. On! On! his heart seemed to cry. Evening would deepen
above the sea, night fall upon the plains, dawn glimmer before 820
the wanderer and show him strange fields and hills and faces.
Where?

He looked northward towards 53.378569 -6.057013Howth. The sea had fallen
below the line of seawrack on the shallow side of the breakwater
water and already the tide was running out fast along the
foreshore. Already one long oval bank of sand lay warm and
dry amid the wavelets. Here and there warm isles of sand
gleamed above the shallow tide, and about the isles and around
the long bank and amid the shallow currents of the beach were
lightclad gayclad figures, wading and delving.

830

In a few moments he was barefoot, his stockings folded in
his pockets and his canvas shoes dangling by their knotted laces
over his shoulders: and, picking a pointed salteaten stick out of
the jetsam among the rocks, he clambered down the slope of
the breakwater.

There was a long rivulet in the 53.366498 -6.147804strand: and, as he waded
slowly up its course, he wondered at the endless drift of sea-
weed. Emerald and black and russet and olive, it moved
beneath the current, swaying and turning. The water of the
rivulet was dark with endless drift and mirrored the highdrifting 840
ing clouds. The clouds were drifting above him silently and
silently the seatangle was drifting below him; and the grey
warm air was still: and a new wild life was singing in his veins.

Where was his boyhood now? Where was the soul that had
hung back from her destiny, to brood alone upon the shame of
her wounds and in her house of squalor and subterfuge to
queen it in faded cerements and in wreaths that withered at the
touch? Or where was he?

He was alone. He was unheeded, happy and near to the wild
heart of life. He was alone and young and wilful and wild- 850
hearted, alone amid a waste of wild air and brackish waters
and the seaharvest of shells and tangle and veiled grey sunlight
and gayclad lightclad figures, of children and girls and voices
childish and girlish in the air.

A girl stood before him in midstream, alone and still, gazing
out to sea. She seemed like one whom magic had changed into
the likeness of a strange and beautiful seabird. Her long slender
bare legs were delicate as a crane's and pure save where an
emerald trail of seaweed had fashioned itself as a sign upon the
flesh. Her thighs, fuller and softhued as ivory, were bared al- 860
most to the hips where the white fringes of her drawers were
like featherings of soft white down. Her slateblue skirts were
kilted boldly about her waist and dovetailed behind her. Her
bosom was as a bird's soft and slight, slight and soft as the
breast of some darkplumaged dove. But her long fair hair was
girlish; and girlish, and touched with the wonder of mortal
beauty, her face.

She was alone and still, gazing out to sea; and when she felt
his presence and the worship of his eyes her eyes turned to him
in quiet sufferance of his gaze, without shame or wantonness. 870
Long, long she suffered his gaze and then quietly withdrew her
eyes from his and bent them towards the stream, gently stirring
the water with her foot hither and thither. The first faint noise
of gently moving water broke the silence, low and faint and
whispering, faint as the bells of sleep; hither and thither, hither
and thither: and a faint flame trembled on her cheek.

―Heavenly God! cried Stephen's soul, in an outburst of pro-
fane joy.

He turned away from her suddenly and set off across the 53.366498 -6.147804
strand. His cheeks were aflame; his body was aglow; his limbs 880
were trembling. On and on and on and on he strode, far out
over the sands, singing wildly to the sea, crying to greet the
advent of the life that had cried to him.

Her image had passed into his soul for ever and no word had
broken the holy silence of his ecstasy. Her eyes had called him
and his soul had leaped at the call. To live, to err, to fall, to
triumph, to recreate life out of life! A wild angel had appeared
to him, the angel of mortal youth and beauty, an envoy from
the fair courts of life, to throw open before him in an instant of
ecstasy the gates of all the ways of error and glory. On and on 890
and on and on!

He halted suddenly and heard his heart in the silence. How
far had he walked? What hour was it?

There was no human figure near him nor any sound borne
to him over the air. But the tide was near the turn and already
the day was on the wane. He turned landward and ran towards
the shore and, running up the sloping beach, reckless of the
sharp shingle, found a sandy nook amid a ring of tufted sand-
knolls and lay down there that the peace and silence of the
evening might still the riot of his blood.

900

He felt above him the vast indifferent dome and the calm
processes of the heavenly bodies; and the earth beneath him,
the earth that had borne him, had taken him to her breast.

He closed his eyes in the languor of sleep. His eyelids
trembled as if they felt the vast cyclic movement of the earth
and her watchers, trembled as if they felt the strange light of
some new world. His soul was swooning into some new world,
fantastic, dim, uncertain as under sea, traversed by cloudy
shapes and beings. A world, a glimmer, or a flower? Glimmering
ing and trembling, trembling and unfolding, a breaking light, 910
an opening flower, it spread in endless succession to itself,
breaking in full crimson and unfolding and fading to palest
rose, leaf by leaf and wave of light by wave of light, flooding all
the heavens with its soft flushes, every flush deeper than other.

Evening had fallen when he woke and the sand and arid
grasses of his bed glowed no longer. He rose slowly and, re-
calling the rapture of his sleep, sighed at its joy.

He climbed to the crest of the sandhill and gazed about him.
Evening had fallen. A rim of the young moon cleft the pale
waste of sky like the rim of a silver hoop embedded in grey 920
sand: and the tide was flowing in fast to the land with a low
whisper of her waves, islanding a few last figures in distant
pools.

V

He drained his third cup of watery tea to the dregs and set to
chewing the crusts of fried bread that were scattered near him,
staring into the dark pool of the jar. The yellow dripping had
been scooped out like a boghole and the pool under it brought
back to his memory the dark turfcoloured water of the bath in 53.310601 -6.695541
Clongowes. The box of pawntickets at his elbow had just been
rifled and he took up idly one after another in his greasy fingers
the blue and white dockets, scrawled and sanded and creased
and bearing the name of the pledger as Daly or MacEvoy. 10

Stephen Dedalus1 Pair Buskins
1 D. Coat
3 Articles and White
1 Man's Pants

Then he put them aside and gazed thoughtfully at the lid of
the box, speckled with lousemarks, and asked vaguely:

Stephen Dedalus―How much is the clock fast now?

His mother straightened the battered alarmclock that was
lying on its side in the middle of the kitchen mantelpiece until
its dial showed a quarter to twelve and then laid it once more 20
on its side.

Mary Dedalus―An hour and twentyfive minutes,

she said.

Mary DedalusThe right time
now is twenty past ten. The dear knows you might try to be in
time for your lectures.

Stephen Dedalus―Fill out the place for me to wash,

said Stephen.

Mary Dedalus―Katey, fill out the place for Stephen to wash.

Katey―Boody, fill out the place for Stephen to wash.

Boody―I can't. I'm going for blue. Fill it out, you, Maggie.

When the enamelled basin had been fitted into the well of
the sink and the old washingglove flung on the side of it he 30
allowed his mother to scrub his neck and root into the folds of
his ears and into the interstices at the wings of his nose.

Mary Dedalus―Well, it's a poor case,

she said,

Mary Dedaluswhen a university student is
so dirty that his mother has to wash him.

Stephen Dedalus―But it gives you pleasure,

said Stephen calmly.

An earsplitting whistle was heard from upstairs and his
mother thrust a damp overall into his hands, saying:

Mary Dedalus―Dry yourself and hurry out for the love of goodness.

A second shrill whistle, prolonged angrily, brought one of
the girls to the foot of the staircase. 40

one of the girls―Yes, father?

Simon Dedalus―Is your lazy bitch of a brother gone out yet?

one of the girls―Yes, father.

Simon Dedalus―Sure?

one of the girls―Yes, father.

Simon Dedalus―Hm!

The girl came back making signs to him to be quick and go
out quietly by the back. Stephen laughed and said:

Stephen Dedalus―He has a curious idea of genders if he thinks a bitch is
masculine.

Mary Dedalus―Ah, it's a scandalous shame for you, Stephen,

said his
mother,

Mary Dedalusand you'll live to rue the day you set your foot in that
place. I know how it has changed you.

Stephen Dedalus―Good morning, everybody,

said Stephen smiling and kissing
the tips of his fingers in adieu.

The lane behind the terrace was waterlogged and as he went
down it slowly, choosing his steps amid heaps of wet rubbish,
he heard a mad nun screeching in the 53.364283 -6.244879nuns' madhouse beyond
the wall:

???―Jesus! O Jesus! Jesus!

He shook the sound out of his ears by an angry toss of his
head and hurried on, stumbling through the mouldering offal,
his heart already bitten by an ache of loathing and bitterness.
His father's whistle, his mother's mutterings, the screech of an
unseen maniac were to him now so many voices offending and
threatening to humble the pride of his youth. He drove their
echoes even out of his heart with an execration: but as he
walked down the avenue and felt the grey morning light falling
about him through the dripping trees and smelt the strange
wild smell of the wet leaves and bark his soul was loosed of her 70
miseries.

The rainladen trees of the avenue evoked in him, as always,
memories of the girls and women in the plays of Gerhart
Hauptmann: and the memory of their pale sorrows and the
fragrance falling from the wet branches mingled in a mood of
quiet joy. His morning walk across 53.363150 -6.270676the city had begun: and he
foreknew that as he passed the sloblands of Fairview he would
think of the cloistral silverveined prose of Newman, that as he
walked along 53.357548 -6.242725the North Strand Road, glancing idly at the win-
dows of the provision shops, he would recall the dark humour 80
of Guido Cavalcanti and smile, that as he went by Baird's
stonecutting works in 53.350416 -6.251694Talbot Place the spirit of Ibsen would
blow through him like a keen wind, a spirit of wayward boyish
beauty, and that passing a grimy marine dealer's shop beyond
the Liffey he would repeat the song by Ben Jonson which
begins:

I was not wearier where I lay.

His mind when wearied of its search for the essence of
beauty amid the spectral words of Aristotle or Aquinas turned
often for its pleasure to the dainty songs of the Elizabethans. 90
His mind, in the vesture of a doubting monk, stood often in
shadow under the windows of that age, to hear the grave and
mocking music of the lutenists or the frank laughter of waist-
coateers until a laugh too low, a phrase, tarnished by time, of
chambering and false honour stung his monkish pride and
drove him on from his lurkingplace.

The lore which he was believed to pass his days brooding
upon so that it had rapt him from the companionships of youth
was only a garner of slender sentences from Aristotle's poetics
and psychology and a Synopsis Philosophiae Scholasticae ad 100
mentem divi Thomae. His thinking was a dusk of doubt and
selfmistrust lit up at moments by the lightnings of intuition, but
lightnings of so clear a splendour that in those moments the
world perished about his feet as if it had been fireconsumed:
and thereafter his tongue grew heavy and he met the eyes of
others with unanswering eyes for he felt that the spirit of
beauty had folded him round like a mantle and that in revery at
least he had been acquainted with nobility. But when this brief
pride of silence upheld him no longer he was glad to find him-
self still in the midst of common lives, passing on his way amid 110
the squalor and noise and sloth of the city fearlessly and with a
light heart.

Near the hoardings on the canal he met the consumptive
man with the doll's face and the brimless hat coming towards
him down the slope of the bridge with little steps, tightly but-
toned into his chocolate overcoat and holding his furled um-
brella a span or two from him like a diviningrod. It must be
eleven, he thought, and peered into a dairy to see the time. The
clock in the dairy told him that it was five minutes to five but,
as he turned away, he heard a clock somewhere near him but 120
unseen beating eleven strokes in swift precision. He laughed as
he heard it for it made him think of MacCann and he saw him
a squat figure in a shooting jacket and breeches and with a fair
goatee standing in the wind at 53.351242 -6.260779Hopkins' corner, and heard him
say:

MacCann―Dedalus, you're an antisocial being, wrapped up in yourself.
I'm not. I'm a democrat: and I'll work and act for social liberty
and equality among all classes and sexes in the United States of
the Europe of the future.

Eleven! Then he was late for that lecture too. What day of 130
the week was it? He stopped at a newsagent's to read the
headline of a placard. Thursday. Ten to eleven; English: eleven
to twelve; French: twelve to one; physics. He fancied to himself
the English lecture and felt, even at that distance, restless and
helpless. He saw the heads of his classmates meekly bent as
they wrote in their notebooks the points they were bidden to
note, nominal definitions, essential definitions and examples or
dates of birth and death, chief works, a favourable and an
unfavourable criticism side by side. His own head was unbent
for his thoughts wandered abroad and whether he looked 140
around the little class of students or out of the window across
the desolate gardens of the green an odour assailed him of
cheerless cellardamp and decay. Another head than his, right
before him in the first benches, was poised squarely above its
bending fellows like the head of a priest appealing without
humility to the tabernacle for the humble worshippers about
him. Why was it that when he thought of Cranly he could
never raise before his mind the entire image of his body but
only the image of the head and face? Even now against the grey
curtain of the morning he saw it before him like the phantom 150
of a dream, the face of a severed head or deathmask, crowned
on the brows by its stiff black upright hair as by an iron crown.
It was a priestlike face, priestlike in its pallor, in the wide-
winged nose, in the shadowings below the eyes and along the
jaws, priestlike in the lips that were long and bloodless and
faintly smiling: and Stephen, remembering swiftly how he had
told Cranly of all the tumults and unrest and longings in his
soul, day after day and night by night only to be answered by
his friend's listening silence, would have told himself that it
was the face of a guilty priest who heard confessions of those 160
whom he had not power to absolve but that he felt again in
memory the gaze of its dark womanish eyes.

Through this image he had a glimpse of a strange dark
cavern of speculation but at once turned away from it feeling
that it was not yet the hour to enter it. But the nightshade of his
friend's listlessness seemed to be diffusing in the air around him
a tenuous and deadly exhalation: and he found himself
glancing from one casual word to another on his right or left in
stolid wonder that they had been so silently emptied of instan-
taneous sense until every mean shop legend bound his mind 170
like the words of a spell and his soul shrivelled up sighing with
age as he walked on in a lane among heaps of dead language.
His own consciousness of language was ebbing from his brain
and trickling into the very words themselves which set to band
and disband themselves in wayward rhythms:

The ivy whines upon the wall
And whines and twines upon the wall
The ivy whines upon the wall
The yellow ivy on the wall
Ivy, ivy up the wall.

180

Did any one ever hear such drivel? Lord Almighty! Who ever
heard of ivy whining on a wall? Yellow ivy: that was all right.
Yellow ivory also. And what about ivory ivy?

The word now shone in his brain, clearer and brighter than
any ivory sawn from the mottled tusks of elephants. Ivory,
ivoire, avorio, ebur. One of the first examples that he had
learnt in Latin had run: India mittit ebur; and he recalled the
shrewd northern face of the rector who had taught him to
construe the Metamorphoses of Ovid in a courtly English,
made whimsical by the mention of porkers and potsherds and 190
chines of bacon. He had learnt what little he knew of the laws
of Latin verse from a ragged book written by a Portuguese
priest:

Contrahit orator, variant in carmine vates.

The crises and victories and secessions in Roman history
were handed on to him in the trite words in tanto discrimine
and he had tried to peer into the social life of the city of cities
through the words implere ollam denariorum which the rector
had rendered sonorously as the filling of a pot with denaries.
The pages of his timeworn Horace never felt cold to the touch 200
even when his own fingers were cold: they were human pages:
and fifty years before they had been turned by the human
fingers of John Duncan Inverarity and by his brother William
Malcolm Inverarity. Yes, those were noble names on the dusky
flyleaf and, even for so poor a Latinist as he, the dusky verses
were as fragrant as though they had lain all those years in
myrtle and lavender and vervain: but yet it wounded him to
think that he would never be but a shy guest at the feast of the
world's culture and that the monkish learning, in terms of
which he was striving to forge out an esthetic philosophy, was 210
held no higher by the age he lived in than the subtle and
curious jargons of heraldry and falconry.

The grey block 53.345478 -6.257690of Trinity on his left, set heavily in the city's
ignorance like a great dull stone set in a cumbrous ring, pulled
his mind downward: and while he was striving this way and
that to free his feet from the fetters of the reformed conscience
he came upon the droll statue of the national poet of Ireland.

He looked at it without anger: for, though sloth of the body
and of the soul crept over it like unseen vermin, over the
shuffling feet and up the folds of the cloak and around the 220
servile head, it seemed humbly conscious of its indignity. It
was a Firbolg in the borrowed cloak of a Milesian; and he
thought of his friend Davin, the peasant student. It was a
jesting name between them but the young peasant bore with it
lightly, saying:

Davin―Go on, Stevie. I have a hard head, you tell me. Call me what
you will.

The homely version of his christian name on the lips of his
friend had touched Stephen pleasantly when first heard for he
was as formal in speech with others as they were with him. 230
Often, as he sat in Davin's rooms in 53.334106 -6.266592Grantham Street, wonder-
ing at his friend's wellmade boots that flanked the wall pair by
pair and repeating for his friend's simple ear the verses and
cadences of others which were the veils of his own longing and
dejection, the rude Firbolg mind of his listener had drawn his
mind towards it and flung it back again, drawing it by a quiet
inbred courtesy of attention or by a quaint turn of old English
speech or by the force of its delight in rude bodily skill - (for
Davin had sat at the feet of Michael Cusack, the Gael),
repelling swiftly and suddenly by a grossness of intelligence or 240
by a bluntness of feeling or by a dull stare of terror in the eyes
the terror of soul of a starving Irish village in which the curfew
was still a nightly fear.

Side by side with his memory of the deeds of prowess of his
uncle Mat Davin, the athlete, the young peasant worshipped
the sorrowful legend of Ireland. The gossip of his fellowstu-
dents which strove to render the flat life of the college signifi-
cant at any cost loved to think of him as a young fenian. His
nurse had taught him Irish and shaped the rude imagination by
the broken lights of Irish myth. He stood towards this myth 250
upon which no individual mind had ever drawn out a line of
beauty and to its unwieldy tales that divided against themselves
as they moved down the cycles in the same attitude as towards
the Roman catholic religion, the attitude of a dullwitted loyal
serf. Whatsoever of thought or of feeling came to him from
England or by way of English culture his mind stood armed
against in obedience to a password: and of the world that lay
beyond England he knew only the foreign legion of 46.227638 2.213749France in
which he spoke of serving.

