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Chapter 5

  • He drained his third cup of watery tea to the dregs and set to chewing th_rusts of fried bread that were scattered near him, staring into the dark poo_f the jar. The yellow dripping had been scooped out like a boghole and th_ool under it brought back to his memory the dark turf-coloured water of th_ath in Clongowes. The box of pawn tickets at his elbow had just been rifle_nd he took up idly one after another in his greasy fingers the blue and whit_ockets, scrawled and sanded and creased and bearing the name of the pledge_s Daly or MacEvoy.
  • 1 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, speckle_ith louse marks, and asked vaguely:
  • —How much is the clock fast now?
  • His mother straightened the battered alarm clock that was lying on its side i_he middle of the mantelpiece until its dial showed a quarter to twelve an_hen laid it once more on its side.
  • —An hour and twenty-five minutes, she said. The right time now is twenty pas_en. The dear knows you might try to be in time for your lectures.
  • —Fill out the place for me to wash, said Stephen.
  • —Katey, fill out the place for Stephen to wash.
  • —Boody, fill out the place for Stephen to wash.
  • —I can't, I'm going for blue. Fill it out, you, Maggy.
  • When the enamelled basin had been fitted into the well of the sink and the ol_ashing glove flung on the side of it he allowed his mother to scrub his nec_nd root into the folds of his ears and into the interstices at the wings o_is nose.
  • —Well, it's a poor case, she said, when a university student is so dirty tha_is mother has to wash him.
  • —But it gives you pleasure, said Stephen calmly.
  • An ear-splitting whistle was heard from upstairs and his mother thrust a dam_verall into his hands, saying:
  • —Dry yourself and hurry out for the love of goodness.
  • A second shrill whistle, prolonged angrily, brought one of the girls to th_oot of the staircase.
  • —Yes, father?
  • —Is your lazy bitch of a brother gone out yet?
  • —Yes, father.
  • —Sure?
  • —Yes, father.
  • —Hm!
  • The girl came back, making signs to him to be quick and go out quietly by th_ack. Stephen laughed and said:
  • —He has a curious idea of genders if he thinks a bitch is masculine.
  • —Ah, it's a scandalous shame for you, Stephen, said his mother, and you'l_ive to rue the day you set your foot in that place. I know how it has change_ou.
  • —Good morning, everybody, said Stephen, smiling and kissing the tips of hi_ingers 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 i_he nuns' madhouse beyond the wall.
  • —Jesus! O Jesus! Jesus!
  • He shook the sound out of his ears by an angry toss of his head and hurrie_n, stumbling through the mouldering offal, his heart already bitten by a_che of loathing and bitterness. His father's whistle, his mother'_utterings, the screech of an unseen maniac were to him now so many voice_ffending and threatening to humble the pride of his youth. He drove thei_choes even out of his heart with an execration; but, as he walked down th_venue and felt the grey morning light falling about him through the drippin_rees and smelt the strange wild smell of the wet leaves and bark, his sou_as loosed of her miseries.
  • The rain-laden trees of the avenue evoked in him, as always, memories of th_irls and women in the plays of Gerhart Hauptmann; and the memory of thei_ale sorrows and the fragrance falling from the wet branches mingled in a moo_f quiet joy. His morning walk across the city had begun, and he foreknew tha_s he passed the sloblands of Fairview he would think of the cloistral silver- veined prose of Newman; that as he walked along the North Strand Road, glancing idly at the windows of the provision shops, he would recall the dar_umour of Guido Cavalcanti and smile; that as he went by Baird's stonecuttin_orks in Talbot Place the spirit of Ibsen would blow through him like a kee_ind, a spirit of wayward boyish beauty; and that passing a grimy marin_ealer's shop beyond the Liffey he would repeat the song by Ben Jonson whic_egins:
  • I was not wearier where I lay.
  • His mind when wearied of its search for the essence of beauty amid th_pectral words of Aristotle or Aquinas turned often for its pleasure to th_ainty songs of the Elizabethans. His mind, in the vesture of a doubting monk, stood often in shadow under the windows of that age, to hear the grave an_ocking music of the lutenists or the frank laughter of waist-coateers until _augh too low, a phrase, tarnished by time, of chambering and false honou_tung his monkish pride and drove him on from his lurking-place.
  • The lore which he was believed to pass his days brooding upon so that it ha_apt him from the companionship of youth was only a garner of slende_entences from Aristotle's poetics and psychology and a SYNOPSIS PHILOSOPHIA_CHOLASTICAE AD MENTEM DIVI THOMAE. His thinking was a dusk of doubt and self- mistrust, lit up at moments by the lightnings of intuition, but lightnings o_o clear a splendour that in those moments the world perished about his fee_s if it had been fire-consumed; and thereafter his tongue grew heavy and h_et the eyes of others with unanswering eyes, for he felt that the spirit o_eauty had folded him round like a mantle and that in revery at least he ha_een acquainted with nobility. But when this brief pride of silence upheld hi_o longer he was glad to find himself still in the midst of common lives, passing on his way amid the squalor and noise and sloth of the city fearlessl_nd with a light heart.
  • Near the hoardings on the canal he met the consumptive man with the doll'_ace and the brimless hat coming towards him down the slope of the bridge wit_ittle steps, tightly buttoned into his chocolate overcoat, and holding hi_urled umbrella a span or two from him like a divining rod. It must be eleven, he thought, and peered into a dairy to see the time. The clock in the dair_old him that it was five minutes to five but, as he turned away, he heard _lock somewhere near him, but unseen, beating eleven strokes in swif_recision. He laughed as he heard it for it made him think of McCann, and h_aw him a squat figure in a shooting jacket and breeches and with a fai_oatee, standing in the wind at Hopkins' corner, and heard him say:
  • —Dedalus, you're an antisocial being, wrapped up in yourself. I'm not. I'm _emocrat and I `Il work and act for social liberty and equality among al_lasses and sexes in the United States of the Europe of the future.
  • Eleven! Then he was late for that lecture too. What day of the week was it? H_topped at a newsagent's to read the headline of a placard. Thursday. Ten t_leven, English; eleven to twelve, French; twelve to one, physics. He fancie_o himself the English lecture and felt, even at that distance, restless an_elpless. He saw the heads of his classmates meekly bent as they wrote i_heir notebooks the points they were bidden to note, nominal definitions, essential definitions and examples or dates of birth or death, chief works, _avourable and an unfavourable criticism side by side. His own head was unben_or his thoughts wandered abroad and whether he looked around the little clas_f students or out of the window across the desolate gardens of the green a_dour assailed him of cheerless cellar-damp and decay. Another head than his, right before him in the first benches, was poised squarely above its bendin_ellows like the head of a priest appealing without humility to the tabernacl_or the humble worshippers about him. Why was it that when he thought o_ranly he could never raise before his mind the entire image of his body bu_nly the image of the head and face? Even now against the grey curtain of th_orning he saw it before him like the phantom of a dream, the face of _evered head or death-mask, crowned on the brows by its stiff black uprigh_air as by an iron crown. It was a priest-like face, priest-like in its palor, in the wide winged nose, in the shadowings below the eyes and along the jaws, priest-like in the lips that were long and bloodless and faintly smiling; an_tephen, remembering swiftly how he had told Cranly of all the tumults an_nrest and longings in his soul, day after day and night by night, only to b_nswered by his friend's listening silence, would have told himself that i_as the face of a guilty priest who heard confessions of those whom he had no_ower to absolve but that he felt again in memory the gaze of its dar_omanish eyes.
  • Through this image he had a glimpse of a strange dark cavern of speculatio_ut at once turned away from it, feeling that it was not yet the hour to ente_t. But the nightshade of his friend's listlessness seemed to be diffusing i_he air around him a tenuous and deadly exhalation and be found himsel_lancing from one casual word to another on his right or left in stolid wonde_hat they had been so silently emptied of instantaneous sense until every mea_hop legend bound his mind like the words of a spell and his soul shrivelle_p 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 int_he very words themselves which set to band and disband themselves in waywar_hythms:
  • The ivy whines upon the wall, And whines and twines upon the wall, The yello_vy upon the wall, Ivy, ivy up the wall.
  • Did anyone ever hear such drivel? Lord Almighty! Who ever heard of ivy whinin_n a wall? Yellow ivy; that was all right. Yellow ivory also. And what abou_vory ivy?
  • The word now shone in his brain, clearer and brighter than any ivory sawn fro_he mottled tusks of elephants. IVORY, IVOIRE, AVORIO, EBUR. One of the firs_xamples that he had learnt in Latin had run: INDIA MITTIT EBUR; and h_ecalled the shrewd northern face of the rector who had taught him to constru_he Metamorphoses of Ovid in a courtly English, made whimsical by the mentio_f porkers and potsherds and chines of bacon. He had learnt what little h_new of the laws of Latin verse from a ragged book written by a Portugues_riest.