Coupling this ambition with the young man's diffident hu- 260
mour Stephen had often called him one of the tame geese: and
there was even a point of irritation in the name pointed against
that very reluctance of speech and deed in his friend which
seemed so often to stand between Stephen's mind, eager of
speculation, and the hidden ways of Irish life.

One night the young peasant, his spirit stung by the violent
or luxurious language in which Stephen escaped from the cold
silence of intellectual revolt, had called up before Stephen's
mind a strange vision. The two were walking slowly towards
Davin's rooms through the dark narrow streets of the poorer 270
jews.

Davin―A thing happened to myself, Stevie, last autumn coming on
winter and I never told it to a living soul and you are the first
person now I ever told it to. I disremember if it was October or
November. It was October because it was before I came up
here to join the matriculation class.

Stephen had turned his smiling eyes towards his friend's
face, flattered by his confidence and won over to sympathy by
the speaker's simple accent.

Davin―I was away all that day from my own place, over in 52.232134 -8.670125Butte- 280
vant (I don't know if you know where that is) at a hurling
match between the Croke's Own Boys and the Fearless Thurles
and by God, Stevie, that was the hard fight. My first cousin
Fonsy Davin was stripped to his buff that day minding cool for
the Limericks but he was up with the forwards half the time
and shouting like mad. I never will forget that day. One of the
Crokes made a woful wipe at him one time with his camaun
and I declare to God he was within an aim's ace of getting it at
the side of the temple. O, honest to God, if the crook of it
caught him that time he was done for.

290

Stephen Dedalus―I am glad he escaped, Stephen had said with a laugh, but
surely that's not the strange thing that happened you?

Davin―Well, I suppose that doesn't interest you but leastways there
was such noise after the match that I missed the train home and
I couldn't get any kind of a yoke to give me a lift for, as luck
would have it, there was a mass meeting that same day over in
Castletownrocheand all the cars in the country were there. So
there was nothing for it only to stay the night or to foot it out.
Well, I started to walk and on I went and it was coming on
night when I got into the 52.303056 -8.538611Ballyhoura hills that's better than ten 300
miles from 52.399821 -8.575387Kilmallock and there's a long lonely road after that.
You wouldn't see the sign of a christian house along the road or
hear a sound. It was pitch dark almost. Once or twice I stopped
by the way under a bush to redden my pipe and only for the
dew was thick I'd have stretched out there and slept. At last
after a bend of the road I spied a little cottage with a light in
the window. I went up and knocked at the door. A voice asked
who was there and I answered I was over at the match in
Buttevant and was walking back and that I'd be thankful for a
glass of water. After a while a young woman opened the door 310
and brought me out a big mug of milk. She was half undressed
as if she was going to bed when I knocked and she had her hair
hanging: and I thought by her figure and by something in the
look of her eyes that she must be carrying a child. She kept me
in talk a long while at the door and I thought it strange because
her breast and her shoulders were bare. She asked me was I
tired and would I like to stop the night there. She said she was
all alone in the house and that her husband had gone that
morning to 53.273188 -6.092767Queenstown with his sister to see her off. And all
the time she was talking, Stevie, she had her eyes fixed on my 320
face and she stood so close to me I could hear her breathing.
When I handed her back the mug at last she took my hand to
draw me in over the threshold and said: Come in and stay the
night here. You've no call to be frightened. There's no-one in it
but ourselves ........ I didn't go in, Stevie. I thanked her and
went on my way again, all in a fever. At the first bend of the
road I looked back and she was standing in the door.

The last words of Davin's story sang in his memory and the
figure of the woman in the story stood forth reflected in other
figures of the peasant women whom he had seen standing in 330
the doorways at 53.293785 -6.687040Clane as the college cars drove by, as a type of
her race and his own, a batlike soul waking to the conscious-
ness of itself in darkness and secrecy and loneliness and,
through the eyes and voice and gesture of a woman without
guile, calling the stranger to her bed.

A hand was laid on his arm and a young voice cried:

???―Ah, gentleman, your own girl, sir! The first handsel today,
gentleman. Buy that lovely bunch. Will you, gentleman?

The blue flowers which she lifted towards him and her
young blue eyes seemed to him at that instant images of guile- 340
lessness: and he halted till the image had vanished and he saw
only her ragged dress and damp coarse hair and hoydenish
face.>

???―Do, gentleman! Don't forget your own girl, sir!

Stephen Dedalus―I have no money, said Stephen.

???―Buy them lovely ones, will you, sir? Only a penny.

Stephen Dedalus―Did you hear what I said? asked Stephen, bending towards
her. I told you I had no money. I tell you again now.

???―Well, sure, you will some day, sir, please God, the girl
answered after an instant.

350

Stephen Dedalus―Possibly, said Stephen, but I don't think it likely.

He left her quickly, fearing that her intimacy might turn to
gibing and wishing to be out of the way before she offered her
ware to another, a tourist from England or a student of Trinity. 53.342300 -6.259747
Grafton Street, along which he walked prolonged that moment
of discouraged poverty. In the roadway at the head of the street
a slab was set to the memory of Wolfe Tone and he remem-
bered having been present with his father at its laying. He re-
membered with bitterness that scene of tawdry tribute. There
were four French delegates in a brake and one, a plump smiling 360
young man, held, wedged on a stick, a card on which were
printed the words: Vive l'Irlande!

But the trees in 53.338174 -6.259119Stephen's Green were fragrant of rain and
the rainsodden earth gave forth its mortal odour, a faint in-
cense rising upward through the mould from many hearts. The
soul of the gallant venal city which his elders had told him of
had shrunk with time to a faint mortal odour rising from the
earth and he knew that in a moment when he entered the
sombre college he would be conscious of a corruption other
than that of Buck Egan and Burnchapel Whaley.

370

It was too late to go upstairs to the French class. He crossed
the hall and took the corridor to the left which led to the
physics theatre. The corridor was dark and silent but not un-
watchful. Why did he feel that it was not unwatchful? Was it
because he had heard that in Buck Whaley's time there was a
secret staircase there? Or was the jesuit house extraterritorial
and was he walking among aliens? The Irelandof Tone and of
Parnell seemed to have receded in space.

He opened the door of the theatre and halted in the chilly
grey light that struggled through the dusty windows. A figure 380
was crouching before the large grate and by its leanness and
greyness he knew that it was the dean of studies lighting the
fire. Stephen closed the door quietly and approached the fire-
place.

Stephen Dedalus―Good morning, sir! Can I help you?

The priest looked up quickly and said:

???―One moment now, Mr Dedalus, and you will see. There is
an art in lighting a fire. We have the liberal arts and we have
the useful arts. This is one of the useful arts.

Stephen Dedalus―I will try to learn it, said Stephen.

390

???―Not too much coal, said the dean, working briskly at his
task, that is one of the secrets.

He produced four candle butts from the sidepockets of his
soutane and placed them deftly among the coals and twisted
papers. Stephen watched him in silence. Kneeling thus on the
flagstone to kindle the fire and busied with the disposition of
his wisps of paper and candle butts he seemed more than ever a
humble server making ready the place of sacrifice in an empty
temple, a levite of the Lord. Like a levite's robe of plain linen
the faded worn soutane draped the kneeling figure of one 400
whom the canonicals or the bellbordered ephod would irk and
trouble. His very body had waxed old in lowly service of the
Lord – in tending the fire upon the altar, in bearing tidings se-
cretly, in waiting upon worldlings, in striking swiftly when
bidden – and yet had remained ungraced by aught of saintly or
of prelatic beauty. Nay, his very soul had waxed old in that
service without growing towards light and beauty or spreading
abroad a sweet odour of her sanctity – a mortified will no more
responsive to the thrill of its obedience than was to the thrill of
love or combat his aging body, spare and sinewy, greyed with a 410
silverpointed down.

The dean rested back on his hunkers and watched the sticks
catch. Stephen, to fill the silence, said:

Stephen Dedalus―I am sure I could not light a fire.

???―You are an artist, are you not, Mr Dedalus? said the dean,
glancing up and blinking his pale eyes. The object of the artist
is the creation of the beautiful. What the beautiful is is another
question.

He rubbed his hands slowly and drily over the difficulty.

???―Can you solve that question now? he asked.

420

Stephen Dedalus―Aquinas, answered Stephen, says Pulcra sunt quae visa
placent.

???―This fire before us, said the dean, will be pleasing to the eye.
Will it therefore be beautiful?

Stephen Dedalus―In so far as it is apprehended by the sight, which I suppose
means here esthetic intellection, it will be beautiful. But Aqui-
nas also says Bonum est in quod tendit appetitus. In so far as it
satisfies the animal craving for warmth fire is a good. In hell
however it is an evil.

???―Quite so, said the dean, you have certainly hit the nail on the 430
head.

He rose nimbly and went towards the door, set it ajar and
said:

???―A draught is said to be a help in these matters.

As he came back to the hearth, limping slightly but with a
brisk step, Stephen saw the silent soul of a jesuit look out at
him from the pale loveless eyes. Like Ignatius he was lame but
in his eyes burned no spark of Ignatius' enthusiasm. Even the
legendary craft of the company, a craft subtler and more secret
than its fabled books of secret subtle wisdom, had not fired his 440
soul with the energy of apostleship. It seemed as if he used the
shifts and lore and cunning of the world, as bidden to do, for
the greater glory of God, without joy in their handling or
hatred of that in them which was evil but turning them, with a
firm gesture of obedience, back upon themselves: and for all
this silent service it seemed as if he loved not at all the master
and little, if at all, the ends he served. Similiter atque senis
baculus, he was, as the founder would have had him, like a
staff in an old man's hand, to be left in a corner, to be leaned
on in the road at nightfall or in stress of weather, to lie with a 450
lady's nosegay on a garden seat, to be raised in menace.

The dean returned to the hearth and began to stroke his
chin.

the dean―When may we expect to have something from you on the
esthetic question?

he asked.

Stephen Dedalus―From me! said Stephen in astonishment. I stumble on an idea
once a fortnight if I am lucky.

the dean―These questions are very profound, Mr Dedalus,

said the
dean.

the deanIt is like looking down from the 53.545240 -7.943510cliffs of Moher into the
depths. Many go down into the depths and never come up. 460
Only the trained diver can go down into those depths and
explore them and come to the surface again.

Stephen Dedalus―If you mean speculation, sir, said Stephen, I also am sure
that there is no such thing as free thinking inasmuch as all
thinking must be bound by its own laws.

the dean―Ha!

Stephen Dedalus―For my purpose I can work on at present by the light of one
or two ideas of Aristotle and Aquinas.

the dean―I see. I quite see your point.

Stephen Dedalus―I need them only for my own use and guidance until I have 470
done something for myself by their light. If the lamp smokes or
smells I shall try to trim it. If it does not give light enough I
shall sell it and buy or borrow another.

the dean―Epictetus also had a lamp,

said the dean,

the deanwhich was sold for
a fancy price after his death. It was the lamp he wrote his
philosophical dissertations by. You know Epictetus?

Stephen Dedalus―An old gentleman,

said Stephen coarsely,

Stephen Dedaluswho said that the
soul is very like a bucketful of water.

the dean―He tells us in his homely way,

the dean went on,

the deanthat he put
an iron lamp before a statue of one of the gods and that a thief 480
stole the lamp. What did the philosopher do? He reflected that
it was in the character of a thief to steal and determined to buy
an earthen lamp next day instead of the iron lamp.

A smell of molten tallow came up from the dean's candle
butts and fused itself in Stephen's consciousness with the jingle
of the words, bucket and lamp and lamp and bucket. The
priest's voice too had a hard jingling tone. Stephen's mind
halted by instinct, checked by the strange tone and the imagery
and by the priest's face which seemed like an unlit lamp or a
reflector hung in a false focus. What lay behind it or within it? 490
A dull torpor of the soul or the dullness of the thundercloud,
charged with intellection and capable of the gloom of God?

Stephen Dedalus―I meant a different kind of lamp, sir,

said Stephen.

the dean―Undoubtedly,

said the dean.

Stephen Dedalus―One difficulty,

said Stephen,

Stephen Dedalusin esthetic discussion is to
know whether words are being used according to the literary
tradition or according to the tradition of the marketplace. I
remember a sentence of Newman's in which he says of the
Blessed Virgin that she was detained in the full company of the
saints. The use of the word in the marketplace is quite differ- 500
ent. I hope I am not detaining you.

the dean―Not in the least,

said the dean politely.

Stephen Dedalus―No, no,

said Stephen smiling,

Stephen DedalusI mean ....

the dean―Yes, yes: I see,

said the dean quickly,

the deanI quite catch the point:
detain.

He thrust forward his under jaw and uttered a dry short
cough.

the deanTo return to the lamp,

he said,

the deanthe feeding of it is also a nice
problem. You must choose the pure oil and you must be careful
when you pour it in not to overflow it, not to pour in more 510
than the funnel can hold.

Stephen Dedalus―What funnel?

asked Stephen.

the deanThe funnel through which you pour the oil into your lamp.

Stephen Dedalus―That?

said Stephen.

Stephen DedalusIs that called a funnel? Is it not a tun-
dish?

the dean―What is a tundish?

Stephen Dedalus―That. The ... the funnel.

the dean―Is that called a tundish in Ireland?

asked the dean.

the deanI never
heard the word in my life.

Stephen Dedalus―It is called a tundish in 53.364757 -6.256734Lower Drumcondra, said Stephen 520
laughing, where they speak the best English.

the dean―A tundish!

said the dean reflectively.

the deanThat is a most interest-
ing word. I must look that word up. Upon my word I must.

His courtesy of manner rang a little false and Stephen looked
at the English convert with the same eyes as the elder brother in
the parable may have turned on the prodigal. A humble fol-
lower in the wake of clamorous conversions, a poor English-
man in Ireland, he seemed to have entered on the stage of jesuit
history when that strange play of intrigue and suffering and
envy and struggle and indignity had been all but given through 530
– a latecomer, a tardy spirit. From what had he set out? Per-
haps he had been born and bred among serious dissenters,
seeing salvation in Jesus only and abhorring the vain pomps of
the establishment. Had he felt the need of an implicit faith
amid the welter of sectarianism and the jargon of its turbulent
schisms, six principle men, peculiar people, seed and snake
baptists, supralapsarian dogmatists? Had he found the true
church all of a sudden in winding up to the end like a reel of
cotton some finespun line of reasoning upon insufflation or the
imposition of hands or the procession of the Holy Ghost? Or 540
had Lord Christ touched him and bidden him follow, like that
disciple who had sat at the receipt of custom, as he sat by the
door of some zincroofed chapel, yawning and telling over his
church pence?

The dean repeated the word yet again.

the dean―Tundish! Well now, that is interesting!

Stephen Dedalus―The question you asked me a moment ago seems to me more
interesting. What is that beauty which the artist struggles to
express from lumps of earth,

said Stephen coldly.

The little word seemed to have turned a rapier point of his 550
sensitiveness against this courteous and vigilant foe. He felt
with a smart of dejection that the man to whom he was speak-
ing was a countryman of Ben Jonson. He thought:

Stephen Dedalus―The language in which we are speaking is his before it is
mine. How different are the words home, Christ, ale, master on
his lips and on mine! I cannot speak or write these words with-
out unrest of spirit. His language, so familiar and so foreign,
will always be for me an acquired speech. I have not made or
accepted its words. My voice holds them at bay. My soul frets
in the shadow of his language.

560

the dean―And to distinguish between the beautiful and the sublime,
the dean added. To distinguish between moral beauty and ma-
terial beauty. And to inquire what kind of beauty is proper to
each of the various arts. These are some interesting points we
might take up.

Stephen, disheartened suddenly by the dean's firm dry tone,
was silent. The dean also was silent: and through the silence a
distant noise of many boots and confused voices came up the
staircase.

the dean―In pursuing these speculations,

said the dean conclusively, 570

the deanthere is however the danger of perishing of inanition. First you
must take your degree. Set that before you as your first aim.
Then, little by little, you will see your way. I mean in every
sense, your way in life and in thinking. It may be uphill pedal-
ling at first. Take Mr Moonan. He was a long time before he
got to the top. But he got there.

Stephen Dedalus―I may not have his talent,

said Stephen quietly.

the dean―You never know,

said the dean brightly.

the deanWe never can say
what is in us. I most certainly should not be despondent. Per
aspera ad astra.

580

He left the hearth quickly and went towards the landing to
oversee the arrival of the first arts' class.

Leaning against the fireplace Stephen heard him greet briskly
and impartially every student of the class and could almost see
the frank smiles of the coarser students. A desolating pity be-
gan to fall like a dew upon his easily embittered heart for this
faithful servingman of the knightly Loyola, for this halfbrother
of the clergy, more venal than they in speech, more steadfast of
soul than they, one whom he would never call his ghostly fa-
ther: and he thought how this man and his companions had 590
earned the name of worldlings at the hands not of the un-
worldly only but of the worldly also for having pleaded, during
all their history, at the bar of God's justice for the souls of the
lax and the lukewarm and the prudent.

The entry of the professor was signalled by a few rounds of 51.278708 0.521725
Kentish fire from the heavy boots of those students who sat on
the highest tier of the gloomy theatre under the grey cob-
webbed windows. The calling of the roll began and the re-
sponses to the names were given out in all tones until the name
of Peter Byrne was reached. 600

???―Here!

A deep bass note in response came from the upper tier,
followed by coughs of protest along the other benches.

The professor paused in his reading and called the next
name:

???―Cranly!

No answer.

???―Mr Cranly!

A smile flew across Stephen's face as he thought of his
friend's studies. 610

???―Try 53.267776 -6.198408Leopardstown! said a voice from the bench behind.

Stephen glanced up quickly but Moynihan's snoutish face
outlined on the grey light was impassive. A formula was given
out. Amid the rustling of the notebooks Stephen turned back
again and said:

Stephen Dedalus―Give me some paper for God' sake.

???―Are you as bad as that? asked Moynihan with a broad grin.

He tore a sheet from his scribbler and passed it down, whis-
pering:

???―In case of necessity any layman or woman can do it.

620

The formula which he wrote obediently on the sheet of
paper, the coiling and uncoiling calculations of the professor,
the spectrelike symbols of force and velocity fascinated and
jaded Stephen's mind. He had heard some say that the old
professor was an atheist freemason. O the grey dull day! It
seemed a limbo of painless patient consciousness through
which souls of mathematicians might wander, projecting long
slender fabrics from plane to plane of ever rarer and paler
twilight, radiating swift eddies to the last verges of a universe
ever vaster, farther and more impalpable. 630

???―So we must distinguish between elliptical and ellipsoidal.
Perhaps some of you gentlemen may be familiar with the works
of Mr W. S. Gilbert. In one of his songs he speaks of the
billiard sharp who is condemned to play:

song
On a cloth untrue
With a twisted cue
And elliptical billiard balls.

He means a ball having the form of the ellipsoid of the princi-
pal axes of which I spoke a moment ago.

Moynihan leaned down towards Stephen's ear and mur- 640
mured:

Moynihan―What price ellipsoidal balls! Chase me, ladies, I'm in the
cavalry!

His fellowstudent's rude humour ran like a gust through the
cloister of Stephen's mind, shaking into gay life limp priestly
vestments that hung upon the walls, setting them to sway and
caper in a sabbath of misrule. The forms of the community
emerged from the gustblown vestments, the dean of studies,
the portly florid bursar with his cap of grey hair, the president,
the little priest with feathery hair who wrote devout verses, the 650
squat peasant form of the professor of economics, the tall form
of the young professor of mental science discussing on the
landing a case of conscience with his class like a giraffe crop-
ping high leafage among a herd of antelopes, the grave troubled
prefect of the sodality, the plump roundheaded professor of
Italian with his rogue's eyes. They came ambling and stum-
bling, tumbling and capering, kilting their gowns for leap frog,
holding one another back, shaken with deep false laughter,
smacking one another behind and laughing at their rude mal-
ice, calling to one another by familiar nicknames, protesting 660
with sudden dignity at some rough usage, whispering two and
two behind their hands.

The professor had gone to the glass cases on the sidewall
from a shelf of which he took down a set of coils, blew away
the dust from many points and, bearing it carefully to the table,
held a finger on it while he proceeded with his lecture. He
explained that the wires in modern coils were of a compound
called platinoid lately discovered by F. W. Martino.

He spoke clearly the initials and surname of the discoverer.
Moynihan whispered from behind: 670

Moynihan―Good old Fresh Water Martin!

Stephen Dedalus―Ask him, Stephen whispered back with weary humour, if he
wants a subject for electrocution. He can have me.

Moynihan, seeing the professor bend over the coils, rose in
his bench and, clacking noiselessly the fingers of his right hand,
began to call with the voice of a slobbering urchin:

Moynihan―Please, teacher! Please, teacher! This boy is after saying a
bad word, teacher.

the professor―Platinoid,

the professor said solemnly,

the professoris preferred to Ger-
man silver because it has a lower coefficient of resistance 680
variation by changes of temperature. The platinoid wire is in-
sulated and the covering of silk that insulates it is wound
double on the ebonite bobbins just where my finger is. If it
were wound single an extra current would be induced in the
coils. The bobbins are saturated in hot paraffinwax ...

A sharp 54.407332 -7.024250Ulster voice said from the bench below Stephen:

???―Are we likely to be asked questions on applied science?

The professor began to juggle gravely with the terms pure
science and applied science. A heavybuilt student wearing gold
spectacles stared with some wonder at the questioner. Moyni- 690
han murmured from behind in his natural voice:

MoynihanIsn't MacAlister a devil for his pound of flesh?

Stephen looked down coldly on the oblong skull beneath
him overgrown with tangled twinecoloured hair. The voice, the
accent, the mind of the questioner offended him and he allowed
the offence to carry him towards wilful unkindness, bidding his
mind think that the student's father would have done better
had he sent his son to 54.597285 -5.930120Belfast to study and have saved some-
thing on the trainfare by so doing.

The oblong skull beneath did not turn to meet this shaft of 700
thought and yet the shaft came back to its bowstring: for he
saw in a moment the student's wheypale face.

Stephen Dedalus―That thought is not mine,

he said to himself quickly.

Stephen DedalusIt came
from the comic Irishman in the bench behind. Patience. Can
you say with certitude by whom the soul of your race was
bartered and its elect betrayed – by the questioner or by the
mocker? Patience. Remember Epictetus. It is probably in his
character to ask such a question at such a moment in such a
tone and to pronounce the word science as a monosyllable.

The droning voice of the professor continued to wind itself 710
slowly round and round the coils it spoke of, doubling,
trebling, quadrupling its somnolent energy as the coil multi-
plied its ohms of resistance.

Moynihan's voice called from behind in echo to a distant
bell:

Moynihan―Closing time, gents!

The entrance hall was crowded and loud with talk. On a
table near the door were two photographs in frames and be-
tween them a long roll of paper bearing an irregular tail of
signatures. MacCann went briskly to and fro among the stu- 720
dents, talking rapidly, answering rebuffs and leading one after
another to the table. In the inner hall the dean of studies stood
talking to a young professor, stroking his chin gravely and nod-
ding his head.

Stephen, checked by the crowd at the door, halted irresol-
utely. From under the wide falling leaf of a soft hat Cranly's
dark eyes were watching him.

Stephen Dedalus―Have you signed?

Stephen asked.

Cranly closed his long thinlipped mouth, communed with
himself an instant and answered: 730

Cranly―Ego habeo.

Stephen Dedalus―What is it for?

Cranly―Quod?

Stephen Dedalus―What is it for?

Cranly turned his pale face to Stephen and said blandly and
bitterly:

Cranly―Per pax universalis.

Stephen pointed to the Czar's photograph and said:

Stephen Dedalus―He has the face of a besotted Christ.

The scorn and anger in his voice brought Cranly's eyes back 740
from a calm survey of the walls of the hall.

Cranly―Are you annoyed? he asked.

Stephen Dedalus―No, answered Stephen.

Cranly―Are you in bad humour?

Stephen Dedalus―No.

Cranly―Credo ut vos sanguinarius mendax estis

, said Cranly,

Cranlyquia
facies vostra monstrat ut vos in damno malo humore estis.

Moynihan, on his way to the table, said in Stephen's ear:

Moynihan―MacCann is in tiptop form. Ready to shed the last drop.
Brandnew world. No stimulants and votes for the bitches.

750

Stephen smiled at the manner of this confidence and, when
Moynihan had passed, turned again to meet Cranly's eyes.

???―Perhaps you can tell me,

he said,

???why he pours his soul so
freely into my ear. Can you?

A dull scowl appeared on Cranly's forehead. He stared at
the table where Moynihan had bent to write his name on the
roll, and then said flatly:

Cranly―A sugar!

Stephen Dedalus">―Quis est in malo humore,

said Stephen,

Stephen Dedalusego aut vos?

Cranly did not take up the taunt. He brooded sourly on his 760
judgment and repeated with the same flat force:

Cranly―A flaming bloody sugar, that's what he is!

It was his epitaph for all dead friendships and Stephen won-
dered whether it would ever be spoken in the same tone over
his memory. The heavy lumpish phrase sank slowly out of
hearing like a stone through a quagmire. Stephen saw it sink as
he had seen many an other, feeling its heaviness depress his
heart. Cranly's speech, unlike that of Davin, had neither rare
phrases of Elizabethan English nor quaintly turned versions of
Irish idioms. Its drawl was an echo of the quays of Dublin 770
given back by a bleak decaying seaport, its energy an echo of
the sacred eloquence of Dublin given back flatly by a 52.979861 -6.048263Wicklow
pulpit.

The heavy scowl faded from Cranly's face as MacCann
marched briskly towards them from the other side of the hall.

???―Here you are! said MacCann cheerily.

Stephen Dedalus―Here I am! said Stephen.

???―Late as usual. Can you not combine the progressive tendency
with a respect for punctuality?

Stephen Dedalus―That question is out of order, said Stephen. Next business.

780

His smiling eyes were fixed on a silverwrapped tablet of milk
chocolate which peeped out of the propagandist's breastpocket.
A little ring of listeners closed round to hear the war of wits. A
lean student with olive skin and lank black hair thrust his face
between the two, glancing from one to the other at each phrase
and seeming to try to catch each flying phrase in his open moist
mouth. Cranly took a small grey handball from his pocket and
began to examine it closely, turning it over and over.

???―Next business? said MacCann. Hom!

He gave a loud cough of laughter, smiled broadly and 790
tugged twice at the strawcoloured goatee which hung from his
blunt chin.

???―The next business is to sign the testimonial.

Stephen Dedalus―Will you pay me anything if I sign? asked Stephen.

???―I thought you were an idealist, said MacCann.

The gipsylike student looked about him and addressed the
onlookers in an indistinct bleating voice.

???―By hell, that's a queer notion. I consider that notion to be a
mercenary notion.

His voice faded into silence. No heed was paid to his words. 800
He turned his olive face, equine in expression, towards Ste-
phen, inviting him to speak again.

MacCann began to speak with fluent energy of the Czar's
rescript, of Stead, of general disarmament, arbitration in cases
of international disputes, of the signs of the times, of the new
humanity and the new gospel of life which would make it the
business of the community to secure as cheaply as possible the
greatest possible happiness of the greatest possible number.

The gipsy student responded to the close of the period by
crying: 810

???―Three cheers for universal brotherhood!

???―Go on, Temple, said a stout ruddy student near him. I'll
stand you a pint after.

Temple―I'm a believer in universal brotherhood, said Temple,
glancing about him out of his dark oval eyes. Marx is only a
bloody cod.

Cranly gripped his arm tightly to check his tongue, smiling
uneasily, and repeated:

???―Easy, easy, easy!

Temple struggled to free his arm but continued, his mouth 820
flecked by a thin foam:

???―Socialism was founded by an Irishman and the first man in
Europe who preached the freedom of thought was Collins. Two
hundred years ago. He denounced priestcraft. The philosopher
of 51.520987 -0.415985Middlesex. Three cheers for John Anthony Collins!

A thin voice from the verge of the ring replied:

???―Pip! pip!

Moynihan murmured beside Stephen's ear:

???―And what about John Anthony's poor little sister:

Lottie Collins lost her drawers; 830
Won't you kindly lend her yours?

Stephen laughed and Moynihan, pleased with the result,
murmured again:

???―We'll have five bob each way on John Anthony Collins.

???―I am waiting for your answer, said MacCann briefly.

Stephen Dedalus―The affair doesn't interest me in the least, said Stephen
wearily. You knew that well. Why do you make a scene about
it?

???―Good! said MacCann, smacking his lips. You are a reaction-
ary then?

840

Stephen Dedalus―Do you think you impress me, Stephen asked, when you
flourish your wooden sword?

???―Metaphors! said MacCann bluntly. Come to facts.

Stephen blushed and turned aside. MacCann stood his
ground and said with hostile humour:

???―Minor poets, I suppose, are above such trivial questions as
the question of universal peace.

Cranly raised his head and held the handball between the
two students by way of a peaceoffering, saying:

???―Pax super totum sanguinarium globum.

850

Stephen, moving away the bystanders, jerked his shoulder
angrily in the direction of the Czar's image, saying:

Stephen Dedalus―Keep your icon. If we must have a Jesus let us have a legit-
imate Jesus.

???―By hell, that's a good one! said the gipsy student to those
about him. That's a fine expression. I like that expression
immensely.

He gulped down the spittle in his throat as if he were gulp-
ing down the phrase and, fumbling at the peak of his tweed
cap, turned to Stephen, saying: 860

???―Excuse me, sir, what do you mean by that expression you
uttered just now?

Feeling himself jostled by the students near him, he said to
them:

???―I am curious to know now what he meant by that ex-
pression.

He turned again to Stephen and said in a whisper:

???―Do you believe in Jesus? I believe in man. Of course, I don't
know if you believe in man. I admire you, sir. I admire the
mind of man independent of all religions. Is that your opinion 870
about the mind of Jesus?

???―Go on, Temple, said the stout ruddy student returning, as
was his wont, to his first idea, that pint is waiting for you.

???―He thinks I'm an imbecile, Temple explained to Stephen,
because I'm a believer in the power of mind.

Cranly linked his arms into those of Stephen and his admirer
and said:

???―Nos ad manum ballum jocabimus.

Stephen, in the act of being led away, caught sight of
MacCann's flushed bluntfeatured face. 880

Stephen Dedalus―My signature is of no account,

he said politely.

Stephen DedalusYou are right
to go your way. Leave me to go mine.

MacCann―Dedalus,

said MacCann crisply,

MacCannI believe you're a good fel-
low but you have yet to learn the dignity of altruism and the
responsibility of the human individual.

A voice said:

MacAlister―Intellectual crankery is better out of this movement than in
it.

Stephen, recognising the harsh tone of MacAlister's voice,
did not turn in the direction of the voice. Cranly pushed sol- 890
emnly through the throng of students, linking Stephen and
Temple like a celebrant attended by his ministers on his way to
the altar.

Temple bent eagerly across Cranly's breast and said:

???―Did you hear MacAlister what he said? That youth is jealous
of you. Did you see that? I bet Cranly didn't see that. By hell, I
saw that at once.

As they crossed the inner hall the dean of studies was in the
act of escaping from the student with whom he had been con-
versing. He stood at the foot of the staircase, a foot on the 900
lowest step, his threadbare soutane gathered about him for
the ascent with womanish care, nodding his head often and
repeating:

???―Not a doubt of it, Mr Hackett! Very true! Not a doubt of it!

In the middle of the hall the prefect of the college sodality
was speaking earnestly, in a soft querulous voice, with a
boarder. As he spoke he wrinkled a little his freckled brow and
bit, between his phrases, at a tiny bone pencil.

???―I hope the matric men will all come. The first arts men are
pretty sure. Second arts too. We must make sure of the new- 910
comers.

Temple bent again across Cranly, as they were passing
through the doorway, and said in a swift whisper:

???―Do you know that he is a married man? He was a married
man before they converted him. He has a wife and children
somewhere. By hell, I think that's the queerest notion I ever
heard! Eh?

His whisper trailed off into sly cackling laughter. The mo-
ment they were through the doorway Cranly seized him rudely
by the neck and shook him, saying: 920

???―You flaming floundering fool! I'll take my dying bible there
isn't a bigger bloody ape, do you know, than you in the whole
flaming bloody world!

Temple wriggled in his grip, laughing still with sly content,
while Cranly repeated flatly at every rude shake:

???―A flaming flaring bloody idiot!

They crossed the weedy garden together. The president,
wrapped in a heavy loose cloak, was coming towards them
along one of the walks, reading his office. At the end of the
walk he halted before turning and raised his eyes. The students 930
saluted, Temple fumbling as before at the peak of his cap. They
walked forward in silence. As they neared the alley Stephen
could hear the thuds of the players' hands and the wet smacks
of the ball and Davin's voice crying out excitedly at each
stroke.

The three students halted round the box on which Davin sat
to follow the game. Temple, after a few moments, sidled across
to Stephen and said:

???―Excuse me, I wanted to ask you do you believe that Jean
Jacques Rousseau was a sincere man?

940

Stephen laughed outright. Cranly, picking up the broken
stave of a cask from the grass at his foot, turned swiftly and
said sternly:

???―Temple, I declare to the living God if you say another word,
do you know, to anybody on any subject I'll kill you super
spottum.

Stephen Dedalus―He was like you, I fancy,

said Stephen,

Stephen Dedalusan emotional man.

Cranly―Blast him, curse him!

said Cranly broadly.

CranlyDon't talk to him
at all. Sure you might as well be talking, do you know, to a
flaming chamberpot as talking to Temple. Go home, Temple. 950
For God' sake go home.

???―I don't care a damn about you, Cranly, answered Temple,
moving out of reach of the uplifted stave and pointing at Ste-
phen. He's the only man I see in this institution that has an
individual mind.

???―Institution! Individual! cried Cranly. Go home, blast you, for
you're a hopeless bloody man.

Temple―I'm an emotional man, said Temple. That's quite rightly
expressed. And I'm proud that I'm an emotionalist.

He sidled out of the alley, smiling slily. Cranly watched him 960
with a blank expressionless face.

???―Look at him!

he said.

???Did you ever see such a go-by-the-
wall?

His phrase was greeted by a strange laugh from a student
who lounged against the wall, his peaked cap down on his eyes.
The laugh, pitched in a high key and coming from a so muscu-
lar frame, seemed like the whinny of an elephant. The student's
body shook all over and, to ease his mirth, he rubbed both his
hands delightedly over his groins.

Cranly―Lynch is awake,

said Cranly.

970

Lynch, for answer, straightened himself and thrust forward
his chest.

Stephen Dedalus―Lynch puts out his chest, said Stephen, as a criticism of life.

Lynch smote himself sonorously on the chest and said:

Lynch―Who has anything to say about my girth?

Cranly took him at the word and the two began to tussle.
When their faces had flushed with the struggle they drew apart,
panting. Stephen bent down towards Davin who, intent on the
game, had paid no heed to the talk of the others.

Stephen Dedalus―And how is my little tame goose? he asked. Did he sign too?

980

Davin nodded and said:

Davin―And you, Stevie?

Stephen shook his head.

Davin―You're a terrible man, Stevie,

said Davin,

Davintaking the short
pipe from his mouth. Always alone.

Stephen Dedalus―Now that you have signed the petition for universal peace,

said Stephen,

Stephen DedalusI suppose you will burn that little copybook I saw
in your room.

As Davin did not answer Stephen began to quote:

Stephen Dedalus―Long pace, fianna! Right incline, fianna! Fianna, by num- 990
bers, salute, one, two!