  • Contrahit orator, variant in carmine vates.
  • The crises and victories and secessions in Roman history were handed on to hi_n the trite words IN TANTO DISCRIMINE and he had tried to peer into th_ocial life of the city of cities through the words IMPLERE OLLAM DENARIORU_hich the rector had rendered sonorously as the filling of a pot wit_enaries. The pages of his time-worn Horace never felt cold to the touch eve_hen his own fingers were cold; they were human pages and fifty years befor_hey had been turned by the human fingers of John Duncan Inverarity and by hi_rother, William Malcolm Inverarity. Yes, those were noble names on the dusk_lyleaf and, even for so poor a Latinist as he, the dusky verses were a_ragrant as though they had lain all those years in myrtle and lavender an_ervain; but yet it wounded him to think that he would never be but a sh_uest at the feast of the world's culture and that the monkish learning, i_erms of which he was striving to forge out an esthetic philosophy, was hel_o higher by the age he lived in than the subtle and curious jargons o_eraldry and falconry.
  • The grey block of Trinity on his left, set heavily in the city's ignoranc_ike a dull stone set in a cumbrous ring, pulled his mind downward and whil_e was striving this way and that to free his feet from the fetters of th_eformed conscience he came upon the droll statue of the national poet o_reland.
  • He looked at it without anger; for, though sloth of the body and of the sou_rept over it like unseen vermin, over the shuffling feet and up the folds o_he cloak and around the servile head, it seemed humbly conscious of it_ndignity. It was a Firbolg in the borrowed cloak of a Milesian; and h_hought of his friend Davin, the peasant student. It was a jesting nam_etween them, but the young peasant bore with it lightly:
  • —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 touche_tephen pleasantly when first heard for he was as formal in speech with other_s they were with him. Often, as he sat in Davin's rooms in Grantham Street, wondering at his friend's well-made boots that flanked the wall pair by pai_nd repeating for his friend's simple ear the verses and cadences of other_hich were the veils of his own longing and dejection, the rude Firbolg min_f his listener had drawn his mind towards it and flung it back again, drawin_t by a quiet inbred courtesy of attention or by a quaint turn of old Englis_peech or by the force of its delight in rude bodily skill—for Davin had sa_t the feet of Michael Cusack, the Gael—repelling swiftly and suddenly by _rossness of intelligence or by a bluntness of feeling or by a dull stare o_error in the eyes, the terror of soul of a starving Irish village in whic_he 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. Th_ossip of his fellow-students which strove to render the flat life of th_ollege significant at any cost loved to think of him as a young fenian. Hi_urse had taught him Irish and shaped his rude imagination by the broke_ights of Irish myth. He stood towards the myth upon which no individual min_ad ever drawn out a line of beauty and to its unwieldy tales that divide_gainst themselves as they moved down the cycles in the same attitude a_owards the Roman catholic religion, the attitude of a dull-witted loyal serf.
  • Whatsoever of thought or of feeling came to him from England or by way o_nglish culture his mind stood armed against in obedience to a password; an_f the world that lay beyond England he knew only the foreign legion of Franc_n which he spoke of serving.
  • Coupling this ambition with the young man's humour Stephen had often calle_im one of the tame geese and there was even a point of irritation in the nam_ointed against that very reluctance of speech and deed in his friend whic_eemed so often to stand between Stephen's mind, eager of speculation, and th_idden ways of Irish life.
  • One night the young peasant, his spirit stung by the violent or luxuriou_anguage in which Stephen escaped from the cold silence of intellectua_evolt, had called up before Stephen's mind a strange vision. The two wer_alking slowly towards Davin's rooms through the dark narrow streets of th_oorer jews.
  • —A thing happened to myself, Stevie, last autumn, coming on winter, and _ever told it to a living soul and you are the first person now I ever told i_o. I disremember if it was October or November. It was October because it wa_efore I came up here to join the matriculation class.
  • Stephen had turned his smiling eyes towards his friend's face, flattered b_is confidence and won over to sympathy by the speaker's simple accent.
  • —I was away all that day from my own place over in Buttevant.
  • —I don't know if you know where that is—at a hurling match between the Croke'_wn 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 coo_or the Limericks but he was up with the forwards half the time and shoutin_ike mad. I never will forget that day. One of the Crokes made a woeful wip_t him one time with his caman and I declare to God he was within an aim's ac_f getting it at the side of his temple. Oh, honest to God, if the crook of i_aught him that time he was done for.
  • —I am glad he escaped, Stephen had said with a laugh, but surely that's no_he strange thing that happened you?—Well, I suppose that doesn't interes_ou, but leastways there was such noise after the match that I missed th_rain home and I couldn't get any kind of a yoke to give me a lift for, a_uck would have it, there was a mass meeting that same day over i_astletownroche and all the cars in the country were there. So there wa_othing for it only to stay the night or to foot it out. Well, I started t_alk and on I went and it was coming on night when I got into the Ballyhour_ills, that's better than ten miles from Kilmallock and there's a long lonel_oad after that. You wouldn't see the sign of a christian house along the roa_r hear a sound. It was pitch dark almost. Once or twice I stopped by the wa_nder a bush to redden my pipe and only for the dew was thick I'd hav_tretched out there and slept. At last, after a bend of the road, I spied _ittle 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 i_uttevant and was walking back and that I'd be thankful for a glass of water.
  • After a while a young woman opened the door and brought me out a big mug o_ilk. She was half undressed as if she was going to bed when I knocked and sh_ad her hair hanging and I thought by her figure and by something in the loo_f her eyes that she must be carrying a child. She kept me in talk a lon_hile at the door, and I thought it strange because her breast and he_houlders were bare. She asked me was I tired and would I like to stop th_ight there. She said she was all alone in the house and that her husband ha_one that morning to Queenstown with his sister to see her off. And all th_ime she was talking, Stevie, she had her eyes fixed on my face and she stoo_o close to me I could hear her breathing. When I handed her back the mug a_ast she took my hand to draw me in over the threshold and said: `COME IN AN_TAY THE NIGHT HERE. YOU'VE NO CALL TO BE FRIGHTENED. THERE'S NO ONE IN IT BU_URSELVES.' 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 wa_tanding at the door.
  • The last words of Davin's story sang in his memory and the figure of the woma_n the story stood forth reflected in other figures of the peasant women who_e had seen standing in the doorways at Clane as the college cars drove by, a_ type of her race and of his own, a bat-like soul waking to the consciousnes_f itself in darkness and secrecy and loneliness and, through the eyes an_oice 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. Bu_hat lovely bunch. Will you, gentleman?
  • The blue flowers which she lifted towards him and her young blue eyes seeme_o him at that instant images of guilelessness, and he halted till the imag_ad vanished and he saw only her ragged dress and damp coarse hair an_oydenish face.
  • —Do, gentleman! Don't forget your own girl, sir!
  • —I have no money, said Stephen.
  • —Buy them lovely ones, will you, sir? Only a penny.
  • —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 a_nstant.
  • —Possibly, said Stephen, but I don't think it likely.
  • —He left her quickly, fearing that her intimacy might turn to jibing an_ishing to be out of the way before she offered her ware to another, a touris_rom England or a student of Trinity. Grafton Street, along which he walked, prolonged that moment of discouraged poverty. In the roadway at the head o_he street a slab was set to the memory of Wolfe Tone and he remembered havin_een present with his father at its laying. He remembered with bitterness tha_cene of tawdry tribute. There were four French delegates in a brake and one, a plump smiling young man, held, wedged on a stick, a card on which wer_rinted the words: VIVE L'IRLANDE!
  • But the trees in Stephen's Green were fragrant of rain and the rain-sodde_arth gave forth its mortal odour, a faint incense rising upward through th_ould from many hearts. The soul of the gallant venal city which his elder_ad told him of had shrunk with time to a faint mortal odour rising from th_arth and he knew that in a moment when he entered the sombre college he woul_e conscious of a corruption other than that of Buck Egan and Burnchape_haley.
  • It was too late to go upstairs to the French class. He crossed the hall an_ook the corridor to the left which led to the physics theatre. The corrido_as dark and silent but not unwatchful. Why did he feel that it was no_nwatchful? Was it because he had heard that in Buck Whaley's time there was _ecret staircase there? Or was the jesuit house extra-territorial and was h_alking among aliens? The Ireland of Tone and of Parnell seemed to hav_eceded in space.
  • He opened the door of the theatre and halted in the chilly grey light tha_truggled through the dusty windows. A figure was crouching before the larg_rate and by its leanness and greyness he knew that it was the dean of studie_ighting the fire. Stephen closed the door quietly and approached th_ireplace.
  • —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 _ire. We have the liberal arts and we have the useful arts. This is one of th_seful arts.
  • —I will try to learn it, said Stephen.
  • —Not too much coal, said the dean, working briskly at his task, that is one o_he secrets.
  • He produced four candle-butts from the side-pockets of his soutane and place_hem deftly among the coals and twisted papers. Stephen watched him i_ilence. Kneeling thus on the flagstone to kindle the fire and busied with th_isposition of his wisps of paper and candle-butts he seemed more than ever _umble server making ready the place of sacrifice in an empty temple, a levit_f the Lord. Like a levite's robe of plain linen the faded worn soutane drape_he kneeling figure of one whom the canonicals or the bell-bordered epho_ould irk and trouble. His very body had waxed old in lowly service of th_ord—in tending the fire upon the altar, in bearing tidings secretly, i_aiting upon worldlings, in striking swiftly when bidden—and yet had remaine_ngraced by aught of saintly or of prelatic beauty. Nay, his very soul ha_axed old in that service without growing towards light and beauty o_preading abroad a sweet odour of her sanctity—a mortified will no mor_esponsive to the thrill of its obedience than was to the thrill of love o_ombat his ageing body, spare and sinewy, greyed with a silver-pointed down.
  • The dean rested back on his hunkers and watched the sticks catch. Stephen, t_ill the silence, said:
  • —I am sure I could not light a fire.
  • —You are an artist, are you not, Mr Dedalus? said the dean, glancing up an_linking his pale eyes. The object of the artist is the creation of th_eautiful. 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.
  • —Aquinas, answered Stephen, says PULCRA SUNT QUAE VISA PLACENT.
  • —This fire before us, said the dean, will be pleasing to the eye. Will i_herefore be beautiful?
  • —In so far as it is apprehended by the sight, which I suppose means her_sthetic intellection, it will be beautiful. But Aquinas also says BONUM ES_N QUOD TENDIT APPETITUS. In so far as it satisfies the animal craving fo_armth fire is a good. In hell, however, it is an evil.
  • —Quite so, said the dean, you have certainly hit the nail on the 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, Stephe_aw 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'_nthusiasm. Even the legendary craft of the company, a craft subtler and mor_ecret than its fabled books of secret subtle wisdom, had not fired his sou_ith the energy of apostleship. It seemed as if he used the shifts and lor_nd 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 bu_urning them, with a firm gesture of obedience back upon themselves and fo_ll this silent service it seemed as if he loved not at all the master an_ittle, 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 b_eaned on in the road at nightfall or in stress of weather, to lie with _ady's nosegay on a garden seat, to be raised in menace.
  • The dean returned to the hearth and began to stroke his chin.
  • —When may we expect to have something from you on the esthetic question? h_sked.
  • —From me! said Stephen in astonishment. I stumble on an idea once a fortnigh_f I am lucky.
  • —These questions are very profound, Mr Dedalus, said the dean. It is lik_ooking down from the cliffs of Moher into the depths. Many go down into th_epths and never come up. Only the trained diver can go down into those depth_nd explore them and come to the surface again.
  • —If you mean speculation, sir, said Stephen, I also am sure that there is n_uch thing as free thinking inasmuch as all thinking must be bound by its ow_aws.
  • —Ha!
  • —For my purpose I can work on at present by the light of one or two ideas o_ristotle and Aquinas.
  • —I see. I quite see your point.
  • —I need them only for my own use and guidance until I have done something fo_yself by their light. If the lamp smokes or smells I shall try to trim it. I_t does not give light enough I shall sell it and buy another.
  • —Epictetus also had a lamp, said the dean, which was sold for a fancy pric_fter his death. It was the lamp he wrote his philosophical dissertations by.
  • You know Epictetus?
  • —An old gentleman, said Stephen coarsely, who said that the soul is very lik_ bucketful of water.
  • —He tells us in his homely way, the dean went on, that he put an iron lam_efore a statue of one of the gods and that a thief stole the lamp. What di_he philosopher do? He reflected that it was in the character of a thief t_teal 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 itsel_n Stephen's consciousness with the jingle of the words, bucket and lamp an_amp and bucket. The priest's voice, too, had a hard jingling tone. Stephen'_ind halted by instinct, checked by the strange tone and the imagery and b_he priest's face which seemed like an unlit lamp or a reflector hung in _alse focus. What lay behind it or within it? A dull torpor of the soul or th_ullness of the thundercloud, charged with intellection and capable of th_loom of God?
  • —I meant a different kind of lamp, sir, said Stephen.
  • —Undoubtedly, said the dean.
  • —One difficulty, said Stephen, in esthetic discussion is to know whether word_re being used according to the literary tradition or according to th_radition of the marketplace. I remember a sentence of Newman's in which h_ays of the Blessed Virgin that she was detained in the full company of th_aints. The use of the word in the marketplace is quite different. I HOPE I A_OT DETAINING YOU.
  • —Not in the least, said the dean politely.
  • —No, no, said Stephen, smiling, I mean—
  • —Yes, yes; I see, said the dean quickly, I quite catch the point: DETAIN.
  • He thrust forward his under jaw and uttered a dry short cough.
  • —To return to the lamp, he said, the feeding of it is also a nice problem. Yo_ust choose the pure oil and you must be careful when you pour it in not t_verflow it, not to pour in more than the funnel can hold.
  • —What funnel? asked Stephen.
  • —The funnel through which you pour the oil into your lamp.
  • —That? said Stephen. Is that called a funnel? Is it not a tundish?
  • —What is a tundish?
  • —That. Thefunnel.
  • —Is that called a tundish in Ireland? asked the dean. I never heard the wor_n my life.
  • —It is called a tundish in Lower Drumcondra, said Stephen, laughing, wher_hey speak the best English.
  • —A tundish, said the dean reflectively. That is a most interesting word. _ust look that word up. Upon my word I must.
  • His courtesy of manner rang a little false and Stephen looked at the Englis_onvert with the same eyes as the elder brother in the parable may have turne_n the prodigal. A humble follower in the wake of clamorous conversions, _oor Englishman in Ireland, he seemed to have entered on the stage of jesui_istory when that strange play of intrigue and suffering and envy and struggl_nd indignity had been all but given through—a late-comer, a tardy spirit.
  • From what had he set out? Perhaps he had been born and bred among seriou_issenters, seeing salvation in Jesus only and abhorring the vain pomps of th_stablishment. Had he felt the need of an implicit faith amid the welter o_ectarianism and the jargon of its turbulent schisms, six principle men, peculiar people, seed and snake baptists, supralapsarian dogmatists? Had h_ound the true church all of a sudden in winding up to the end like a reel o_otton some fine-spun line of reasoning upon insufflation on the imposition o_ands or the procession of the Holy Ghost? Or had Lord Christ touched him an_idden him follow, like that disciple who had sat at the receipt of custom, a_e sat by the door of some zinc-roofed chapel, yawning and telling over hi_hurch pence?
  • The dean repeated the word yet again.
  • —Tundish! Well now, that is interesting!
  • —The question you asked me a moment ago seems to me more interesting. What i_hat beauty which the artist struggles to express from lumps of earth, sai_tephen coldly.
  • —The little word seemed to have turned a rapier point of his sensitivenes_gainst this courteous and vigilant foe. He felt with a smart of dejectio_hat the man to whom he was speaking was a countryman of Ben Jonson. H_hought:
  • —The language in which we are speaking is his before it is mine. How differen_re the words HOME, CHRIST, ALE, MASTER, on his lips and on mine! I canno_peak or write these words without unrest of spirit. His language, so familia_nd so foreign, will always be for me an acquired speech. I have not made o_ccepted its words. My voice holds them at bay. My soul frets in the shadow o_is language.
  • —And to distinguish between the beautiful and the sublime, the dean added, t_istinguish between moral beauty and material beauty. And to inquire what kin_f beauty is proper to each of the various arts. These are some interestin_oints we might take up.
  • Stephen, disheartened suddenly by the dean's firm, dry tone, was silent; an_hrough the silence a distant noise of many boots and confused voices came u_he staircase.
  • —In pursuing these speculations, said the dean conclusively, there is, however, the danger of perishing of inanition. First you must take you_egree. Set that before you as your first aim. Then, little by little, yo_ill see your way. I mean in every sense, your way in life and in thinking. I_ay be uphill pedalling at first. Take Mr Moonan. He was a long time before h_ot to the top. But he got there.
  • —I may not have his talent, said Stephen quietly.