Davin―That's a different question,

said Davin.

DavinI'm an Irish nation-
alist, first and foremost. But that's you all out. You're a born
sneerer, Stevie.

Stephen Dedalus―When you make the next rebellion with hurleysticks,

said
Stephen,

Stephen Dedalusand want the indispensable informer, tell me. I can
find you a few in this college.

Davin―I can't understand you,

said Davin.

DavinOne time I hear you talk
against English literature. Now you talk against the Irish in-
formers. What with your name and your ideas .... Are you Irish 1000
at all?

Stephen Dedalus―Come with me now to the office of arms and I will show you
the tree of my family, said Stephen.

Davin―Then be one of us, said Davin. Why don't you learn Irish?
Why did you drop out of the league class after the first lesson?

Stephen Dedalus―You know one reason why, answered Stephen.

Davin tossed his head and laughed.

Davin―O, come now,

he said.

???Is it on account of that certain young
lady and Father Moran? But that's all in your own mind,
Stevie. They were only talking and laughing.

1010

Stephen paused and laid a friendly hand upon Davin's
shoulder.

Stephen Dedalus―Do you remember,

he said,

Stephen Dedaluswhen we knew each other first.
The first morning we met you asked me to show you the
way to the matriculation class, putting a very strong stress on
the first syllable. You remember? Then you used to address the
jesuits as father, you remember? I ask myself about you: Is
he as innocent as his speech?

Davin―I'm a simple person, said Davin. You know that. When you
told me that night in Harcourt Street those things about your 1020
private life, honest to God, Stevie, I was not able to eat my
dinner. I was quite bad. I was awake a long time that night.
Why did you tell me those things?

Stephen Dedalus―Thanks, said Stephen. You mean I am a monster.

Davin―No, said Davin, but I wish you had not told me.

A tide began to surge beneath the calm surface of Stephen's
friendliness.

Stephen Dedalus―This race and this country and this life produced me, he
said. I shall express myself as I am.

Davin―Try to be one of us, repeated Davin. In your heart you are an 1030
Irishman but your pride is too powerful.

Stephen Dedalus―My ancestors threw off their language and took on another,
Stephen said. They allowed a handful of foreigners to subject
them. Do you fancy I am going to pay in my own life and
person debts they made? What for?

Davin―For our freedom,

said Davin.

Stephen Dedalus―No honourable and sincere man,

said Stephen,

Stephen Dedalushas given up
to you his life and his youth and his affections from the days of
Tone to those of Parnell but you sold him to the enemy or
failed him in need or reviled him and left him for another. And 1040
you invite me to be one of you. I'd see you damned first.

Davin―They died for their ideals, Stevie,

said Davin.

DavinOur day will
come yet, believe me.

Stephen, following his own thought, was silent for an in-
stant.

Stephen Dedalus―The soul is born,

he said vaguely,

Stephen Dedalusfirst in those moments I
told you of. It has a slow and dark birth, more mysterious than
the birth of the body. When the soul of a man is born in this
country there are nets flung at it to hold it back from flight.
You talk to me of nationality, language, religion. I shall try to
fly by those nets.1050

Davin knocked the ashes from his pipe.

Davin―Too deep for me, Stevie,

he said.

DavinBut a man's country comes
first. Ireland first, Stevie. You can be a poet or a mystic after.

Stephen Dedalus―Do you know what Ireland is? asked Stephen with cold
violence. Ireland is the old sow that eats her farrow.

Davin rose from his box and went towards the players,
shaking his head sadly. But in a moment his sadness left him
and he was hotly disputing with Cranly and the two players
who had finished their game. A match of four was arranged, 1060
Cranly insisting, however, that his ball should be used. He let it
rebound twice or thrice to his hand and then struck it strongly
and swiftly towards the base of the alley, exclaiming in answer
to its thud:

Cranly―Your soul!

Stephen stood with Lynch till the score began to rise. Then
he plucked him by the sleeve to come away. Lynch obeyed,
saying:

Lynch―Let us eke go, as Cranly has it.

Stephen smiled at this sidethrust. They passed back through 1070
the garden and out through the hall where the doddering porter
was pinning up a notice in the frame. At the foot of the steps
they halted and Stephen took a packet of cigarettes from his
pocket and offered it to his companion.

Stephen Dedalus―I know you are poor, he said.

Lynch―Damn your yellow insolence,

answered Lynch.

This second proof of Lynch's culture made Stephen smile
again.

Stephen Dedalus―It was a great day for European culture,

he said,

Stephen Dedaluswhen you
made up your mind to swear in yellow.

1080

They lit their cigarettes and turned to the right. After a
pause Stephen began:

Stephen Dedalus―Aristotle has not defined pity and terror. I have. I say ...

Lynch halted and said bluntly:

Lynch―Stop! I won't listen! I am sick. I was out last night on a
yellow drunk with Horan and Goggins.

Stephen went on:

Stephen Dedalus―Pity is the feeling which arrests the mind in the presence of
whatsoever is grave and constant in human sufferings and
unites it with the human sufferer. Terror is the feeling which 1090
arrests the mind in the presence of whatsoever is grave and
constant in human sufferings and unites it with the secret
cause.

Lynch―Repeat, said Lynch.

Stephen repeated the definitions slowly.

Stephen Dedalus―A girl got into a hansom a few days ago, he went on, in 51.507351 -0.127758
London. She was on her way to meet her mother whom she
had not seen for many years. At the corner of a street the shaft
of a lorry shivered the window of the hansom in the shape of a
star. A long fine needle of the shivered glass pierced her heart. 1100
She died on the instant. The reporter called it a tragic death. It
is not. It is remote from terror and pity according to the terms
of my definitions.

Stephen DedalusThe tragic emotion, in fact, is a face looking two ways,
towards terror and towards pity, both of which are phases of
it. You see I use the word arrest. I mean that the tragic emotion
is static. Or rather the dramatic emotion is. The feelings ex-
cited by improper art are kinetic, desire or loathing. Desire
urges us to possess, to go to something, loathing urges us to
abandon, to go from something. These are kinetic emotions. 1110
The arts which excite them, pornographical or didactic, are
therefore improper arts. The esthetic emotion (I use the general
term) is therefore static. The mind is arrested and raised above
desire and loathing.

Lynch―You say that art must not excite desire, said Lynch. I told
you that one day I wrote my name in pencil on the backside of
the Venus of Praxiteles in the 53.339706 -6.252188Museum. Was that not desire?

Stephen Dedalus―I speak of normal natures,

said Stephen.

Stephen DedalusYou also told me
that when you were a boy in that charming carmelite school
you ate pieces of dried cowdung.

1120

Lynch broke again into a whinny of laughter and again
rubbed both his hands over his groins but without taking them
from his pockets.

Lynch―O I did! I did!

he cried.

Stephen turned towards his companion and looked at him
for a moment boldly in the eyes. Lynch, recovering from his
laughter, answered his look from his humbled eyes. The long
slender flattened skull beneath the long pointed cap brought
before Stephen's mind the image of a hooded reptile. The eyes,
too, were reptilelike in glint and gaze. Yet at that instant, 1130
humbled and alert in their look, they were lit by one tiny
human point, the window of a shrivelled soul, poignant and
selfembittered.

Stephen―As for that,

Stephen said in polite parenthesis,

Stephenwe are all
animals. I also am an animal.

LynchYou are,

said Lynch.

Stephen Dedalus―But we are just now in a mental world,

Stephen continued.

Stephen DedalusThe desire and loathing excited by improper esthetic means are
really not esthetic emotions not only because they are kinetic
in character but also because they are not more than physical. 1140
Our flesh shrinks from what it dreads and responds to the
stimulus of what it desires by a purely reflex action of the nerv-
ous system. Our eyelid closes before we are aware that the fly is
about to enter our eye.

Lynch―Not always,

said Lynch critically.

Stephen Dedalus―In the same way,

said Stephen,

Stephen Dedalusyour flesh responded to the
stimulus of a naked statue but it was, I say, simply a reflex
action of the nerves. Beauty expressed by the artist cannot
awaken in us an emotion which is kinetic or a sensation which
is purely physical. It awakens, or ought to awaken, or induces, 1150
or ought to induce, an esthetic stasis, an ideal pity or an ideal
terror, a stasis called forth, prolonged and at last dissolved by
what I call the rhythm of beauty.

Lynch―What is that exactly?

asked Lynch.

Stephen Dedalus―Rhythm, said Stephen, is the first formal esthetic relation of
part to part in any esthetic whole or of an esthetic whole to its
part or parts or of any part to the esthetic whole of which it is a
part.

Lynch―If that is rhythm,

said Lynch,

Lynchlet me hear what you call
beauty: and, please remember, though I did eat a cake of cow- 1160
dung once, that I admire only beauty.

Stephen raised his cap as if in greeting. Then, blushing
slightly, he laid his hand on Lynch's thick tweed sleeve.

Stephen Dedalus―We are right,

he said,

Stephen Dedalusand the others are wrong. To speak of
these things and to try to understand their nature and, having
understood it, to try slowly and humbly and constantly to
express, to press out again, from the gross earth or what it
brings forth, from sound and shape and colour which are the
prison gates of our soul, an image of the beauty we have come
to understand – that is art.

1170

They had reached the 53.342399 -6.238434canal bridge and, turning from their
course, went on by the trees. A crude grey light, mirrored in the
sluggish water, and a smell of wet branches over their heads
seemed to war against the course of Stephen's thought.

Lynch―But you have not answered my question,

said Lynch.

LynchWhat
is art? What is the beauty it expresses?

Stephen Dedalus―That was the first definition I gave you, you sleepyheaded
wretch,

said Stephen,

Stephen Dedaluswhen I began to try to think out the
matter for myself. Do you remember the night? Cranly lost his
temper and began to talk about Wicklow bacon.

1180

Lynch―I remember,

said Lynch.

LynchHe told us about them flaming fat
devils of pigs.

Stephen Dedalus―Art,

said Stephen,

Stephen Dedalusis the human disposition of sensible or
intelligible matter for an esthetic end. You remember the pigs
and forget that. You are a distressing pair, you and Cranly.

Lynch made a grimace at the raw grey sky and said:

Lynch―If I am to listen to your esthetic philosophy give me at least
another cigarette. I don't care about it. I don't even care about
women. Damn you and damn everything. I want a job of five
hundred a year. You can't get me one.

1190

Stephen handed him the packet of cigarettes. Lynch took the
last one that remained, saying simply:

Lynch―Proceed!

Stephen Dedalus―Aquinas,

said Stephen,

Stephen Dedalussays that is beautiful the apprehen-
sion of which pleases.

Lynch nodded.

Lynch―I remember that,

he said.

LynchPulcra sunt quae visa placent.

Stephen Dedalus―He uses the word visa,

said Stephen,

Stephen Dedalusto cover esthetic appre-
hension of all kinds, whether through sight or hearing or
through any other avenue of apprehension. This word, though 1200
it is vague, is clear enough to keep away good and evil which
excite desire and loathing. It means certainly a stasis and not a
kinesis. How about the true? It produces also a stasis of the
mind. You would not write your name in pencil across the
hypothenuse of a rightangled triangle.

Lynch―No,

said Lynch.

LynchGive me the hypothenuse of the Venus of
Praxiteles.

Stephen Dedalus―Static therefore,

said Stephen.

Stephen DedalusPlato, I believe, said that
beauty is the splendour of truth. I don't think that it has a
meaning but the true and the beautiful are akin. Truth is beheld 1210
by the intellect which is appeased by the most satisfying
relations of the intelligible: beauty is beheld by the imagination
which is appeased by the most satisfying relations of the sen-
sible. The first step in the direction of truth is to understand the
frame and scope of the intellect itself, to comprehend the act
itself of intellection. Aristotle's entire system of philosophy
rests upon his book of psychology and that, I think, rests on his
statement that the same attribute cannot at the same time and
in the same connection belong to and not belong to the same
subject. The first step in the direction of beauty is to under- 1220
stand the frame and scope of the imagination, to comprehend
the act itself of esthetic apprehension. Is that clear?

Lynch―But what is beauty?

asked Lynch impatiently.

LynchOut with an-
other definition. Something we see and like! Is that the best you
and Aquinas can do?

Stephen Dedalus―Let us take woman,

said Stephen.

Lynch―Let us take her!

said Lynch fervently.

Stephen Dedalus―The Greek, the Turk, the Chinese, the Copt, the Hottentot,

said Stephen,

Stephen Dedalusall admire a different type of female beauty. That
seems to be a maze out of which we cannot escape. I see 1230
however two ways out. One is this hypothesis: that every physi-
cal quality admired by men in women is in direct connection
with the manifold functions of women for the propagation of
the species. It may be so. The world, it seems, is drearier than
even you, Lynch, imagined. For my part I dislike that way out.
It leads to eugenics rather than to esthetic. It leads you out of
the maze into a new gaudy lectureroom where MacCann, with
one hand on The Origin of Species and the other hand on the
new testament, tells you that you admired the great flanks of
Venus because you felt that she would bear you burly offspring 1240
and admired her great breasts because you felt that she would
give good milk to her children and yours.

Lynch―Then MacCann is a sulphuryellow liar,

said Lynch energeti-
cally.

Stephen Dedalus―There remains another way out,

said Stephen laughing.

Lynch―To wit?

said Lynch.

Stephen Dedalus―This hypothesis,

Stephen began.

A long dray laden with old iron came round the corner of
53.339029 -6.241523sir Patrick Dun's hospital covering the end of Stephen's speech
with the harsh roar of jangled and rattling metal. Lynch closed 1250
his ears and gave out oath after oath till the dray had passed.
Then he turned on his heel rudely. Stephen turned also and
waited for a few moments till his companion's illhumour had
had its vent.

Stephen Dedalus―This hypothesis,

Stephen repeated,

Stephen Dedalusis the other way out:
that, though the same object may not seem beautiful to all
people, all people who admire a beautiful object find in it
certain relations which satisfy and coincide with the stages
themselves of all esthetic apprehension. These relations of the
sensible, visible to you through one form and to me through 1260
another, must be therefore the necessary qualities of beauty.
Now, we can return to our old friend saint Thomas for another
pennyworth of wisdom.

Lynch laughed.

Lynch―It amuses me vastly,

he said,

???to hear you quoting him time
after time like a jolly round friar. Are you laughing in your
sleeve?

Stephen Dedalus―MacAlister,

answered Stephen,

Stephen Dedaluswould call my esthetic the-
ory applied Aquinas. So far as this side of esthetic philosophy
extends Aquinas will carry me all along the line. When we 1270
come to the phenomenon of artistic conception, artistic gesta-
tion and artistic reproduction I require a new terminology and
a new personal experience.

LynchOf course,

said Lynch.

LynchAfter all Aquinas, in spite of his
intellect, was exactly a good round friar. But you will tell me
about the new personal experience and new terminology some
other day. Hurry up and finish the first part.

Stephen Dedalus―Who knows?

said Stephen smiling.

Stephen DedalusPerhaps Aquinas would
understand me better than you. He was a poet himself. He
wrote a hymn for Maundy Thursday. It begins with the words 1280
Pange lingua gloriosi. They say it is the highest glory of the
hymnal. It is an intricate and soothing hymn. I like it: but there
is no hymn that can be put beside that mournful and majestic
processional song, the Vexilla Regis of Venantius Fortunatus.

Lynch began to sing softly and solemnly in a deep bass
voice:

Lynch

song
Impleta sunt quae concinit
David fideli carmine
Dicendo nationibus
Regnavit a ligno Deus.

Stephen Dedalus―That's great!

he said, well pleased.

Stephen DedalusGreat music!1290

They turned into 53.338573 -6.243389Lower Mount Street. A few steps from the
corner a fat young man, wearing a silk neckcloth, saluted them
and stopped.

Donovan―Did you hear the results of the exams?

he asked.

???Griffin was
plucked. Halpin and O'Flynn are through the home civil.
Moonan got fifth place in the Indian. O'Shaughenessy got four-
teenth. The Irish fellows in Clarke's gave them a feed last night.
They all ate curry.

His pallid bloated face expressed benevolent malice and, as 1300
he had advanced through his tidings of success, his small
fatencircled eyes vanished out of sight and his weak wheezing
voice out of hearing.

In reply to a question of Stephen's his eyes and his voice
came forth again from their lurkingplaces.

Donovan―Yes, MacCullagh and I,

he said.

???He's taking pure mathemat-
ics and I'm taking constitutional history. There are twenty
subjects. I'm taking botany too. You know I'm a member of the
field club.

He drew back from the other two in a stately fashion and 1310
placed a plump woollengloved hand on his breast from which
muttered wheezing laughter at once broke forth.

Stephen Dedalus―Bring us a few turnips and onions the next time you go out
said Stephen drily, to make a stew.

The fat student laughed indulgently and said:

Donovan―We are all highly respectable people in the field club. Last
Saturday we went out to 52.957720 -6.354370Glenmalure, seven of us.

Lynch―With women, Donovan?

said Lynch.

Donovan again laid his hand on his chest and said:

Donovan―Our end is the acquisition of knowledge.

1320

Then he said quickly:

Donovan―I hear you are writing some essay about esthetics.

Stephen made a vague gesture of denial.

???―Goethe and Lessing,

said Donovan,

Donovanhave written a lot on
that subject, the classical school and the romantic school and
all that. The Laocoon interested me very much when I read it.
Of course it is idealistic, German, ultraprofound.

Neither of the others spoke. Donovan took leave of them
urbanely.

Donovan―I must go,

he said softly and benevolently.

DonovanI have a strong
suspicion, amounting almost to a conviction, that my sister 1330
intended to make pancakes today for the dinner of the Don-
ovan family.

Stephen Dedalus―Goodbye,

Stephen said in his wake.

Stephen DedalusDon't forget the turnips
for me and my mate.

Lynch gazed after him, his lip curling in slow scorn till his
face resembled a devil's mask:

Lynch―To think that that yellow pancakeeating excrement can get a
good job, he said at length, and I have to smoke cheap ciga-
rettes!