  • —You never know, said the dean brightly. We never can say what is in us. _ost certainly should not be despondent. PER ASPERA AD ASTRA.
  • He left the hearth quickly and went towards the landing to oversee the arriva_f the first arts' class.
  • Leaning against the fireplace Stephen heard him greet briskly and impartiall_very Student of the class and could almost see the frank smiles of th_oarser students. A desolating pity began to fall like dew upon his easil_mbittered heart for this faithful serving-man of the knightly Loyola, fo_his half-brother of the clergy, more venal than they in speech, mor_teadfast of soul than they, one whom he would never call his ghostly father; and he thought how this man and his companions had earned the name o_orldlings at the hands not of the unworldly only but of the worldly also fo_aving pleaded, during all their history, at the bar of God's justice for th_ouls of the lax and the lukewarm and the prudent.
  • The entry of the professor was signalled by a few rounds of Kentish fire fro_he heavy boots of those students who sat on the highest tier of the gloom_heatre under the grey cobwebbed windows. The calling of the roll began an_he responses to the names were given out in all tones until the name of Pete_yrne was reached.
  • —Here!
  • A deep bass note in response came from the upper tier, followed by coughs o_rotest 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.
  • —Try Leopardstown! Said a voice from the bench behind. Stephen glanced u_uickly but Moynihan's snoutish face, outlined on the grey light, wa_mpassive. A formula was given out. Amid the rustling of the notebooks Stephe_urned back again and said:
  • —Give me some paper for God's sake.
  • Are you as bad as that? asked Moynihan with a broad grin.
  • He tore a sheet from his scribbler and passed it down, whispering:
  • —In case of necessity any layman or woman can do it.
  • The formula which he wrote obediently on the sheet of paper, the coiling an_ncoiling calculations of the professor, the spectre-like symbols of force an_elocity fascinated and jaded Stephen's mind. He had heard some say that th_ld professor was an atheist freemason. O the grey dull day! It seemed a limb_f painless patient consciousness through which souls of mathematicians migh_ander, projecting long slender fabrics from plane to plane of ever rarer an_aler twilight, radiating swift eddies to the last verges of a universe eve_aster, farther and more impalpable.
  • —So we must distinguish between elliptical and ellipsoidal. Perhaps some o_ou gentlemen may be familiar with the works of Mr W. S. Gilbert. In one o_is songs he speaks of the billiard sharp who is condemned to play:
  • On a cloth untrue With a twisted cue And elliptical billiard balls.
  • —He means a ball having the form of the ellipsoid of the principal axes o_hich I spoke a moment ago.
  • Moynihan leaned down towards Stephen's ear and murmured:
  • —What price ellipsoidal balls! chase me, ladies, I'm in the cavalry!
  • His fellow student's rude humour ran like a gust through the cloister o_tephen's mind, shaking into gay life limp priestly vestments that hung upo_he walls, setting them to sway and caper in a sabbath of misrule. The form_f the community emerged from the gust-blown vestments, the dean of studies, the portly florid bursar with his cap of grey hair, the president, the littl_riest with feathery hair who wrote devout verses, the squat peasant form o_he professor of economics, the tall form of the young professor of menta_cience discussing on the landing a case of conscience with his class like _iraffe cropping high leafage among a herd of antelopes, the grave trouble_refect of the sodality, the plump round-headed professor of Italian with hi_ogue's eyes. They came ambling and stumbling, tumbling and capering, kiltin_heir gowns for leap frog, holding one another back, shaken with deep fals_aughter, smacking one another behind and laughing at their rude malice, calling to one another by familiar nicknames, protesting with sudden dignit_t some rough usage, whispering two and two behind their hands.
  • The professor had gone to the glass cases on the side wall, from a shelf o_hich 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 wit_is lecture. He explained that the wires in modern coils were of a compoun_alled platinoid lately discovered by F. W. Martino.
  • He spoke clearly the initials and surname of the discoverer. Moyniha_hispered from behind:
  • —Good old Fresh Water Martin!
  • —Ask him, Stephen whispered back with weary humour, if he wants a subject fo_lectrocution. 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 th_oice of a slobbering urchin.
  • —Please teacher! This boy is after saying a bad word, teacher.
  • —Platinoid, the professor said solemnly, is preferred to German silver becaus_t has a lower coefficient of resistance by changes of temperature. Th_latinoid wire is insulated and the covering of silk that insulates it i_ound on the ebonite bobbins just where my finger is. If it were wound singl_n extra current would be induced in the coils. The bobbins are saturated i_ot paraffin wax
  • A sharp Ulster 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 applie_cience. A heavy-built student, wearing gold spectacles, stared with som_onder at the questioner. Moynihan murmured from behind in his natural voice:
  • —Isn't MacAlister a devil for his pound of flesh?
  • Stephen looked coldly on the oblong Skull beneath him overgrown with tangle_wine-coloured hair. The voice, the accent, the mind of the questione_ffended him and he allowed the offence to carry him towards wilfu_nkindness, bidding his mind think that the student's father would have don_etter had he sent his son to Belfast to study and have saved something on th_rain fare by so doing.
  • The oblong skull beneath did not turn to meet this shaft of thought and ye_he shaft came back to its bowstring; for he saw in a moment the student'_hey-pale face.
  • —That thought is not mine, he said to himself quickly. It came from the comi_rishman in the bench behind. Patience. Can you Say with certitude by whom th_oul of your race was bartered and its elect betrayed—by the questioner or b_he mocker? Patience. Remember Epictetus. It is probably in his character t_sk such a question at such a moment in such a tone and to pronounce the wor_CIENCE as a monosyllable.
  • The droning voice of the professor continued to wind itself slowly round an_ound the coils it spoke of, doubling, trebling, quadrupling its somnolen_nergy as the coil multiplied its ohms of resistance.
  • Moynihan's voice called from behind in echo to a distant bell:
  • —Closing time, gents!
  • The entrance hall was crowded and loud with talk. On a table near the doo_ere two photographs in frames and between them a long roll of paper bearin_n irregular tail of signatures. MacCann went briskly to and fro among th_tudents, talking rapidly, answering rebuffs and leading one after another t_he table. In the inner hall the dean of studies stood talking to a youn_rofessor, stroking his chin gravely and nodding his head.
  • Stephen, checked by the crowd at the door, halted irresolutely. From under th_ide falling leaf of a soft hat Cranly's dark eyes were watching him.
  • —Have you signed? Stephen asked.
  • Cranly closed his long thin-lipped mouth, communed with himself an instant an_nswered:
  • —EGO HABEO.
  • —What is it for?
  • —QUOD?
  • —What is it for?
  • Cranly turned his pale face to Stephen and said blandly and bitterly:
  • —PER PAX UNIVERSALIS.
  • —Stephen pointed to the Tsar's photograph and said:
  • —He has the face of a besotted Christ.
  • The scorn and anger in his voice brought Cranly's eyes back from a calm surve_f the walls of the hall.
  • —Are you annoyed? he asked.
  • —No, answered Stephen.
  • —Are you in bad humour?
  • —No.
  • —CREDO UT VOS SANGUINARIUS MENDAX ESTIS, said Cranly, QUIA FACIES VOSTR_ONSTRAT UT VOS IN DAMNO MALO HUMORE ESTIS.
  • Moynihan, on his way to the table, said in Stephen's ear:
  • —MacCann is in tiptop form. Ready to shed the last drop. Brand new world. N_timulants and votes for the bitches.
  • 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 m_ar. Can you?
  • A dull scowl appeared on Cranly's forehead. He stared at the table wher_oynihan had bent to write his name on the roll, and then said flatly:
  • —A sugar!
  • —QUIS EST IN MALO HUMORE, said Stephen, EGO AUT VOS?
  • Cranly did not take up the taunt. He brooded sourly on his judgement an_epeated with the same flat force:
  • —A flaming bloody sugar, that's what he is!
  • It was his epitaph for all dead friendships and Stephen wondered whether i_ould ever be spoken in the same tone over his memory. The heavy lumpis_hrase sank slowly out of hearing like a stone through a quagmire. Stephen sa_t sink as he had seen many another, feeling its heaviness depress his heart.
  • Cranly's speech, unlike that of Davin, had neither rare phrases of Elizabetha_nglish nor quaintly turned versions of Irish idioms. Its drawl was an echo o_he quays of Dublin given back by a bleak decaying seaport, its energy an ech_f the sacred eloquence of Dublin given back flatly by a Wicklow pulpit.
  • The heavy scowl faded from Cranly's face as MacCann marched briskly toward_hem from the other side of the hall.
  • —Here you are! said MacCann cheerily.
  • —Here I am! said Stephen.
  • —Late as usual. Can you not combine the progressive tendency with a respec_or punctuality?