1340

They turned their faces towards 53.339658 -6.249165Merrion Square and went
on for a little in silence.

Stephen Dedalus―To finish what I was saying about beauty, said Stephen, the
most satisfying relations of the sensible must therefore corre-
spond to the necessary phases of artistic apprehension. Find
these and you find the qualities of universal beauty. Aquinas
says: ad pulcritudinem tria requiruntur, integritas, consonantia,
claritas. I translate it so: Three things are needed for beauty,
wholeness, harmony and radiance. Do these correspond to the
phases of apprehension? Are you following?

1350

Lynch―Of course, I am,

said Lynch.

LynchIf you think I have an excre-
mentitious intelligence run after Donovan and ask him to listen
to you.

Stephen pointed to a basket which a butcher's boy had slung
inverted on his head.

Stephen Dedalus―Look at that basket,

he said.

Lynch―I see it,

said Lynch.

Stephen Dedalus―In order to see that basket,

said Stephen,

Stephen Dedalusyour mind first of
all separates the basket from the rest of the visible universe
which is not the basket. The first phase of apprehension is a 1360
bounding line drawn about the object to be apprehended. An
esthetic image is presented to us either in space or in time.
What is audible is presented in time, what is visible is presented
in space. But temporal or spatial the esthetic image is first
luminously apprehended as selfbounded and selfcontained
upon the immeasurable background of space or time which is
not it. You apprehend it as one thing. You see it as one whole.
You apprehend its wholeness. That is integritas.

Lynch―Bull's eye!

said Lynch laughing.

LynchGo on.

Stephen Dedalus―Then,

said Stephen,

Stephen Dedalusyou pass from point to point, led by its 1370
formal lines; you apprehend it as balanced part against part
within its limits; you feel the rhythm of its structure. In other
words the synthesis of immediate perception is followed by the
analysis of apprehension. Having first felt that it is one thing
you feel now that it is a thing. You apprehend it as complex,
multiple, divisible, separable, made up of its parts, the result of
its parts and their sum, harmonious. That is consonantia.

Lynch―Bull's eye again!

said Lynch wittily.

LynchTell me now what is
claritas and you win the cigar.

Stephen Dedalus―The connotation of the word,

Stephen said,

Stephen Dedalusis rather vague. 1380
Aquinas uses a term which seems to be inexact. It baffled me
for a long time. It would lead you to believe that he had in
mind symbolism or idealism, the supreme quality of beauty
being a light from some other world, the idea of which the
matter is but the shadow, the reality of which it is but the
symbol. I thought he might mean that claritas is the artistic
discovery and representation of the divine purpose in anything
or a force of generalisation which would make the esthetic
image a universal one, make it outshine its proper conditions.
But that is literary talk. I understand it so. When you have 1390
apprehended that basket as one thing and have then analysed it
according to its form and apprehended it as a thing you make
the only synthesis which is logically and esthetically permiss-
ible. You see that it is that thing which it is and no other thing.
The radiance of which he speaks is the scholastic quidditas, the
whatness of a thing. This supreme quality is felt by the artist
when the esthetic image is first conceived in his imagination.
The mind in that mysterious instant Shelley likened beautifully
to a fading coal. The instant wherein that supreme quality of
beauty, the clear radiance of the esthetic image, is apprehended 1400
luminously by the mind which has been arrested by its whole-
ness and fascinated by its harmony is the luminous silent stasis
of esthetic pleasure, a spiritual state very like to that cardiac
condition which the Italian physiologist Luigi Galvani, using a
phrase almost as beautiful as Shelley's, called the enchantment
of the heart.

Stephen paused and, though his companion did not speak,
felt that his words had called up around them a thoughten-
chanted silence.

Stephen Dedalus―What I have said,

he began again,

Stephen Dedalusrefers to beauty in the 1410
wider sense of the word, in the sense which the word has in the
literary tradition. In the marketplace it has another sense.
When we speak of beauty in the second sense of the term our
judgment is influenced in the first place by the art itself and by
the form of that art. The image, it is clear, must be set between
the mind or senses of the artist himself and the mind or senses
of others. If you bear this in memory you will see that art
necessarily divides itself into three forms progressing from one
to the next. These forms are: the lyrical form, the form wherein
the artist presents his image in immediate relation to himself; 1420
the epical form, the form wherein he presents his image in
mediate relation to himself and to others; the dramatic form,
the form wherein he presents his image in immediate relation to
others.

Lynch―That you told me a few nights ago,

said Lynch,

Lynchand we
began the famous discussion.

Stephen Dedalus―I have a book at home,

said Stephen,

Stephen Dedalusin which I have written
down questions which are more amusing than yours were. In
finding the answers to them I found the theory of esthetic
which I am trying to explain. Here are some questions I set 1430
myself: Is a chair finely made tragic or comic? Is the portrait of
Mona Lisa good if I desire to see it? Is the bust of sir Philip
Crampton lyrical, epical or dramatic? Can excrement or a child
or a louse be a work of art? If not, why not?

Lynch―Why not, indeed?

said Lynch laughing.

Stephen DedalusIf a man hacking in fury at a block of wood, Stephen con-
tinued, make there an image >of a cow is that image a work of
>art? If not, why not?

Lynch―That's a lovely one,

said Lynch laughing again.

LynchThat has the
true scholastic stink.

1440

Stephen Dedalus―Lessing, said Stephen, should not have taken a group of
statues to write of. The art, being inferior, does not present the
forms I spoke of distinguished clearly one from another. Even
in literature, the highest and most spiritual art, the forms are
often confused. The lyrical form is in fact the simplest verbal
vesture of an instant of emotion, a rhythmical cry such as ages
ago cheered on the man who pulled at the oar or dragged
stones up a slope. He who utters it is more conscious of the
instant of emotion than of himself as feeling emotion. The
simplest epical form is seen emerging out of lyrical literature 1450
when the artist prolongs and broods upon himself as the centre
of an epical event and this form progresses till the centre of
emotional gravity is equidistant from the artist himself and
from others. The narrative is no longer purely personal. The
personality of the artist passes into the narration itself, flowing
round and round the persons and the action like a vital sea.
This progress you will see easily in that old English ballad
Turpin Hero which begins in the first person and ends in the
third person. The dramatic form is reached when the vitality
which has flowed and eddied round each person fills every 1460
person with such vital force that he or she assumes a proper
and intangible esthetic life. The personality of the artist at first
a cry or a cadence or a mood and then a fluid and lambent
narrative finally refines itself out of existence, impersonalises
itself, so to speak. The esthetic image in the dramatic form is
life purified in and reprojected from the human imagination.
The mystery of esthetic like that of material creation is accom-
plished. The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within
or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined
out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.

1470

Lynch―Trying to refine them also out of existence,

said Lynch.

A fine rain began to fall from the high veiled sky and they
turned into the duke's lawn to reach 53.341522 -6.254893the national library before
the shower came.

Lynch―What do you mean,

Lynch asked surlily,

Lynchby prating about
beauty and the imagination in this miserable Godforsaken is-
land? No wonder the artist retired within or behind his handi-
work after having perpetrated this country.

The rain fell faster. When they passed through the passage
beside53.340762 -6.258382Kildare house they found many students sheltering un- 1480
der the arcade of the library. Cranly leaning against a pillar
was picking his teeth with a sharpened match, listening to some
companions. Some girls stood near the entrance door. Lynch
whispered to Stephen:

Lynch―Your beloved is here.

Stephen took his place silently on the step below the group
of students, heedless of the rain which fell fast, turning his eyes
towards her from time to time. She too stood silently among
her companions. She has no priest to flirt with, he thought with
conscious bitterness, remembering how he had seen her last. 1490
Lynch was right. His mind, emptied of theory and courage,
lapsed back into a listless peace.

He heard the students talking among themselves. They
spoke of two friends who had passed the final medical exam-
ination, of the chances of getting places on ocean liners, of
poor and rich practices.

???―That's all a bubble. An Irish country practice is better.

???―Hynes was two years in 53.408371 -2.991573Liverpool and he says the same. A
frightful hole he said it was. Nothing but midwifery cases. Half
a crown cases.

1500

???―Do you mean to say it is better to have a job here in the
country than in a rich city like that? I know a fellow ....

???―Hynes has no brains. He got through by stewing, pure
stewing.

???―Don't mind him. There's plenty of money to be made in a
big commercial city.

???―Depends on the practice.

???―Ego credo ut vita pauperum est simpliciter atrox, simpliciter
sanguinarius atrox, in Liverpoolio.

Their voices reached his ears as if from a distance in inter- 1510
rupted pulsation. She was preparing to go away with her
companions.

The quick light shower had drawn off, tarrying in clusters of
diamonds among the shrubs of the quadrangle where an exha-
lation was breathed forth by the blackened earth. Their trim
boots prattled as they stood on the steps of the colonnade
talking quietly and gaily, glancing at the clouds, holding their
umbrellas at cunning angles against the few last raindrops,
closing them again, holding their skirts demurely.

And if he had judged her harshly? If her life were a simple 1520
rosary of hours, her life simple and strange as a bird's life, gay
in the morning, restless all day, tired at sundown? Her heart
simple and wilful as a bird's heart?

* * *

Towards dawn he awoke. O what sweet music! His soul was
all dewy wet. Over his limbs in sleep pale cool waves of light
had passed. He lay still, as if his soul lay amid cool waters,
conscious of faint sweet music. His mind was waking slowly to
a tremulous morning knowledge, a morning inspiration. A
spirit filled him, pure as the purest water, sweet as dew, moving
as music. But how faintly it was inbreathed, how passionlessly 1530
as if the seraphim themselves were breathing upon him! His
soul was waking slowly, fearing to awake wholly. It was that
windless hour of dawn when madness wakes and strange plants
open to the light and the moth flies forth silently.

An enchantment of the heart! The night had been enchanted. In
dream or vision he had known the ecstasy of seraphic life.
Was it an instant of enchantment only or long hours and days
and years and ages?

The instant of inspiration seemed now to be reflected from
all sides at once from a multitude of cloudy circumstance of 1540
what had happened or of what might have happened. The in-
stant flashed forth like a point of light and now from cloud on
cloud of vague circumstance confused form was veiling softly
its afterglow. O! In the virgin womb of the imagination the
word was made flesh. Gabriel the seraph had come to the
virgin's chamber. An afterglow deepened within his spirit,
whence the white flame had passed, deepening to a rose and
ardent light. That rose and ardent light was her strange wilful
heart, strange that no man had known or would know, wilful
from before the beginning of the world: and lured by that 1550
ardent roselike glow the choirs of the seraphim were falling
from heaven.

Are you not weary of ardent ways,
Lure of the fallen seraphim?
Tell no more of enchanted days.

The verses passed from his mind to his lips and, murmuring
them over, he felt the rhythmic movement of a villanelle pass
through them. The roselike glow sent forth its rays of rhyme;
ways, days, blaze, praise, raise. Its rays burned up the world,
consumed the hearts of men and angels: the rays from the rose 1560
that was her wilful heart.

Your eyes have set man's heart ablaze
And you have had your will of him.
Are you not weary of ardent ways?

And then? The rhythm died away, ceased, began again to
move and beat. And then? Smoke, incense ascending from the
altar of the world.

Above the flame the smoke of praise
Goes up from ocean rim to rim.
Tell no more of enchanted days.

1570

Smoke went up from the whole earth, from the vapoury
oceans, smoke of her praise. The earth was like a swinging
swaying smoking [swaying] censer, a ball of incense, an ellipsoidal ball.
The rhythm died out at once; the cry of his heart was broken.
His lips began to murmur the first verses over and over; then
went on stumbling through half verses, stammering and
baffled; then stopped. The heart's cry was broken.

The veiled windless hour had passed and behind the panes
of the naked window the morning light was gathering. A bell
beat faintly very far away. A bird twittered; two birds, three. 1580
The bell and the birds ceased: and the dull white light spread
itself east and west, covering the world, covering the roselight
in his heart.

Fearing to lose all he raised himself suddenly on his elbow to
look for paper and pencil. There was neither on the table; only
the soup plate he had eaten the rice from for supper and the
candlestick with its tendrils of tallow and its paper socket,
singed by the last flame. He stretched his arm wearily towards
the foot of the bed, groping with his hand in the pockets of the
coat that hung there. His fingers found a pencil and then a 1590
cigarette packet. He lay back and, tearing open the packet,
placed the last cigarette on the window ledge and began to
write out the stanzas of the villanelle in small neat letters on the
rough cardboard surface.

Having written them out he lay back on the lumpy pillow,
murmuring them again. The lumps of knotted flock under his
head reminded him of the lumps of knotted horsehair in the
sofa of her parlour on which he used to sit, smiling or serious,
asking himself why he had come, displeased with her and with
himself, confounded by the print of the Sacred Heart above the 1600
untenanted sideboard. He saw her approach him in a lull of the
talk and beg him to sing one of his curious songs. Then he saw
himself sitting at the old piano, striking chords softly from its
speckled keys and singing, amid the talk which had risen again
in the room, to her who leaned beside the mantelpiece a dainty
song of the Elizabethans, a sad and sweet loth to depart, the
victory chant of Agincourt, the happy air of Greensleeves.
While he sang and she listened, or feigned to listen, his heart
was at rest but when the quaint old songs had ended and he
heard again the voices in the room he remembered his own 1610
sarcasm: the house where young men are called by their chris-
tian names a little too soon.

At certain instants her eyes seemed about to trust him but he
had waited in vain. She passed now dancing lightly across his
memory as she had been that night at the carnival ball. Her
white dress a little lifted, a white spray nodding in her hair. She
danced lightly in the round. She was dancing towards him and,
as she came, her eyes were a little averted and a faint glow was
on her cheek. At the pause in the chain of hands her hand had
lain in his an instant, a soft merchandise. 1620

???―You are a great stranger now.

Stephen Dedalus―Yes. I was born to be a monk.

???―I am afraid you are a heretic.

Stephen Dedalus―Are you much afraid?

For answer she had danced away from him along the chain
of hands, dancing lightly and discreetly, giving herself to none.
The white spray nodded to her dancing and when she was in
shadow the glow was deeper on her cheek.

A monk! His own image started forth a profaner of the
cloister, a heretic franciscan, willing and willing not to serve, 1630
spinning like Gherardino da Borgo San Donnino a lithe web of
sophistry and whispering in her ear.

No, it was not his image. It was the image of the young
priest in whose company he had seen her last, looking at him
out of dove's eyes, toying with the pages of her Irish phrase-
book.

???―Yes, yes, the ladies are coming round to us. I can see it every
day. The ladies are with us. The best helpers the language has.

???―And the church, Father Moran?

???―The church too. Coming round too. The work is going 1640
ahead there too. Don't fret about the church.

Bah! he had done well to leave the room in disdain. He had
done well not to salute her on the steps of the library. He had
done well to leave her to flirt with her priest, to toy with a
church which was the scullerymaid of christendom.

Rude brutal anger routed the last lingering instant of ecstasy
from his soul. It broke up violently her fair image and flung the
fragments on all sides. On all sides distorted reflections of her
image started from his memory: the flowergirl in the ragged
dress with damp coarse hair and a hoyden's face who had 1650
called herself his own girl and begged his handsel, the kitchen-
girl in the next house who sang over the clatter of her plates
with the drawl of a country singer the first bars of By
Killarney's Lakes and Fells, a girl who had laughed gaily to see
him stumble when the iron grating in the footpath near 53.343835 -6.267562Cork
Hill had caught the broken sole of his shoe, a girl he had
glanced at, attracted by her small ripe mouth as she passed out
of Jacob's biscuit factory, who had cried to him over her shoul-
der:

???―Do you like what you seen of me, straight hair and curly 1660
eyebrows?

And yet he felt that, however he might revile and mock her
image, his anger was also a form of homage. He had left the
classroom in disdain that was not wholly sincere, feeling that
perhaps the secret of her race lay behind those dark eyes upon
which her long lashes flung a quick shadow. He had told him-
self bitterly as he walked through the streets that she was a
figure of the womanhood of her country, a batlike soul waking
to the consciousness of itself in darkness and secrecy and lone-
liness, tarrying a while, loveless and sinless, with her mild lover 1670
and leaving him to whisper of innocent transgressions in the
latticed ear of a priest. His anger against her found vent in
coarse railing at her paramour, whose name and voice and
features offended his baffled pride: a priested peasant, with a
brother a policeman in Dublin and a brother a potboy in 53.338748 -9.181478
Moycullen. To him she would unveil her soul's shy nakedness,
to one who was but schooled in the discharging of a formal rite
rather than to him, a priest of the eternal imagination, trans-
muting the daily bread of experience into the radiant body of
everliving life.

1680

The radiant image of the eucharist united again in an instant
his bitter and despairing thoughts, their cries arising unbroken
in a hymn of thanksgiving.

Our broken cries and mournful lays
Rise in one eucharistic hymn.
Are you not weary of ardent ways?
While sacrificing hands upraise
The chalice flowing to the brim.
Tell no more of enchanted days.

He spoke the verses aloud from the first lines till the music 1690
and rhythm suffused his mind, turning it to quiet indulgence;
then copied them painfully to feel them the better by seeing
them; then lay back on his bolster.

The full morning light had come. No sound was to be heard:
but he knew that all around him life was about to awaken in
common noises, hoarse voices, sleepy prayers. Shrinking from
that life he turned towards the wall, making a cowl of the
blanket and staring at the great overblown scarlet flowers of
the tattered wallpaper. He tried to warm his perishing joy in
their scarlet glow, imagining a roseway from where he lay 1700
upwards to heaven all strewn with scarlet flowers. Weary!
Weary! He too was weary of ardent ways.

A gradual warmth, a languorous weariness passed over him
descending along his spine from his closely cowled head. He
felt it descend and, seeing himself as he lay, smiled. Soon he
would sleep.