  • —That question is out of order, said Stephen. Next business. His smiling eye_ere fixed on a silver-wrapped tablet of milk chocolate which peeped out o_he propagandist's breast-pocket. A little ring of listeners closed round t_ear the war of wits. A lean student with olive skin and lank black hai_hrust his face between the two, glancing from one to the other at each phras_nd seeming to try to catch each flying phrase in his open moist mouth. Cranl_ook 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 tugged twice at th_traw-coloured goatee which hung from his blunt chin.
  • —The next business is to sign the testimonial.
  • —Will you pay me anything if I sign? asked Stephen.
  • —I thought you were an idealist, said MacCann.
  • The gipsy-like student looked about him and addressed the onlookers in a_ndistinct bleating voice.
  • —By hell, that's a queer notion. I consider that notion to be a mercenar_otion.
  • His voice faded into silence. No heed was paid to his words. He turned hi_live face, equine in expression, towards Stephen, inviting him to spea_gain.
  • MacCann began to speak with fluent energy of the Tsar's rescript, of Stead, o_eneral disarmament arbitration in cases of international disputes, of th_igns of the times, of the new humanity and the new gospel of life which woul_ake it the business of the community to secure as cheaply as possible th_reatest possible happiness of the greatest possible number.
  • The gipsy student responded to the close of the period by crying:
  • —Three cheers for universal brotherhood!
  • —Go on, Temple, said a stout ruddy student near him. I'll stand you a pin_fter.
  • —I'm a believer in universal brotherhood, said Temple, glancing about him ou_f his dark oval eyes. Marx is only a bloody cod.
  • Cranly gripped his arm tightly to check his tongue, smiling uneasily, an_epeated:
  • —Easy, easy, easy!
  • Temple struggled to free his arm but continued, his mouth flecked by a thi_oam:
  • —Socialism was founded by an Irishman and the first man in Europe who preache_he freedom of thought was Collins. Two hundred years ago. He denounce_riestcraft, the philosopher of Middlesex. Three cheers for John Anthon_ollins!
  • 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; 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.
  • —The affair doesn't interest me in the least, said Stephen wearily. You kno_hat well. Why do you make a scene about it?
  • —Good! said MacCann, smacking his lips. You are a reactionary, then?
  • —Do you think you impress me, Stephen asked, when you flourish your woode_word?
  • —Metaphors! said MacCann bluntly. Come to facts. Stephen blushed and turne_side. MacCann stood his ground and said with hostile humour:
  • —Minor poets, I suppose, are above such trivial questions as the question o_niversal peace.
  • Cranly raised his head and held the handball between the two students by wa_f a peace-offering, saying:
  • —PAX SUPER TOTUM SANGUINARIUM GLOBUM.
  • Stephen, moving away the bystanders, jerked his shoulder angrily in th_irection of the Tsar's image, saying:
  • —Keep your icon. If we must have a Jesus let us have a legitimate Jesus.
  • —By hell, that's a good one! said the gipsy student to those about him, that'_ fine expression. I like that expression immensely.
  • He gulped down the spittle in his throat as if he were gulping down the phras_nd, fumbling at the peak of his tweed cap, turned to Stephen, saying:
  • —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 expression.
  • 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 yo_elieve in man. I admire you, sir. I admire the mind of man independent of al_eligions. Is that your opinion about the mind of Jesus?
  • —Go on, Temple, said the stout ruddy student, returning, as was his wont, t_is 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 flushe_lunt-featured face.
  • —My signature is of no account, he said politely. You are right to go you_ay. Leave me to go mine.
  • —Dedalus, said MacCann crisply, I believe you're a good fellow but you hav_et to learn the dignity of altruism and the responsibility of the huma_ndividual.
  • A voice said:
  • —Intellectual crankery is better out of this movement than in it.
  • Stephen, recognizing the harsh tone of MacAlister's voice did not turn in th_irection of the voice. Cranly pushed solemnly through the throng of students, linking Stephen and Temple like a celebrant attended by his ministers on hi_ay 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 yo_ee 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 escapin_rom the student with whom he had been conversing. He stood at the foot of th_taircase, a foot on the lowest step, his threadbare soutane gathered abou_im for the ascent with womanish care, nodding his head often and repeating:
  • —Not a doubt of it, Mr Hackett! Very fine! Not a doubt of it!
  • I n the middle of the hall the prefect of the college sodality was speakin_arnestly, in a soft querulous voice, with a boarder. As he spoke he wrinkle_ little his freckled brow and bit, between his phrases, at a tiny bon_encil.
  • —I hope the matric men will all come. The first arts' men are pretty sure.
  • Second arts, too. We must make sure of the newcomers.
  • Temple bent again across Cranly, as they were passing through the doorway, an_aid in a swift whisper:
  • —Do you know that he is a married man? he was a married man before the_onverted him. He has a wife and children somewhere. By hell, I think that'_he queerest notion I ever heard! Eh?
  • His whisper trailed off into sly cackling laughter. The moment they wer_hrough the doorway Cranly seized him rudely by the neck and shook him, saying:
  • —You flaming floundering fool! I'll take my dying bible there isn't a bigge_loody ape, do you know, than you in the whole flaming bloody world!
  • Temple wriggled in his grip, laughing still with sly content, while Cranl_epeated flatly at every rude shake:
  • —A flaming flaring bloody idiot!
  • They crossed the weedy garden together. The president, wrapped in a heav_oose cloak, was coming towards them along one of the walks, reading hi_ffice. At the end of the walk he halted before turning and raised his eyes.
  • The students saluted, Temple fumbling as before at the peak of his cap. The_alked forward in silence. As they neared the alley Stephen could hear th_huds of the players' hands and the wet smacks of the ball and Davin's voic_rying 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 wa_ sincere man?
  • Stephen laughed outright. Cranly, picking up the broken stave of a cask fro_he grass at his feet, turned swiftly and said sternly:
  • —Temple, I declare to the living God if you say another word, do you know, t_nybody on any subject, I'll kill you SUPER SPOTTUM.
  • —He was like you, I fancy, said Stephen, an emotional man.
  • —Blast him, curse him! said Cranly broadly. Don't talk to him at all. Sure, you might as well be talking, do you know, to a flaming chamber-pot as talkin_o Temple. Go home, Temple. For God's sake, go home.
  • —I don't care a damn about you, Cranly, answered Temple, moving out of reac_f the uplifted stave and pointing at Stephen. He's the only man I see in thi_nstitution that has an individual mind.
  • —Institution! Individual! cried Cranly. Go home, blast you, for you're _opeless bloody man.
  • —I'm an emotional man, said Temple. That's quite rightly expressed. And I'_roud that I'm an emotionalist.
  • He sidled out of the alley, smiling slyly. Cranly watched him with a blan_xpressionless 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 agains_he wall, his peaked cap down on his eyes. The laugh, pitched in a high ke_nd coming from a So muscular frame, seemed like the whinny of an elephant.
  • The student's body shook all over and, to ease his mirth, he rubbed both hi_ands delightedly over his groins.
  • —Lynch is awake, said Cranly.
  • Lynch, for answer, straightened himself and thrust forward his chest.
  • —Lynch puts out his chest, said Stephen, as a criticism of life.
  • Lynch smote himself sonorously on the chest and said:
  • —Who has anything to say about my girth?
  • Cranly took him at the word and the two began to tussle. When their faces ha_lushed with the struggle they drew apart, panting. Stephen bent down toward_avin who, intent on the game, had paid no heed to the talk of the others.
  • —And how is my little tame goose? he asked. Did he sign, too?
  • David nodded and said:
  • —And you, Stevie?
  • Stephen shook his head.
  • —You're a terrible man, Stevie, said Davin, taking the short pipe from hi_outh, always alone.
  • —Now that you have signed the petition for universal peace, said Stephen, _uppose you will burn that little copybook I saw in your room.
  • As Davin did not answer, Stephen began to quote:
  • —Long pace, fianna! Right incline, fianna! Fianna, by numbers, salute, one, two!
  • —That's a different question, said Davin. I'm an Irish nationalist, first an_oremost. But that's you all out. You're a born sneerer, Stevie.
  • —When you make the next rebellion with hurleysticks, said Stephen, and wan_he indispensable informer, tell me. I can find you a few in this college.
  • —I can't understand you, said Davin. One time I hear you talk against Englis_iterature. Now you talk against the Irish informers. What with your name an_our ideas—Are you Irish at all?
  • —Come with me now to the office of arms and I will show you the tree of m_amily, said Stephen.
  • —Then be one of us, said Davin. Why don't you learn Irish? Why did you dro_ut of the league class after the first lesson?
  • —You know one reason why, answered Stephen. Davin toss his head and laughed.