He had written verses for her again after ten years. Ten years
before she had worn her shawl cowlwise about her head, send-
ing sprays of her warm breath into the night air, tapping her
foot upon the glassy road. It was the last tram; the lank brown 1710
horses knew it and shook their bells to the clear night in
admonition. The conductor talked with the driver, both nod-
ding often in the green light of the lamp. They stood on the
steps of the tram, he on the upper, she on the lower. She came
up to his step many times between their phrases and went
down again and once or twice remained beside him forgetting
to go down and then went down. Let be! Let be!

Ten years from that wisdom of children to his folly. If he
sent her the verses? They would be read out at breakfast amid
the tapping of eggshells. Folly indeed! The brothers would 1720
laugh and try to wrest the page from each other with their
strong hard fingers. The suave priest, her uncle, seated in his
armchair, would hold the page at arm's length, read it smiling
and approve of the literary form.

No, no: that was folly. Even if he sent her the verses she
would not show them to others. No, no: she could not.

He began to feel that he had wronged her. A sense of her
innocence moved him almost to pity her, an innocence he had
never understood till he had come to the knowledge of it
through sin, an innocence which she too had not understood 1730
while she was innocent or before the strange humiliation of her
nature had first come upon her. Then first her soul had begun
to live as his soul had when he had first sinned: and a tender
compassion filled his heart as he remembered her frail pallor
and her eyes, humbled and saddened by the dark shame of
womanhood.

While his soul had passed from ecstasy to languor where had
she been? Might it be, in the mysterious ways of spiritual life,
that her soul at those same moments had been conscious of his
homage? It might be.

1740

A glow of desire kindled again his soul and fired and ful-
filled all his body. Conscious of his desire she was waking from
odorous sleep, the temptress of his villanelle. Her eyes, dark
and with a look of languor, were opening to his eyes. Her
nakedness yielded to him, radiant, warm, odorous and lavish-
limbed, enfolded him like a shining cloud, enfolded him like
water with a liquid life: and like a cloud of vapour or like
waters circumfluent in space the liquid letters of speech, sym-
bols of the element of mystery, flowed forth over his brain.

Are you not weary of ardent ways? 1750
Lure of the fallen seraphim.
Tell no more of enchanted days.
Your eyes have set man's heart ablaze
And you have had your will of him.
Are you not weary of ardent ways?
Above the flame the smoke of praise
Goes up from ocean rim to rim.
Tell no more of enchanted days.
Our broken cries and mournful lays
Rise in one eucharistic hymn. 1760
Are you not weary of ardent ways?
While sacrificing hands upraise
The chalice flowing to the brim.
Tell no more of enchanted days.
And still you hold our longing gaze
With languorous look and lavish limb.
Are you not weary of ardent ways?
Tell no more of enchanted days.

* * *

What birds were they?

He stood on the steps of the library to look at them, leaning 1770
wearily on his ashplant. They flew round and round the jutting
shoulder of a house in 53.340809 -6.257636Molesworth Street. The air of the late
March evening made clear their flight, their dark darting
quivering bodies flying clearly against the sky as against a
limphung cloth of smoky tenuous blue.

He watched their flight: bird after bird: a dark flash, a
swerve, a flash again, a dart aside, a curve, a flutter of wings.
He tried to count them before all their darting quivering bodies
passed: six, ten, eleven: and wondered were they odd or even in
number. Twelve, thirteen: for two came wheeling down from 1780
the upper sky. They were flying high and low but ever round
and round in straight and curving lines and ever flying from left
to right, circling about a temple of air.

He listened to their cries: like the squeak of mice behind the
wainscot: a shrill twofold note. But the notes were long and
shrill and whirring, unlike the cry of vermin, falling a third or a
fourth and trilled as the flying beaks clove the air. Their cry
was shrill and clear and fine and falling like threads of silken
light unwound from whirring spools.

The inhuman clamour soothed his ears in which his 1790
mother's sobs and reproaches murmured insistently and the
dark frail quivering bodies wheeling and fluttering and swerv-
ing round an airy temple of the tenuous sky soothed his eyes
which still saw the image of his mother's face.

Why was he gazing upwards from the steps of the porch,
hearing their shrill twofold cry, watching their flight? For an
augury of good or evil? A phrase of Cornelius Agrippa flew
through his mind and then there flew hither and thither shape-
less thoughts from Swedenborg on the correspondence of birds
to things of the intellect and of how the creatures of the air 1800
have their knowledge and know their times and seasons be-
cause they, unlike man, are in the order of their life and have
not perverted that order by reason.

And for ages men had gazed upward as he was gazing at
birds in flight. The colonnade above him made him think
vaguely of an ancient temple and the ashplant on which he
leaned wearily of the curved stick of an augur. A sense of fear
of the unknown moved in the heart of his weariness, a fear of
symbols and portents, of the hawklike man whose name he
bore soaring out of his captivity on osierwoven wings, of 1810
Thoth, the god of writers, writing with a reed upon a tablet
and bearing on his narrow ibis head the cusped moon.

He smiled as he thought of the god's image for it made him
think of a bottlenosed judge in a wig, putting commas into a
document which he held at arm's length and he knew that he
would not have remembered the god's name but that it was like
an Irish oath. It was folly. But was it for this folly that he was
about to leave for ever the house of prayer and prudence into
which he had been born and the order of life out of which he
had come?

1820

They came back with shrill cries over the jutting shoulder of
the house, flying darkly against the fading air. What birds were
they? He thought that they must be swallows who had come
back from the south. Then he was to go away? for they were
birds ever going and coming, building ever an unlasting home
under the eaves of men's houses and ever leaving the homes
they had built to wander.

Bend down your faces, Oona and Aleel.
I gaze upon them as the swallow gazes
Upon the nest under the eave before 1830
He wander the loud waters.

A soft liquid joy like the noise of many waters flowed over
his memory and he felt in his heart the soft peace of silent
spaces of fading tenuous sky above the waters, of oceanic si-
lence, of swallows flying through the seadusk over the flowing
waters.

A soft liquid joy flowed through the words where the soft
long vowels hurtled noiselessly and fell away, lapping and
flowing back and ever shaking the white bells of their waves in
mute chime and mute peal and soft low swooning cry: and he 1840
felt that the augury he had sought in the wheeling darting birds
and in the pale space of sky above him had come forth from his
heart like a bird from a turret quietly and swiftly.

Symbol of departure or of loneliness? The verses crooned in
the ear of his memory composed slowly before his remember-
ing eyes the scene of the hall on the night of the opening of the
national theatre. He was alone at the side of the balcony,
looking out of jaded eyes at the culture of Dublin in the stalls
and at the tawdry scenecloths and human dolls framed by the
garish lamps of the stage. A burly policeman sweated behind 1850
him and seemed at every moment about to act. The catcalls
and hisses and mocking cries ran in rude gusts round the hall
from his scattered fellowstudents.

???―A libel on Ireland!

???―Made in Germany!

???―Blasphemy!

???―We never sold our faith!

???―No Irish woman ever did it!

???―We want no amateur atheists.

???―We want no budding buddhists.

1860

A sudden soft hiss fell from the windows above him and he
knew that the electric lamps had been switched on in the
readers' room. He turned into the pillared hall, now calmly lit,
went up the staircase and passed in through the clicking turn-
stile.

Cranly was sitting over near the dictionaries. A thick book,
opened at the frontispiece, lay before him on the wooden rest.
He leaned back in his chair, inclining his ear like that of a
confessor to the face of the medical student who was reading to
him a problem from the chess page of a journal. Stephen sat 1870
down at his right and the priest at the other side of the table
closed his copy of The Tablet with an angry snap and stood up.

Cranly gazed after him blandly and vaguely. The medical
student went on in a softer voice:

???―Pawn to king's fourth.

Stephen Dedalus―We had better go, Dixon, said Stephen in warning. He has
gone to complain.

Dixon folded the journal and rose with dignity, saying:

???―Our men retired in good order.

Stephen Dedalus―With guns and cattle, added Stephen, pointing to the title- 1880
page of Cranly's book on which was printed Diseases of the
Ox.

As they passed through a lane of the tables Stephen said:

Stephen Dedalus―Cranly, I want to speak to you.

Cranly did not answer or turn. He laid his book on the
counter and passed out, his wellshod feet sounding flatly on the
floor. On the staircase he paused and gazing absently at Dixon
repeated:

???―Pawn to king's bloody fourth.

???―Put it that way if you like, Dixon said.

1890

He had a quiet toneless voice and urbane manners and on a
finger of his plump clean hand he displayed at moments a
signet ring.

As they crossed the hall a man of dwarfish stature came
towards them. Under the dome of his tiny hat his unshaven
face began to smile with pleasure and he was heard to murmur.
The eyes were melancholy as those of a monkey.

Cranly―Good evening, captain, said Cranly, halting.

???―Good evening, gentlemen, said the stubblegrown monkeyish
face.

1900

Cranly―Warm weather for March, said Cranly. They have the win-
dows open upstairs.

Dixon smiled and turned his ring. The blackish monkey-
puckered face pursed its human mouth with gentle pleasure
and its voice purred:

???―Delightful weather for March. Simply delightful.

???―There are two nice young ladies upstairs, captain, tired of
waiting, Dixon said.

Cranly smiled and said kindly:

???―The captain has only one love: sir Walter Scott. Isn't that so, 1910
captain?

???―What are you reading now, captain? Dixon asked. The Bride
of 55.775902 -4.136255Lammermoor?

???―I love old Scott,

the flexible lips said.

???I think he writes some-
thing lovely. There is no writer can touch sir Walter Scott.

He moved a thin shrunken brown hand gently in the air in
time to his praise and his thin quick eyelids beat often over his
sad eyes.

Sadder to Stephen's ear was his speech: a genteel accent, low
and moist, marred by errors: and listening to it he wondered 1920
was the story true and was the thin blood that flowed in his
shrunken frame noble and come of an incestuous love?

The park trees were heavy with rain and rain fell still and
ever in the lake, lying grey like a shield. A game of swans flew
there and the water and the shore beneath were fouled with
their greenwhite slime. They embraced softly impelled by the
grey rainy light, the wet silent trees, the shieldlike witnessing
lake, the swans. They embraced without joy or passion, his
arm about his sister's neck. A grey woollen cloak was wrapped
athwart her from her shoulder to her waist: and her fair head was 1930
bent in willing shame. He had loose redbrown hair and tender
shapely strong freckled hands. Face? There was no face seen.
The brother's face was bent upon her fair rainfragrant hair.
The hand freckled and strong and shapely and caressing was
Davin's hand.

He frowned angrily upon his thought and on the shrivelled
mannikin who had called it forth. His father's gibes at the 51.680080 -9.452576
Bantry gang leaped out of his memory. He held them at a
distance and brooded uneasily on his own thought again. Why
were they not Cranly's hands? Had Davin's simplicity and in- 1940
nocence stung him more secretly?

He walked on across the hall with Dixon, leaving Cranly to
take leave elaborately of the dwarf.

Under the colonnade Temple was standing in the midst of a
little group of students. One of them cried:

???―Dixon, come over till you hear. Temple is in grand form.

Temple turned on him his dark gipsy eyes.

???―You're a hypocrite, O'Keeffe,

he said.

???And Dixon's a smiler.
By hell, I think that's a good literary expression.

He laughed slily, looking in Stephen's face, repeating: 1950

???―By hell, I'm delighted with that name. A smiler.

A stout student who stood below them on the steps said:

???―Come back to the mistress, Temple. We want to hear about
that.

Temple―He had, faith,

Temple said.

TempleAnd he was a married man too.
And all the priests used to be dining there. By hell, I think they
all had a touch.

Dixon―We shall call it riding a hack to spare the hunter,

said Dixon.

O'Keeffe―Tell us, Temple,

O'Keeffe said.

O'KeeffeHow many quarts of porter
have you in you?

1960

Temple―All your intellectual soul is in that phrase, O'Keeffe, said
Temple with open scorn.

He moved with a shambling gait round the group and spoke
to Stephen.

???―Did you know that the Forsters are the kings of Belgium? he
asked.

Cranly came out through the door of the entrance hall, his
hat thrust back on the nape of his neck and picking his teeth
with care.

Temple―And here's the wiseacre, said Temple. Do you know that 1970
about the Forsters?

He paused for an answer. Cranly dislodged a figseed from
his teeth on the point of his rude toothpick and gazed at it
intently.

Temple―The Forster family,

Temple said,

Templeis descended from Baldwin
the First, king of Flanders. He was called the Forester. Forester
and Forster are the same name. A descendant of Baldwin the
First, captain Francis Forster, settled in Ireland and married
the daughter of the last chieftain of Clanbrassil. Then there are
the Blake Forsters. That's a different branch.

1980

Cranly―From Baldhead, king of Flanders,

Cranly repeated, rooting
again deliberately at his gleaming uncovered teeth.

O'Keeffe―Where did you pick up all that history?

O'Keeffe asked.

Temple―I know all the history of your family too,

Temple said,
turning to Stephen.

TempleDo you know what Giraldus Cambrensis
says about your family?

???―Is he descended from Baldwin too?

asked a tall consumptive
student with dark eyes.

Cranly―Baldhead,

Cranly repeated, sucking at a crevice in his teeth.

Temple―Pernobilis et pervetusta familia,

Temple said to Stephen.

1990

The stout student who stood below them on the steps farted
briefly. Dixon turned towards him saying in a soft voice:

Dixon―Did an angel speak?

Cranly turned also and said vehemently but without anger:

Cranly―Goggins, you're the flamingest dirty devil I ever met, do you
know.

Goggins―I had it on my mind to say that,

Goggins answered firmly.

GogginsIt
did no-one any harm, did it?

Dixon―We hope,

Dixon said suavely,

Dixonthat it was not of the kind
known to science as a paulo post futurum.

2000

Temple―Didn't I tell you he was a smiler?

said Temple, turning right
and left.

TempleDidn't I give him that name?

???―You did. We're not deaf,

said the tall consumptive.

Cranly still frowned at the stout student below him. Then,
with a snort of disgust, he shoved him violently down the steps.

Cranly―Go away from here,

he said rudely.

CranlyGo away, you stinkpot.
And you are a stinkpot.

Goggins skipped down on to the gravel and at once returned
to his place with good humour. Temple turned back to Stephen
and asked: 2010

Temple―Do you believe in the law of heredity?

Cranly―Are you drunk or what are you or what are you trying to
say?

asked Cranly, facing round on him with an expression of
wonder.

Temple―The most profound sentence ever written,

Temple said with
enthusiasm,

Templeis the sentence at the end of the zoology. Repro-
duction is the beginning of death.

He touched Stephen timidly at the elbow and said eagerly:

???―Do you feel how profound that is because you are a poet?

Cranly pointed his long forefinger. 2020

???―Look at him! he said with scorn to the others. Look at
Ireland's hope!

They laughed at his words and gesture. Temple turned on
him bravely, saying:

Temple―Cranly, you're always sneering at me. I can see that. But I
am as good as you are any day. Do you know what I think
about you now as compared with myself?

Cranly―My dear man,

said Cranly urbanely,

Cranlyyou are incapable, do
you know, absolutely incapable of thinking.

Temple―But do you know,

Temple went on,

Templewhat I think of you and 2030
of myself compared together?

a student―Out with it, Temple!

the stout student cried from the steps.

a studentGet it out in bits!

Temple turned right and left, making sudden feeble gestures
as he spoke.

Temple―I'm a ballocks,

he said, shaking his head in despair.

???I am.
And I know I am. And I admit it that I am.

Dixon patted him lightly on the shoulder and said mildly:

Dixon―And it does you every credit, Temple.

Temple―But he,

Temple said, pointing to Cranly.

???He is a ballocks too 2040
like me. Only he doesn't know it. And that's the only difference
I see.

A burst of laughter covered his words. But he turned again
to Stephen and said with a sudden eagerness:

Temple―That word is a most interesting word. That's the only Eng-
lish dual number. Did you know?

Stephen Dedalus―Is it?

Stephen said vaguely.

He was watching Cranly's firmfeatured suffering face, lit up
now by a smile of false patience. The gross name had passed
over it like foul water poured over an old stone image, patient 2050
of injuries: and, as he watched him, he saw him raise his hat in
salute and uncover the black hair that stood up stiffly from his
forehead like an iron crown.

She passed out from the porch of the library and bowed
across Stephen in reply to Cranly's greeting. He also? Was there
not a slight flush on Cranly's cheek? Or had it come forth at
Temple's words? The light had waned. He could not see.

Did that explain his friend's listless silence, his harsh com-
ments, the sudden intrusions of rude speech with which he had
shattered so often Stephen's ardent wayward confessions? Ste- 2060
phen had forgiven freely for he had found this rudeness also in
himself towards himself. And he remembered an evening when
he had dismounted from a borrowed creaking bicycle to pray
to God in a wood near 53.450924 -6.150138Malahide. He had lifted up his arms
and spoken in ecstasy to the sombre nave of the trees, knowing
that he stood on holy ground and in a holy hour. And when
two constabularymen had come into sight round a bend in the
gloomy road he had broken off his prayer to whistle loudly an
air from the last pantomime.

He began to beat the frayed end of his ashplant against the 2070
base of a pillar. Had Cranly not heard him? Yet he could wait.
The talk about him ceased for a moment: and a soft hiss fell
again from a window above. But no other sound was in the air
and the swallows whose flight he had followed with idle eyes
were sleeping.

She had passed through the dusk. And therefore the air was
silent save for one soft hiss that fell. And therefore the tongues
about him had ceased their babble. Darkness was falling.

Darkness falls from the air.

A trembling joy, lambent as a faint light, played like a fairy 2080
host around him. But why? Her passage through the darkening
air or the verse with its black vowels and its opening sound,
rich and lutelike?

He walked away slowly towards the deeper shadows at the
end of the colonnade, beating the stone softly with his stick to
hide his revery from the students whom he had left: and
allowed his mind to summon back to itself the age of Dowland
and Byrd and Nash.

Eyes, opening from the darkness of desire, eyes that dimmed
the breaking east. What was their languid grace but the soft- 2090
ness of chambering? And what was their shimmer but the
shimmer of the scum that mantled the cesspool of the court of a
slobbering Stuart. And he tasted in the language of memory
ambered wines, dying fallings of sweet airs, the proud pavan:
and saw with the eyes of memory kind gentlewomen in 51.511732 -0.123270Covent
Garden wooing from their balconies with sucking mouths and
the poxfouled wenches of the taverns and young wives that,
gaily yielding to their ravishers, clipped and clipped again.

The images he had summoned gave him no pleasure. They
were secret and enflaming but her image was not entangled by 2100
them. That was not the way to think of her. It was not even the
way in which he thought of her. Could his mind then not trust
itself? Old phrases, sweet only with a disinterred sweetness like
the figseeds Cranly rooted out of his gleaming teeth.

It was not thought nor vision though he knew vaguely that
her figure was passing homeward through the city. Vaguely
first and then more sharply he smelt her body. A conscious
unrest seethed in his blood. Yes, it was her body that he smelt:
a wild and languid smell: the tepid limbs over which his music
had flowed desirously and the secret soft linen upon which her 2110
flesh distilled odour and a dew.

A louse crawled over the nape of his neck and, putting his
thumb and forefinger deftly beneath his loose collar, he caught
it. He rolled its body, tender yet brittle as a grain of rice, be-
tween thumb and finger for an instant before he let it fall from
him and wondered would it live or die. There came to his mind
a curious phrase from Cornelius a Lapide which said that the
lice born of human sweat were not created by God with the
other animals on the sixth day. But the tickling of the skin of
his neck made his mind raw and red. The life of his body, 2120
illclad, illfed, louseeaten, made him close his eyelids in a sud-
den spasm of despair: and in the darkness he saw the brittle
bright bodies of lice falling from the air and turning often as
they fell. Yes: and it was not darkness that fell from the air. It
was brightness.

Brightness falls from the air.

He had not even remembered rightly Nash's line. All the
images it had awakened were false. His mind bred vermin. His
thoughts were lice born of the sweat of sloth.

He came back quickly along the colonnade towards the 2130
group of students. Well then let her go and be damned to her.
She could love some clean athlete who washed himself every
morning to the waist and had black hair on his chest. Let her.

Cranly had taken another dried fig from the supply in his
pocket and was eating it slowly and noisily. Temple sat on the
pediment of a pillar, leaning back, his cap pulled down on his
sleepy eyes. A squat young man came out of the porch, a
leather portfolio tucked under his armpit. He marched towards
the group, striking the flags with the heels of his boots and
with the ferrule of his heavy umbrella. Then, raising the um- 2140
brella in salute, he said to all:

???―Good evening, sirs.

He struck the flags again and tittered while his head
trembled with a slight nervous movement. The tall consump-
tive student and Dixon and O'Keeffe were speaking in Irish and
did not answer him. Then, turning to Cranly, he said:

???―Good evening, particularly to you.

He moved the umbrella in indication and tittered again.
Cranly, who was still chewing the fig, answered with loud
movements of his jaws. 2150

???―Good? Yes. It is a good evening.

The squat student looked at him seriously and shook his
umbrella gently and reprovingly.

???―I can see, he said, that you are about to make obvious
remarks.

???―Um, Cranly answered, holding out what remained of the
halfchewed fig and jerking it towards the squat student's
mouth in sign that he should eat.

The squat student did not eat it but, indulging his special
humour, said gravely, still tittering and prodding his phrase 2160
with his umbrella:

???―Do you intend that ...

He broke off, pointed bluntly to the munched pulp of the fig
and said loudly:

???―I allude to that.

Cranly―Um, Cranly said as before.

???―Do you intend that now, the squat student said, as ipso facto
or, let us say, as so to speak?

Dixon turned aside from his group, saying:

???―Goggins was waiting for you, Glynn. He has gone round to 2170
the Adelphi to look for you and Moynihan. What have you
there? he asked, tapping the portfolio under Glynn's arm.

???―Examination papers, Glynn answered. I give them monthly
examinations to see that they are profiting by my tuition.

He also tapped the portfolio and coughed gently and smiled.

Cranly―Tuition! said Cranly rudely. I suppose you mean the bare-
footed children that are taught by a bloody ape like you. God
help them!

He bit off the rest of the fig and flung away the butt.

???―I suffer little children to come unto me, Glynn said amiably.

2180

???―A bloody ape, Cranly repeated with emphasis, and a blas-
phemous bloody ape!

Temple stood up and, pushing past Cranly, addressed
Glynn:

???―That phrase you said now,

he said,

???is from the new testa-
ment about suffer the children to come to me.

???―Go to sleep again, Temple, said O'Keeffe.

???―Very well, then, Temple continued, still addressing Glynn,
and if Jesus suffered the children to come why does the church
send them all to hell if they die unbaptised? Why is that?

2190

???―Were you baptised yourself, Temple? the consumptive stu-
dent asked.

???―But why are they sent to hell if Jesus said they were all to
come?

Temple said, his eyes searching in Glynn's eyes.

Glynn coughed and said gently, holding back with difficulty
the nervous titter in his voice and moving his umbrella at every
word:

Glynn―And, as you remark, if it is thus I ask emphatically whence
comes this thusness.

Temple―Because the church is cruel like all old sinners,

Temple said. 2200

Dixon―Are you quite orthodox on that point, Temple?

Dixon said
suavely.

Temple―Saint Augustine says that about unbaptised children going to
hell,

Temple answered,

Templebecause he was a cruel old sinner too.

Dixon―I bow to you,

Dixon said,

Dixonbut I had the impression that
limbo existed for such cases.

Cranly―Don't argue with him, Dixon,

Cranly said brutally.

CranlyDon't
talk to him or look at him. Lead him home with a sugan the
way you'd lead a bleating goat.

Temple―Limbo!

Temple cried.

TempleThat's a fine invention too. Like hell.

2210

???―But with the unpleasantness left out,

Dixon said.

He turned smiling to the others and said:

???―I think I am voicing the opinions of all present in saying so
much.

Glynn―You are,

Glynn said in a firm tone.

GlynnOn that point Ireland is
united.

He struck the ferrule of his umbrella on the stone floor of
the colonnade.

Temple―Hell,

Temple said.

TempleI can respect that invention of the grey
spouse of Satan. Hell is Roman, like the walls of the Romans, 2220
strong and ugly. But what is limbo?

???―Put him back into the perambulator, Cranly,

O'Keeffe called
out.

Cranly made a swift step towards Temple, halted, stamping
his foot and crying as if to a fowl:

Cranly―Hoosh!

Temple moved away nimbly.

Temple―Do you know what limbo is?

he cried.

TempleDo you know what
we call a notion like that in Roscommon?

Cranly―Hoosh! Blast you!

Cranly cried, clapping his hands. 2230

Temple―Neither my arse nor my elbow!

Temple cried out scornfully.

TempleAnd that's what I call limbo.

Cranly―Give us that stick here,

Cranly said.

He snatched the ashplant roughly from Stephen's hand and
sprang down the steps: but Temple, hearing him move in pur-
suit, fled through the dusk like a wild creature, nimble and
fleetfooted. Cranly's heavy boots were heard loudly charging
across the quadrangle and then returning heavily, foiled and
spurning the gravel at each step.

His step was angry and with an angry abrupt gesture he 2240
thrust the stick back into Stephen's hand. Stephen felt that his
anger had another cause but, feigning patience, touched his
arm slightly and said quietly:

Stephen Dedalus―Cranly, I told you I wanted to speak to you. Come away.

Cranly looked at him for a few moments and asked:

Cranly―Now?

Stephen Dedalus―Yes, now,

Stephen said.

Stephen DedalusWe can't speak here. Come away.

They crossed the quadrangle together without speaking. The
birdcall from Siegfried whistled softly followed them from the
steps of the porch. Cranly turned: and Dixon, who had 2250
whistled, called out:

Dixon―Where are you fellows off to? What about that game,
Cranly?

They parleyed in shouts across the still air about a game of
billiards to be played in the 53.350570 -6.254002Adelphi hotel. Stephen walked on
alone and out into the quiet of Kildare Street. Opposite
Maple's hotel he stood to wait, patient again. The name of the
hotel, a colourless polished wood, and its colourless quiet front
stung him like a glance of polite disdain. He stared angrily back
at the softly lit drawingroom of the hotel in which he imagined 2260
the sleek lives of the patricians of Ireland housed in calm. They
thought of army commissions and land agents: peasants greeted
them along the roads in the country: they knew the names of
certain French dishes and gave orders to jarvies in highpitched
provincial voices which pierced through their skintight accents.

How could he hit their conscience or how cast his shadow
over the imagination of their daughters, before their squires
begat upon them, that they might breed a race less ignoble than
their own? And under the deepened dusk he felt the thoughts
and desires of the race to which he belonged flitting like bats 2270
across the dark country lanes, under trees by the edges of
streams and near the poolmottled bogs. A woman had waited
in the doorway as Davin had passed by at night and, offering
him a cup of milk, had all but wooed him to her bed: for Davin
had the mild eyes of one that could be secret. But him no
woman's eyes had wooed.

His arm was taken in a strong grip and Cranly's voice said:

Cranly―Let us eke go.

They walked southward in silence. Then Cranly said:

Cranly―That blithering idiot Temple! I swear to Moses, do you 2280
know, that I'll be the death of that fellow one time.

But his voice was no longer angry and Stephen wondered
was he thinking of her greeting to him under the porch.

They turned to the left and walked on as before. When they
had gone on so for some time Stephen said:

Stephen Dedalus―Cranly, I had an unpleasant quarrel this evening.

Cranly―With your people?

Cranly asked.

Stephen Dedalus―With my mother.

Cranly―About religion?

Stephen Dedalus―Yes, Stephen answered.

2290

After a pause Cranly asked:

???―What age is your mother?

Stephen Dedalus―Not old,

Stephen said.

Stephen DedalusShe wishes me to make my easter
duty.

Cranly―And will you?

Stephen Dedalus―I will not,

Stephen said.

Cranly―Why not?

Cranly said.

Stephen Dedalus―I will not serve,

answered Stephen.

Cranly―That remark was made before,

Cranly said calmly.

Stephen Dedalus―It is made behind now,

said Stephen hotly.

2300

Cranly pressed Stephen's arm, saying:

Cranly―Go easy, my dear man. You're an excitable bloody man, do
you know.

He laughed nervously as he spoke and, looking up into Ste-
phen's face with moved and friendly eyes, said:

Cranly―Do you know that you are an excitable man?

Stephen Dedalus―I daresay I am,

said Stephen, laughing also.

Their minds, lately estranged, seemed suddenly to have been
drawn closer, one to the other.

Cranly―Do you believe in the eucharist?

Cranly asked. 2310

Stephen Dedalus―I do not,

Stephen said.

Cranly―Do you disbelieve then?

Stephen Dedalus―I neither believe in it nor disbelieve in it,

Stephen answered.

Cranly―Many persons have doubts, even religious persons, yet they
overcome them or put them aside,

Cranly said.

CranlyAre your
doubts on that point too strong?

Stephen Dedalus―I do not wish to overcome them,

Stephen answered.

Cranly, embarrassed for a moment, took another fig from
his pocket and was about to eat it when Stephen said:

Stephen Dedalus―Don't, please. You cannot discuss this question with your 2320
mouth full of chewed fig.

Cranly examined the fig by the light of a lamp under which
he halted. Then he smelt it with both nostrils, bit a tiny piece,
spat it out and threw the fig rudely into the gutter. Addressing
it as it lay, he said:

???―Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire!

Taking Stephen's arm he went on again and said:

???―Do you not fear that those words may be spoken to you on
the day of judgment?

Stephen Dedalus―What is offered me on the other hand?

Stephen asked.

Stephen DedalusAn 2330
eternity of bliss in the company of the dean of studies?

Cranly―Remember,

Cranly said,

Cranlythat he would be glorified.

Stephen Dedalus―Ay,

Stephen said somewhat bitterly.

Stephen DedalusBright, agile, impassible
and, above all, subtle.

Cranly―It is a curious thing, do you know,

Cranly said dispassion-
ately,

Cranlyhow your mind is supersaturated with the religion in
which you say you disbelieve. Did you believe in it when you
were at school? I bet you did.

Stephen Dedalus―I did,

Stephen answered.

Cranly―And were you happier then?

Cranly asked softly.

CranlyHappier 2340
than you are now, for instance?

Stephen Dedalus―Often happy,

Stephen said,

Stephen Dedalusand often unhappy. I was some-
one else then.

Cranly―How someone else? What do you mean by that statement?

Stephen Dedalus―I mean,

said Stephen,

Stephen Dedalusthat I was not myself as I am now, as I
had to become.

Cranly―Not as you are now, not as you had to become,

Cranly
repeated.

CranlyLet me ask you a question. Do you love your mother?

Stephen shook his head slowly.

Stephen Dedalus―I don't know what your words mean,

he said simply. 2350

Cranly―Have you never loved anyone?

Cranly asked.

Stephen Dedalus―Do you mean women?

Cranly―I am not speaking of that,

Cranly said in a colder tone.

CranlyI ask
you if you ever felt love towards anyone or anything.

Stephen walked on beside his friend, staring gloomily at the
footpath.

Stephen Dedalus―I tried to love God,

he said at length.

Stephen DedalusIt seems now I failed. It
is very difficult. I tried to unite my will with the will of God
instant by instant. In that I did not always fail. I could perhaps
do that still .....

2360

Cranly cut him short by asking:

Cranly―Has your mother had a happy life?

Stephen Dedalus―How do I know?

Stephen said.

Cranly―How many children had she?

Stephen Dedalus―Nine or ten,

Stephen answered.

Stephen DedalusSome died.

Cranly―Was your father ....

Cranly interrupted himself for an in-
stant: and then said:

CranlyI don't want to pry into your family
affairs. But was your father what is called well-to-do? I mean
when you were growing up?

Stephen Dedalus―Yes,

Stephen said. 2370

Cranly―What was he?

Cranly asked after a pause.

Stephen began to enumerate glibly his father's attributes.

Stephen Dedalus―A medical student, an oarsman, a tenor, an amateur actor, a
shouting politician, a small landlord, a small investor, a
drinker, a good fellow, a storyteller, somebody's secretary,
something in a distillery, a taxgatherer, a bankrupt and at
present a praiser of his own past.

Cranly laughed, tightening his grip on Stephen's arm, and
said:

Cranly―The distillery is damn good.

2380

Stephen Dedalus―Is there anything else you want to know?

Stephen asked.

Cranly―Are you in good circumstances at present?

Stephen Dedalus―Do I look it?

Stephen asked bluntly.

Cranly―So then,

Cranly went on musingly,

Cranlyyou were born in the lap
of luxury.

He used the phrase broadly and loudly as he often used
technical expressions as if he wished his hearer to understand
that they were used by him without conviction.

???―Your mother must have gone through a good deal of suffer-
ing, he said then. Would you not try to save her from suffering 2390
more even if .... or would you?

Stephen Dedalus―If I could,

Stephen said.

Stephen DedalusThat would cost me very little.

Cranly―Then do so,

Cranly said.

CranlyDo as she wishes you to do. What
is it for you? You disbelieve in it. It is a form: nothing else. And
you will set her mind at rest.

He ceased and, as Stephen did not reply, remained silent.
Then, as if giving utterance to the process of his own thought,
he said:

Cranly―Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a
mother's love is not. Your mother brings you into the world, 2400
carries you first in her body. What do we know about what she
feels? But whatever she feels, it, at least, must be real. It must
be. What are our ideas or ambitions? Play. Ideas! Why, that
bloody bleating goat Temple has ideas. MacCann has ideas too.
Every jackass going the roads thinks he has ideas.

Stephen, who had been listening to the unspoken speech
behind the words, said with assumed carelessness:

Stephen Dedalus―Pascal, if I remember rightly, would not suffer his mother to
kiss him as he feared the contact of her sex.

Cranly―Pascal was a pig,

said Cranly. 2410

Stephen Dedalus―Aloysius Gonzaga, I think, was of the same mind,

Stephen
said.

Cranly―And he was another pig then,

said Cranly.

Stephen Dedalus―The church calls him a saint,

Stephen objected.

Cranly―I don't care a flaming damn what anyone calls him,

Cranly
said rudely and flatly.

CranlyI call him a pig.

Stephen, preparing the words neatly in his mind, continued:

Stephen Dedalus―Jesus too seems to have treated his mother with scant cour-
tesy in public but Suarez, a jesuit theologian and Spanish
gentleman, has apologised for him.

2420

Cranly―Did the idea ever occur to you,

Cranly asked,

Cranlythat Jesus was
not what he pretended to be?

Stephen Dedalus―The first person to whom that idea occurred,

Stephen
answered,

Stephen Dedaluswas Jesus himself.

Cranly―I mean,

Cranly said, hardening in his speech,

Cranlydid the idea
ever occur to you that he was himself a conscious hypocrite,
what he called the jews of his time, a whited sepulchre? Or, to
put it more plainly, that he was a blackguard?

Stephen Dedalus―That idea never occurred to me,

Stephen answered.

Stephen DedalusBut I am
curious to know are you trying to make a convert of me or a 2430
pervert of yourself?

He turned towards his friend's face and saw there a raw
smile which some force of will strove to make finely significant.

Cranly asked suddenly in a plain sensible tone:

Cranly―Tell me the truth. Were you at all shocked by what I said?

Stephen Dedalus―Somewhat,

Stephen said.

Cranly―And why were you shocked,

Cranly pressed on in the same
tone,

Cranlyif you feel sure that our religion is false and that Jesus
was not the son of God?

Stephen Dedalus―I am not at all sure of it,

Stephen said.

Stephen DedalusHe is more like a son 2440
of God than a son of Mary.

Cranly―And is that why you will not communicate,

Cranly asked,

Cranlybecause you are not sure of that too, because you feel that the
host too may be the body and blood of the son of God and not
a wafer of bread? And because you fear that it may be?

Stephen Dedalus―Yes,

Stephen said quietly.

Stephen DedalusI feel that and I also fear it.