  • —Oh, come now, he said. Is it on account of that certain young lady and Fathe_oran? But that's all in your own mind, Stevie. They were only talking an_aughing.
  • Stephen paused and laid a friendly hand upon Davin's shoulder.
  • —Do you remember, he said, when we knew each other first? The first morning w_et you asked me to show you the way to the matriculation class, putting _ery strong stress on the first syllable. You remember? Then you used t_ddress the jesuits as father, you remember? I ask myself about you: IS HE _NNOCENT AS HIS SPEECH?
  • —I'm a simple person, said Davin. You know that. When you told me that nigh_n Harcourt Street those things about your private life, honest to God, Stevie, I was not able to eat my dinner. I was quite bad. I was awake a lon_ime that night. Why did you tell me those things?
  • —Thanks, said Stephen. You mean I am a monster.
  • —No, said Davin. But I wish you had not told me.
  • A tide began to surge beneath the calm surface of Stephen's friendliness.
  • —This race and this country and this life produced me, he said I shall expres_yself as I am.
  • —Try to be one of us, repeated Davin. In heart you are an Irish man but you_ride is too powerful.
  • —My ancestors threw off their language and took another Stephen said. The_llowed a handful of foreigners to subject them. Do you fancy I am going t_ay in my own life and person debts they made? What for?
  • —For our freedom, said Davin.
  • —No honourable and sincere man, said Stephen, has given up to you his life an_is youth and his affections from the days of Tone to those of Parnell, bu_ou sold him to the enemy or failed him in need or reviled him and left hi_or another. And you invite me to be one of you. I'd see you damned first.
  • —They died for their ideals, Stevie, said Davin. Our day will come yet, believe me.
  • Stephen, following his own thought, was silent for an instant.
  • —The soul is born, he said vaguely, first in those moments I told you of. I_as a slow and dark birth, more mysterious than the birth of the body. Whe_he soul of a man is born in this country there are nets flung at it to hol_t back from flight. You talk to me of nationality, language, religion. _hall try to fly by those nets.
  • Davin knocked the ashes from his pipe.
  • —Too deep for me, Stevie, he said. But a man's country comes first. Irelan_irst, Stevie. You can be a poet or a mystic after.
  • —Do you know what Ireland is? asked Stephen with cold violence. Ireland is th_ld 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 Cranl_nd the two players who had finished their game. A match of four was arranged, Cranly insisting, however, that his ball should be used. He let it reboun_wice or thrice to his hand and struck it strongly and swiftly towards th_ase of the alley, exclaiming in answer to its thud:
  • —Your soul!
  • Stephen stood with Lynch till the score began to rise. Then he plucked him b_he sleeve to come away. Lynch obeyed, saying:
  • —Let us eke go, as Cranly has it.
  • Stephen smiled at this side-thrust.
  • They passed back through the garden and out through the hall where th_oddering porter was pinning up a hall notice in the frame. At the foot of th_teps they halted and Stephen took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket an_ffered it to his companion.
  • —I know you are poor, he said.
  • —Damn your yellow insolence, answered Lynch.
  • This second proof of Lynch's culture made Stephen smile again.
  • —It was a great day for European culture, he said, when you made up your min_o swear in yellow.
  • They lit their cigarettes and turned to the right. After a pause Stephe_egan:
  • —Aristotle has not defined pity and terror. I have. I say Lynch halted an_aid bluntly:
  • —Stop! I won't listen! I am sick. I was out last night on a yellow drunk wit_oran and Goggins.
  • Stephen went on:
  • —Pity is the feeling which arrests the mind in the presence of whatsoever i_rave and constant in human sufferings and unites it with the human sufferer.
  • Terror is the feeling which arrests the mind in the presence of whatsoever i_rave and constant in human sufferings and unites it with the secret cause.
  • —Repeat, said Lynch.
  • Stephen repeated the definitions slowly.
  • —A girl got into a hansom a few days ago, he went on, in London. She was o_er way to meet her mother whom she had not seen for many years. At the corne_f a street the shaft of a lorry shivered the window of the hansom in th_hape of a star. A long fine needle of the shivered glass pierced her heart.
  • She died on the instant. The reporter called it a tragic death. It is not. I_s remote from terror and pity according to the terms of my definitions.
  • —The tragic emotion, in fact, is a face looking two ways, towards terror an_owards pity, both of which are phases of it. You see I use the word ARREST. _ean that the tragic emotion is static. Or rather the dramatic emotion is. Th_eelings excited by improper art are kinetic, desire or loathing. Desire urge_s to possess, to go to something; loathing urges us to abandon, to go fro_omething. The arts which excite them, pornographical or didactic, ar_herefore improper arts. The esthetic emotion (I used the general term) i_herefore static. The mind is arrested and raised above desire and loathing.
  • —You say that art must not excite desire, said Lynch. I told you that one da_ wrote my name in pencil on the backside of the Venus of Praxiteles in th_useum. Was that not desire?
  • —I speak of normal natures, said Stephen. You also told me that when you wer_ boy in that charming carmelite school you ate pieces of dried cowdung.
  • Lynch broke again into a whinny of laughter and again rubbed both his hand_ver his groins but without taking them from his pockets.
  • —O, I did! I did! he cried.
  • Stephen turned towards his companion and looked at him for a moment boldly i_he eyes. Lynch, recovering from his laughter, answered his look from hi_umbled eyes. The long slender flattened skull beneath the long pointed ca_rought before Stephen's mind the image of a hooded reptile. The eyes, too, were reptile-like in glint and gaze. Yet at that instant, humbled and alert i_heir look, they were lit by one tiny human point, the window of a shrivelle_oul, poignant and self-embittered.
  • —As for that, Stephen said in polite parenthesis, we are all animals. I als_m an animal.
  • —You are, said Lynch.
  • —But we are just now in a mental world, Stephen continued. The desire an_oathing excited by improper esthetic means are really not esthetic emotion_ot only because they are kinetic in character but also because they are no_ore than physical. Our flesh shrinks from what it dreads and responds to th_timulus of what it desires by a purely reflex action of the nervous system.
  • Our eyelid closes before we are aware that the fly is about to enter our eye.
  • —Not always, said Lynch critically.
  • —In the same way, said Stephen, your flesh responded to the stimulus of _aked statue, but it was, I say, simply a reflex action of the nerves. Beaut_xpressed by the artist cannot awaken in us an emotion which is kinetic or _ensation which is purely physical. It awakens, or ought to awaken, o_nduces, or ought to induce, an esthetic stasis, an ideal pity or an idea_error, a stasis called forth, prolonged, and at last dissolved by what I cal_he rhythm of beauty.
  • —What is that exactly? asked Lynch.
  • —Rhythm, said Stephen, is the first formal esthetic relation of part to par_n any esthetic whole or of an esthetic whole to its part or parts or of an_art to the esthetic whole of which it is a part.
  • —If that is rhythm, said Lynch, let me hear what you call beauty; and, pleas_emember, though I did eat a cake of cowdung once, that I admire only beauty.
  • Stephen raised his cap as if in greeting. Then, blushing slightly, he laid hi_and on Lynch's thick tweed sleeve.
  • —We are right, he said, and the others are wrong. To speak of these things an_o try to understand their nature and, having understood it, to try slowly an_umbly and constantly to express, to press out again, from the gross earth o_hat it brings forth, from sound and shape and colour which are the priso_ates of our soul, an image of the beauty we have come to understand—that i_rt.
  • They had reached the canal bridge and, turning from their course, went on b_he trees. A crude grey light, mirrored in the sluggish water and a smell o_et branches over their heads seemed to war against the course of Stephen'_hought.
  • —But you have not answered my question, said Lynch. What is art? What is th_eauty it expresses?
  • —That was the first definition I gave you, you sleepy-headed wretch, sai_tephen, when I began to try to think out the matter for myself. Do yo_emember the night? Cranly lost his temper and began to talk about Wicklo_acon.
  • —I remember, said Lynch. He told us about them flaming fat devils of pigs.
  • —Art, said Stephen, is the human disposition of sensible or intelligibl_atter for an esthetic end. You remember the pigs and forget that. You are _istressing pair, you and Cranly.
  • Lynch made a grimace at the raw grey sky and said:
  • —If I am to listen to your esthetic philosophy give me at least anothe_igarette. I don't care about it. I don't even care about women. Damn you an_amn everything. I want a job of five hundred a year. You can't get me one.
  • Stephen handed him the packet of cigarettes. Lynch took the last one tha_emained, saying simply:
  • —Proceed!
  • —Aquinas, said Stephen, says that is beautiful the apprehension of whic_leases.
  • Lynch nodded.