Cranly―I see,

Cranly said.

Stephen, struck by his tone of closure, reopened the dis-
cussion at once by saying:

Stephen Dedalus―I fear many things: dogs, horses, firearms, the sea, thunder- 2450
storms, machinery, the country roads at night.

Cranly―But why do you fear a bit of bread?

Stephen Dedalus―I imagine,

Stephen said,

Stephen Dedalusthat there is a malevolent reality
behind those things I say I fear.

Cranly―Do you fear then,

Cranly asked,

Cranlythat the God of the Roman
catholics would strike you dead and damn you if you made a
sacrilegious communion?

Stephen Dedalus―The God of the Roman catholics could do that now,

Stephen
said.

Stephen DedalusI fear more than that the chemical action which would be
set up in my soul by a false homage to a symbol behind which 2460
are massed twenty centuries of authority and veneration.

Cranly―Would you,

Cranly asked,

Cranlyin extreme danger commit that
particular sacrilege? For instance, if you lived in the penal days?

Stephen Dedalus―I cannot answer for the past,

Stephen replied.

Stephen DedalusPossibly not.

Cranly―Then,

said Cranly,

Cranlyyou do not intend to become a protes-
tant?

Stephen Dedalus―I said that I had lost the faith,

Stephen answered,

Stephen Dedalusbut not
that I had lost selfrespect. What kind of liberation would that
be to forsake an absurdity which is logical and coherent and to
embrace one which is illogical and incoherent?

2470

They had walked on towards the township of 51.873620 -8.347738Pembroke and
now, as they went on slowly along the avenues, the trees and
the scattered lights in the villas soothed their minds. The air of
wealth and repose diffused about them seemed to comfort their
neediness. Behind a hedge of laurel a light glimmered in the
window of a kitchen and the voice of a servant was heard
singing as she sharpened knives. She sang in short broken bars
Rosie O'Grady.

Cranly stopped to listen, saying:

Cranly―Mulier cantat.

2480

The soft beauty of the Latin word touched with an enchant-
ing touch the dark of the evening, with a touch fainter and
more persuading than the touch of music or of a woman's
hand. The strife of their minds was quelled. The figure of
woman as she appears in the liturgy of the church passed si-
lently through the darkness: a whiterobed figure, small and
slender as a boy and with a falling girdle. Her voice, frail and
high as a boy's, was heard intoning from a distant choir the
first words of a woman which pierce the gloom and clamour of
the first chanting of the passion: 2490

a female servant―Et tu cum Jesu Galilaeo eras.

And all hearts were touched and turned to her voice, shining
like a young star, shining clearer as the voice intoned the pro-
paroxyton and more faintly as the cadence died.

The singing ceased. They went on together, Cranly repeating
in strongly stressed rhythm the end of the refrain:

And when we are married
O, how happy we'll be
For I love sweet Rosie O'Grady
And Rosie O'Grady loves me.

2500

Cranly―There's real poetry for you,

he said.

CranlyThere's real love.

He glanced sideways at Stephen with a strange smile and
said:

Cranly―Do you consider that poetry? Or do you know what the
words mean?

Stephen Dedalus―I want to see Rosie first,

said Stephen.

Cranly―She's easy to find,

Cranly said.

His hat had come down on his forehead. He shoved it back:
and in the shadow of the trees Stephen saw his pale face,
framed by the dark, and his large dark eyes. Yes. His face was 2510
handsome: and his body was strong and hard. He had spoken
of a mother's love. He felt then the sufferings of women, the
weaknesses of their bodies and souls: and would shield them
with a strong and resolute arm and bow his mind to them.

Away then: it is time to go. A voice spoke softly to Stephen's
lonely heart, bidding him go and telling him that his friendship
was coming to an end. Yes: he would go. He could not strive
against another. He knew his part.

Stephen Dedalus―Probably I shall go away,

he said.

Cranly―Where?

Cranly asked. 2520

Stephen Dedalus―Where I can,

Stephen said.

Cranly―Yes,

Cranly said.

CranlyIt might be difficult for you to live here
now. But is it that that makes you go?

Stephen Dedalus―I have to go,

Stephen answered.

Cranly―Because,

Cranly continued,

Cranlyyou need not look upon yourself
as driven away if you do not wish to go or as a heretic or an
outlaw. There are many good believers who think as you do.
Would that surprise you? The church is not the stone building
nor even the clergy and their dogmas. It is the whole mass of
those born into it. I don't know what you wish to do in life. Is 2530
it what you told me the night we were standing outside 53.333446 -6.262433Har-
court Street station?

Stephen Dedalus―Yes,

Stephen said, smiling in spite of himself at Cranly's way
of remembering thoughts in connection with places.

Stephen DedalusThe night
you spent half an hour wrangling with Doherty about the
shortest way from 53.136900 -6.310000Sallygap to Larras.

Cranly―Pothead!

Cranly said with calm contempt.

CranlyWhat does he
know about the way from Sallygap to Larras? Or what does he
know about anything for that matter? And the big slobbering
washingpot head of him!

2540

He broke out into a loud long laugh.

Stephen Dedalus―Well?

Stephen said.

Stephen DedalusDo you remember the rest?

Cranly―What you said, is it?

Cranly asked.

CranlyYes, I remember it. To
discover the mode of life or of art whereby your spirit could
express itself in unfettered freedom.

Stephen raised his hat in acknowledgment.

Cranly―Freedom! Cranly repeated. But you are not free enough yet
to commit a sacrilege. Tell me, would you rob?

Stephen Dedalus―I would beg first,

Stephen said.

Cranly―And if you got nothing would you rob?

2550

Stephen Dedalus―You wish me to say,

Stephen answered,

Stephen Dedalusthat the rights of
property are provisional and that in certain circumstances it is
not unlawful to rob. Everyone would act in that belief. So I will
not make you that answer. Apply to the jesuit theologian Juan
Mariana de Talavera who will also explain to you in what
circumstances you may lawfully kill your king and whether you
had better hand him his poison in a goblet or smear it for him
upon his robe or his saddlebow. Ask me rather would I suffer
others to rob me or, if they did, would I call down upon them
what I believe is called the chastisement of the secular arm.

2560

Cranly―And would you?

Stephen Dedalus―I think, Stephen said, it would pain me as much to do so as
to be robbed.

Cranly―I see,

Cranly said.

He produced his match and began to clean the crevice be-
tween two teeth. Then he said carelessly:

Cranly―Tell me, for example, would you deflower a virgin?

Stephen Dedalus―Excuse me,

Stephen said politely.

Stephen DedalusIs that not the ambition of
most young gentlemen?

Cranly―What then is your point of view?

Cranly asked.

2570

His last phrase, soursmelling as the smoke of charcoal and
disheartening, excited Stephen's brain over which its fumes
seemed to brood.

Stephen Dedalus―Look here, Cranly,

he said.

Stephen DedalusYou have asked me what I would
do and what I would not do. I will tell you what I will do and
what I will not do. I will not serve that in which I no longer
believe whether it call itself my home, my fatherland or my
church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or
art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my
defence the only arms I allow myself to use, - silence, exile and 2580
cunning.

Cranly seized his arm and steered him round so as to lead
him back towards 53.328562 -6.251897Leeson Park. He laughed almost slily and
pressed Stephen's arm with an elder's affection.

Cranly―Cunning indeed!

he said.

CranlyIs it you? You poor poet, you!

Stephen Dedalus―And you made me confess to you,

Stephen said,

Stephen Deadlusthrilled by
his touch, as I have confessed to you so many other things,
have I not?

Cranly―Yes, my child,

Cranly said, still gaily.

Stephen Dedalus―You made me confess the fears that I have. But I will tell you 2590
also what I do not fear. I do not fear to be alone or to be
spurned for another or to leave whatever I have to leave. And I
am not afraid to make a mistake, even a great mistake, a
lifelong mistake and perhaps as long as eternity too.

Cranly, now grave again, slowed his pace and said:

Cranly―Alone, quite alone. You have no fear of that. And you know
what that word means? Not only to be separate from all others
but to have not even one friend.

Stephen Dedalus―I will take the risk,

said Stephen.

Cranly―And not to have any one person,

Cranly said,

Cranlywho would be 2600
more than a friend, more even than the noblest and truest
friend a man ever had.

His words seemed to have struck some deep chord in his
own nature. Had he spoken of himself, of himself as he was or
wished to be? Stephen watched his face for some moments in
silence. A cold sadness was there. He had spoken of himself, of
his own loneliness which he feared.

Stephen Dedalus―Of whom are you speaking?

Stephen asked at length.

Cranly did not answer.

* * *

20 March: Long talk with Cranly on the subject of my re- 2610
volt. He had his grand manner on. I supple and suave. Attacked
me on the score of love for one's mother. Tried to imagine his
mother: cannot. Told me once, in a moment of thoughtlessness,
his father was sixtyone when he was born. Can see him. Strong
farmer type. Pepper and salt suit. Square feet. Unkempt
grizzled beard. Probably attends coursing matches. Pays his
dues regularly but not plentifully to Father Dwyer of Larras.
Sometimes talks to girls after nightfall. But his mother? Very
young or very old? Hardly the first. If so, Cranly would not
have spoken as he did. Old then. Probably: and neglected. 2620
Hence Cranly's despair of soul: the child of exhausted loins.

21 March, morning: Thought this in bed last night but was
too lazy and free to add it. Free, yes. The exhausted loins are
those of Elizabeth and Zachary. Then is he [is] the precursor. Item:
he eats chiefly belly bacon and dried figs. Read locusts and wild
honey. Also, when thinking of him, saw always a stern severed
head or deathmask as if outlined on a grey curtain or veronica.
Decollation they call it in the fold. Puzzled for the moment by
saint John at the Latin gate. What do I see? A decollated
precursor trying to pick the lock.

2630

21 March, night: Free. Soulfree and fancyfree. Let the dead
bury the dead. Ay. And let the dead marry the dead.

22 March: In company with Lynch followed a sizable hos-
pital nurse. Lynch's idea. Dislike it. Two lean hungry grey-
hounds walking after a heifer.

23 March: Have not seen her since that night. Unwell? Sits at
the fire perhaps with mamma's shawl on her shoulders. But not
peevish. A nice bowl of gruel? Won't you now?

24 March: Began with a discussion with my mother. Subject:
B. V. M. Handicapped by my sex and youth. To escape held up 2640
relations between Jesus and Papa against those between Mary
and her son. Said religion is not a lying-in hospital. Mother
indulgent. Said I have a queer mind and have read too much.
Not true. Have read little and understood less. Then she said I
would come back to faith because I had a restless mind. This
means to leave church by backdoor of sin and reenter through
the skylight of repentance. Cannot repent. Told her so and
asked for sixpence. Got threepence.

Then went to college. Other wrangle with little roundhead
rogue's eye Ghezzi. This time about Bruno the Nolan. Began in 2650
Italian and ended in pidgin English. He said Bruno was a ter-
rible heretic. I said he was terribly burned. He agreed to this
with some sorrow. Then gave me recipe for what he calls
risotto alla bergamasca. When he pronounces a soft o he pro-
trudes his full carnal lips as if he kissed the vowel. Has he? And
could he repent? Yes, he could: and cry two round rogue's
tears, one from each eye.

Crossing Stephen's, that is, 53.338174 -6.259119my green, remembered that his
countrymen and not mine had invented what Cranly the other
night called our religion. A quartet of them, soldiers of the 2660
ninetyseventh infantry regiment, sat at the foot of the cross and
tossed up dice for the overcoat of the crucified.

Went to library. Tried to read three reviews. Useless. She is
not out yet. Am I alarmed? About what? That she will never be
out again. Blake wrote:

I wonder if William Bond will die.
For assuredly he is very ill.

Alas, poor William!

I was once at a diorama in 53.353368 -6.262135Rotunda. At the end were pic-
tures of big nobs. Among them William Ewart Gladstone, just 2670
then dead. Orchestra played O Willie, we have missed you.

A race of clodhoppers.

25 March, morning: A troubled night of dreams. Want to get
them off my chest.

A long curving gallery. From the floor ascend pillars of dark
vapours. It is peopled by the images of fabulous kings, set in
stone. Their hands are folded upon their knees in token of
weariness and their eyes are darkened for the errors of men go
up before them for ever as dark vapours.

Strange figures advance from a cave. They are not as tall as 2680
men. One does not seem to stand quite apart from another.
Their faces are phosphorescent, with darker streaks. They peer
at me and their eyes seem to ask me something. They do not
speak.

30 March: This evening Cranly was in the porch of the
library, proposing a problem to Dixon and her brother. A
mother let her child fall into the Nile. Still harping on the
mother. A crocodile seized the child. Mother asked it back.
Crocodile said all right if she told him what he was going to do
with the child, eat it or not eat it.

2690

This mentality, Lepidus would say, is indeed bred out of
your mud by the operation of your sun.

And mine? Is it not too? Then into Nilemud with it!

1 April: Disapprove of this last phrase.

2 April: Saw her drinking tea and eating cakes in Johnston,
Mooney and O'Brien's. Rather, lynxeyed Lynch saw her as we
passed. He tells me Cranly was invited there by brother. Did he
bring his crocodile? Is he the shining light now? Well, I dis-
covered him. I protest I did. Shining quietly behind a bushel of 52.979861 -6.048263
Wicklow bran.

2700

3 April: Met Davin at the 53.353437 -6.261749cigar shop opposite Findlater's
church. He was in a black sweater and had a hurleystick.
Asked me was it true I was going away and why. Told him the
shortest way to 53.412910 -8.243890Tara was 53.309441 -4.633038Holyhead. Just then my father
came up. Introduction. Father polite and observant. Asked
Davin if he might offer him some refreshment. Davin could
not, was going to a meeting. When we came away father told
me he had a good honest eye. Asked me why I did not join a
rowing club. I pretended to think it over. Told me then how he
broke Pennyfeather's heart. Wants me to read law. Says I was 2710
cut out for that. More mud, more crocodiles.

5 April: Wild spring. Scudding clouds. O life! Dark stream of
swirling bogwater on which appletrees have cast down their
delicate flowers. Eyes of girls among the leaves. Girls demure
and romping. All fair or auburn: no dark ones. They blush
better. Houp-la!

6 April: Certainly she remembers the past. Lynch says all
women do. Then she remembers the time of her childhood –
and mine if I was ever a child. The past is consumed in the
present and the present is living only because it brings forth the 2720
future. Statues of women, if Lynch be right, should always be
fully draped, one hand of the woman feeling regretfully her
own hinder parts.

6 April: later: Michael Robartes remembers forgotten beauty
and, when his arms wrap her round, he presses in his arms the
loveliness which has long faded from the world. Not this. Not
at all. I desire to press in my arms the loveliness which has not
yet come into the world.

10 April: Faintly, under the heavy night, through the silence
of the city which has turned from dreams to dreamless sleep as 2730
a weary lover whom no caresses move, the sound of hoofs
upon the road. Not so faintly now as they come near the
bridge; and in a moment as they pass the darkened windows
the silence is cloven by alarm as by an arrow. They are heard
now far away, hoofs that shine amid the heavy night as gems,
hurrying beyond the sleeping fields to what journey's end –
what heart? – bearing what tidings?

11 April: Read what I wrote last night. Vague words for a
vague emotion. Would she like it? I think so. Then I should
have to like it also.

2740

13 April: That tundish has been on my mind for a long time.
I looked it up and find it is English and good old blunt English
too. Damn the dean of studies and his funnel! What did he
come here for to teach us his own language or to learn it from
us. Damn him one way or the other!

14 April: John Alphonsus Mulrennan has just returned from
the west of Ireland (European and Asiatic papers please copy).
He told us he met an old man there in a mountain cabin. Old
man had red eyes and short pipe. Old man spoke Irish.
Mulrennan spoke Irish. Then old man and Mulrennan spoke 2750
English. Mulrennan spoke to him about universe and stars. Old
man sat, listened, smoked, spat. Then said:

???―Ah, there must be terrible queer creatures at the latter end of
the world.

I fear him. I fear his redrimmed horny eyes. It is with him I
must struggle all through this night till day come, till he or I lie
dead, gripping him by the sinewy throat till .... Till what? Till
he yield to me? No. I mean him no harm.

15 April: Met her today pointblank in 53.342556 -6.259573Grafton Street. The
crowd brought us together. We both stopped. She asked me 2760
why I never came, said she had heard all sorts of stories about
me. This was only to gain time. Asked me was I writing poems.
About whom? I asked her. This confused her more and I felt
sorry and mean. Turned off that valve at once and opened the
spiritual-heroic refrigerating apparatus, invented and patented
in all countries by Dante Alighieri. Talked rapidly of myself
and my plans. In the midst of it unluckily I made a sudden
gesture of a revolutionary nature. I must have looked like a
fellow throwing a handful of peas up into the air. People began
to look at us. She shook hands a moment after and, in going 2770
away, said she hoped I would do what I said.

Now I call that friendly, don't you?

Yes. I liked her today. A little or much? Don't know. I liked
her – and it seems a new feeling to me. Then, in that case, all
the rest, all that I thought I thought and all that I felt I felt, all
the rest before now, in fact ...... O, give it up, old chap! Sleep it
off!

16 April: Away! Away!

The spell of arms and voices: the white arms of roads, their
promise of close embraces and the black arms of tall ships that 2780
stand against the moon, their tale of distant nations. They are
held out to say: We are alone. Come. And the voices say with
them: We are your kinsmen. And the air is thick with their
company as they call to me, their kinsman, making ready to go,
shaking the wings of their exultant and terrible youth.

26 April: Mother is putting my new secondhand clothes in
order. She prays now, she says, that I may learn in my own life
and away from home and friends what the heart is and what it
feels. Amen. So be it. Welcome, O life! I go to encounter for the
millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the 2790
smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.

27 April: Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in
good stead.

53.342556 -6.259573Dublin1904

45.649526 13.776818Trieste 1914

A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

James Joyce

The Open-Source Critical Edition

I

II

III

IV

V