  • —I remember that, he said, PULCRA SUNT QUAE VISA PLACENT.—He uses the wor_ISA, said Stephen, to cover esthetic apprehensions of all kinds, whethe_hrough sight or hearing or through any other avenue of apprehension. Thi_ord, though it is vague, is clear enough to keep away good and evil whic_xcite desire and loathing. It means certainly a stasis and not a kinesis. Ho_bout the true? It produces also a stasis of the mind. You would not writ_our name in pencil across the hypotenuse of a right-angled triangle.
  • —No, said Lynch, give me the hypotenuse of the Venus of Praxiteles.
  • —Static therefore, said Stephen. Plato, I believe, said that beauty is th_plendour of truth. I don't think that it has a meaning, but the true and th_eautiful are akin. Truth is beheld by the intellect which is appeased by th_ost satisfying relations of the intelligible; beauty is beheld by th_magination which is appeased by the most satisfying relations of th_ensible. The first step in the direction of truth is to understand the fram_nd scope of the intellect itself, to comprehend the act itself o_ntellection. Aristotle's entire system of philosophy rests upon his book o_sychology and that, I think, rests on his statement that the same attribut_annot at the same time and in the same connexion belong to and not belong t_he same subject. The first step in the direction of beauty is to understan_he frame and scope of the imagination, to comprehend the act itself o_sthetic apprehension. Is that clear?
  • —But what is beauty? asked Lynch impatiently. Out with another definition.
  • Something we see and like! Is that the best you and Aquinas can do?
  • —Let us take woman, said Stephen.—Let us take her! said Lynch fervently.—Th_reek, the Turk, the Chinese, the Copt, the Hottentot, said Stephen, al_dmire a different type of female beauty. That seems to be a maze out of whic_e cannot escape. I see, however, two ways out. One is this hypothesis: tha_very physical quality admired by men in women is in direct connexion with th_anifold 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 _islike that way out. It leads to eugenics rather than to esthetic. It lead_ou out of the maze into a new gaudy lecture-room where MacCann, with one han_n THE ORION OF SPECIES and the other hand on the new testament, tells yo_hat you admired the great flanks of Venus because you felt that she woul_ear you burly offspring and admired her great breasts because you felt tha_he would give good milk to her children and yours.
  • —Then MacCann is a sulphur-yellow liar, said Lynch energetically.
  • —There remains another way out, said Stephen, laughing.
  • —To wit? said Lynch.
  • —This hypothesis, Stephen began.
  • A long dray laden with old iron came round the corner of Sir Patrick Dun'_ospital covering the end of Stephen's speech with the harsh roar of jangle_nd rattling metal. Lynch closed his ears and gave out oath after oath til_he dray had passed. Then he turned on his heel rudely. Stephen turned als_nd waited for a few moments till his companion's ill-humour had had its vent.
  • —This hypothesis, Stephen repeated, is the other way out: that, though th_ame object may not seem beautiful to all people, all people who admire _eautiful object find in it certain relations which satisfy and coincide wit_he stages themselves of all esthetic apprehension. These relations of th_ensible, visible to you through one form and to me through another, must b_herefore the necessary qualities of beauty. Now, we can return to our ol_riend saint Thomas for another pennyworth of wisdom.
  • Lynch laughed.
  • —It amuses me vastly, he said, to hear you quoting him time after time like _olly round friar. Are you laughing in your sleeve?
  • —MacAlister, answered Stephen, would call my esthetic theory applied Aquinas.
  • So far as this side of esthetic philosophy extends, Aquinas will carry me al_long the line. When we come to the phenomena of artistic conception, artisti_estation, and artistic reproduction I require a new terminology and a ne_ersonal experience.
  • —Of course, said Lynch. After all Aquinas, in spite of his intellect, wa_xactly a good round friar. But you will tell me about the new persona_xperience and new terminology some other day. Hurry up and finish the firs_art.
  • —Who knows? said Stephen, smiling. Perhaps Aquinas would understand me bette_han you. He was a poet himself. He wrote a hymn for Maundy Thursday. I_egins with the words PANGE LINGUA GLORIOSI. They say it is the highest glor_f the hymnal. It is an intricate and soothing hymn. I like it; but there i_o 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:
  • IMPLETA SUNT QUAE CONCINIT DAVID FIDELI CARMINE DICENDO NATIONIBUS REGNAVIT _IGNO DEUS.
  • —That's great! he said, well pleased. Great music!
  • They turned into Lower Mount Street. A few steps from the corner a fat youn_an, wearing a silk neckcloth, saluted them and stopped.
  • —Did you hear the results of the exams? he asked. Griffin was plucked. Halpi_nd O'Flynn are through the home civil. Moonan got fifth place in the Indian.
  • O'Shaughnessy got fourteenth. The Irish fellows in Clark's gave them a fee_ast night. They all ate curry.
  • His pallid bloated face expressed benevolent malice and, as he had advance_hrough his tidings of success, his small fat-encircled eyes vanished out o_ight and his weak wheezing voice out of hearing.
  • In reply to a question of Stephen's his eyes and his voice came forth agai_rom their lurking-places.
  • —Yes, MacCullagh and I; he said. He's taking pure mathematics and I'm takin_onstitutional history. There are twenty subjects. I'm taking botany too. Yo_now I'm a member of the field club.
  • He drew back from the other two in a stately fashion and placed a plum_oollen-gloved hand on his breast from which muttered wheezing laughter a_nce broke forth.
  • —Bring us a few turnips and onions the next time you go out, said Stephe_rily, to make a stew.
  • The fat student laughed indulgently and said:
  • —We are all highly respectable people in the field club. Last Saturday we wen_ut to Glenmalure, seven of us.
  • —With women, Donovan? said Lynch.
  • Donovan again laid his hand on his chest and said:
  • —Our end is the acquisition of knowledge. Then he said quickly:
  • —I hear you are writing some essays about esthetics. Stephen made a vagu_esture of denial.
  • —Goethe and Lessing, said Donovan, have written a lot on that subject, th_lassical school and the romantic school and all that. The Laocoon intereste_e very much when I read it. Of course it is idealistic, German, ultra- profound.
  • Neither of the others spoke. Donovan took leave of them urbanely.
  • —I must go, he said softly and benevolently, I have a strong suspicion, amounting almost to a conviction, that my sister intended to make pancake_oday for the dinner of the Donovan family.
  • —Goodbye, Stephen said in his wake. Don't forget the turnips for me and m_ate.
  • Lynch gazed after him, his lip curling in slow scorn till his face resembled _evil's mask:
  • —To think that that yellow pancake-eating excrement can get a good job, h_aid at length, and I have to smoke cheap cigarettes!
  • They turned their faces towards Merrion Square and went for a little i_ilence.
  • —To finish what I was saying about beauty, said Stephen, the most satisfyin_elations of the sensible must therefore correspond to the necessary phases o_rtistic apprehension. Find these and you find the qualities of universa_eauty. 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 o_pprehension? Are you following?
  • —Of course, I am, said Lynch. If you think I have an excrementitiou_ntelligence run after Donovan and ask him to listen to you.
  • Stephen pointed to a basket which a butcher's boy had slung inverted on hi_ead.
  • —Look at that basket, he said.
  • —I see it, said Lynch.
  • —In order to see that basket, said Stephen, your mind first of all separate_he basket from the rest of the visible universe which is not the basket. Th_irst phase of apprehension is a bounding line drawn about the object to b_pprehended. 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 apprehende_s selfbounded and selfcontained upon the immeasurable background of space o_ime which is not it. You apprehended it as ONE thing. You see it as on_hole. You apprehend its wholeness. That is INTEGRITAS.
  • —Bull's eye! said Lynch, laughing. Go on.
  • —Then, said Stephen, you pass from point to point, led by its formal lines; you apprehend it as balanced part against part within its limits; you feel th_hythm of its structure. In other words, the synthesis of immediate perceptio_s followed by the analysis of apprehension. Having first felt that it is ON_hing 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 thei_um, harmonious. That is CONSONANTIA.
  • —Bull's eye again! said Lynch wittily. Tell me now what is CLARITAS and yo_in the cigar.
  • —The connotation of the word, Stephen said, is rather vague. Aquinas uses _erm which seems to be inexact. It baffled me for a long time. It would lea_ou to believe that he had in mind symbolism or idealism, the supreme qualit_f beauty being a light from some other world, the idea of which the matter i_ut the shadow, the reality of which it is but the symbol. I thought he migh_ean that CLARITAS is the artistic discovery and representation of the divin_urpose in anything or a force of generalization which would make the estheti_mage a' universal one, make it outshine its proper conditions. But that i_iterary talk. I understand it so. When you have apprehended that basket a_ne thing and have then analysed it according to its form and apprehended i_s a thing you make the only synthesis which is logically and estheticall_ermissible. You see that it is that thing which it is and no other thing. Th_adiance of which he speaks in the scholastic QUIDDITAS, the WHATNESS of _hing. This supreme quality is felt by the artist when the esthetic image i_irst conceived in his imagination. The mind in that mysterious instan_helley likened beautifully to a fading coal. The instant wherein that suprem_uality of beauty, the clear radiance of the esthetic image, is apprehende_uminously by the mind which has been arrested by its wholeness and fascinate_y its harmony is the luminous silent stasis of esthetic pleasure, a spiritua_tate very like to that cardiac condition which the Italian physiologist Luig_alvani, using a phrase almost as beautiful as Shelley's, called th_nchantment of the heart.
  • Stephen paused and, though his companion did not speak, felt that his word_ad called up around them a thought-enchanted silence.
  • —What I have said, he began again, refers to beauty in the wider sense of th_ord, in the sense which the word has in the literary tradition. In th_arketplace it has another sense. When we speak of beauty in the second sens_f the term our judgement is influenced in the first place by the art itsel_nd by the form of that art. The image, it is clear, must be set between th_ind or senses of the artist himself and the mind or senses of others. If yo_ear this in memory you will see that art necessarily divides itself int_hree forms progressing from one to the next. These forms are: the lyrica_orm, the form wherein the artist presents his image in immediate relation t_imself; the epical form, the form wherein he presents his image in mediat_elation to himself and to others; the dramatic form, the form wherein h_resents his image in immediate relation to others.
  • —That you told me a few nights ago, said Lynch, and we began the famou_iscussion.
  • —I have a book at home, said Stephen, in which I have written down question_hich are more amusing than yours were. In finding the answers to them I foun_he theory of esthetic which I am trying to explain. Here are some questions _et myself: IS A CHAIR FINELY MADE TRAGIC OR COMIC? IS THE PORTRAIT OF MON_ISA GOOD IF I DESIRE TO SEE IT? IF NOT, WHY NOT?
  • —Why not, indeed? said Lynch, laughing.
  • —IF A MAN HACKING IN FURY AT A BLOCK OF WOOD, Stephen continued, MAKE THERE A_MAGE OF A COW, IS THAT IMAGE A WORK OF ART? IF NOT, WHY NOT?
  • —That's a lovely one, said Lynch, laughing again. That has the true scholasti_tink.
  • —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 distinguishe_learly one from another. Even in literature, the highest and most spiritua_rt, the forms are often confused. The lyrical form is in fact the simples_erbal vesture of an instant of emotion a rhythmical cry such as ages ag_heered on the man who pulled at the oar or dragged stones up a slope. He wh_tters it is more conscious of the instant of emotion than of himself a_eeling emotion. The simplest epical form is seen emerging out of lyrica_iterature when the artist prolongs and broods upon himself as the centre o_n epical event and this form progresses till the centre of emotional gravit_s equidistant from the artist himself and from others. The narrative is n_onger purely personal. The personality of the artist passes into th_arration itself, flowing round and round the persons and the action like _ital sea. This progress you will see easily in that old English ballad TURPI_ERO which begins in the first person and ends in the third person. Th_ramatic form is reached when the vitality which has flowed and eddied roun_ach person fills every person with such vital force that he or she assumes _roper and intangible esthetic life. The personality of the artist, at first _ry or a cadence or a mood and then a fluid and lambent narrative, finall_efines itself out of existence, impersonalizes itself, so to speak. Th_sthetic image in the dramatic form is life purified in and reprojected fro_he human imagination. The mystery of esthetic, like that of materia_reation, is accomplished. The artist, like the God of creation, remain_ithin or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out o_xistence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.
  • —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 th_uke's lawn to reach the national library before the shower came.
  • —What do you mean, Lynch asked surlily, by prating about beauty and th_magination in this miserable Godforsaken island? No wonder the artist retire_ithin or behind his handiwork after having perpetrated this country.
  • The rain fell faster. When they passed through the passage beside Kildar_ouse they found many students sheltering under the arcade of the library.
  • Cranly, leaning against a pillar, was picking his teeth with a sharpene_atch, listening to some companions. Some girls stood near the entrance door.
  • Lynch whispered to Stephen:
  • —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 tim_o time. She too stood silently among her companions. She has no priest t_lirt with, he thought with conscious bitterness, remembering how he had see_er last. Lynch was right. His mind emptied of theory and courage, lapsed bac_nto a listless peace.
  • He heard the students talking among themselves. They spoke of two friends wh_ad passed the final medical examination, of the chances of getting places o_cean liners, of poor and rich practices.
  • —That's all a bubble. An Irish country practice is better.
  • —Hynes was two years in Liverpool and he says the same. A frightful hole h_aid it was. Nothing but midwifery cases.
  • —Do you mean to say it is better to have a job here in the country than in _ich 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 SANGUINARIU_TROX, IN LIVERPOOLIO.
  • Their voices reached his ears as if from a distance in interrupted pulsation.
  • She was preparing to go away with her companions.
  • The quick light shower had drawn off, tarrying in clusters of diamonds amon_he shrubs of the quadrangle where an exhalation was breathed forth by th_lackened earth. Their trim boots prattled as they stood on the steps of th_olonnade, talking quietly and gaily, glancing at the clouds, holding thei_mbrellas at cunning angles against the few last raindrops, closing the_gain, holding their skirts demurely.
  • And if he had judged her harshly? If her life were a simple rosary of hours, her life simple and strange as a bird's life, gay in the morning, restless al_ay, 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 hi_imbs in sleep pale cool waves of light had passed. He lay still, as if hi_oul lay amid cool waters, conscious of faint sweet music. His mind was wakin_lowly to a tremulous morning knowledge, a morning inspiration. A spiri_illed him, pure as the purest water, sweet as dew, moving as music. But ho_aintly it was inbreathed, how passionlessly, as if the seraphim themselve_ere 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 ope_o the light and the moth flies forth silently.
  • An enchantment of the heart! The night had been enchanted. In a dream o_ision he had known the ecstasy of seraphic life. Was it an instant o_nchantment only or long hours and years and ages?
  • The instant of inspiration seemed now to be reflected from all sides at onc_rom a multitude of cloudy circumstances of what had happened or of what migh_ave happened. The instant flashed forth like a point of light and now fro_loud on cloud of vague circumstance confused form was veiling softly it_fterglow. 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 deepene_ithin his spirit, whence the white flame had passed, deepening to a rose an_rdent light. That rose and ardent light was her strange wilful heart, strang_hat no man had known or would know, wilful from before the beginning of th_orld; and lured by that ardent rose-like glow the choirs of the seraphim wer_alling from heaven.
  • Are you not weary of ardent ways, Lure of the fallen seraphim? Tell no more o_nchanted days.
  • The verses passed from his mind to his lips and, murmuring them over, he fel_he rhythmic movement of a villanelle pass through them. The rose-like glo_ent forth its rays of rhyme; ways, days, blaze, praise, raise. Its ray_urned up the world, consumed the hearts of men and angels: the rays from th_ose that was her wilful heart.
  • Your eyes have set man's heart ablaze And you have had your will of him. Ar_ou not weary of ardent ways?
  • And then? The rhythm died away, ceased, began again to move and beat. An_hen? 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 mor_f enchanted days.
  • Smoke went up from the whole earth, from the vapoury oceans, smoke of he_raise. The earth was like a swinging swaying censer, a ball of incense, a_llipsoidal fall. The rhythm died out at once; the cry of his heart wa_roken. His lips began to murmur the first verses over and over; then went o_tumbling through half verses, stammering and baffled; then stopped. Th_eart's cry was broken.
  • The veiled windless hour had passed and behind the panes of the naked windo_he morning light was gathering. A bell beat faintly very far away. A bir_wittered; two birds, three. The bell and the bird ceased; and the dull whit_ight spread itself east and west, covering the world, covering the roseligh_n his heart.
  • Fearing to lose all, he raised himself suddenly on his elbow to look for pape_nd pencil. There was neither on the table; only the soup plate he had eate_he rice from for supper and the candlestick with its tendrils of tallow an_ts paper socket, singed by the last flame. He stretched his arm wearil_owards the foot of the bed, groping with his hand in the pockets of the coa_hat hung there. His fingers found a pencil and then a cigarette packet. H_ay back and, tearing open the packet, placed the last cigarette on the windo_edge and began to write out the stanzas of the villanelle in small nea_etters 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 knotte_orsehair in the sofa of her parlour on which he used to sit, smiling o_erious, asking himself why he had come, displeased with her and with himself, confounded by the print of the Sacred Heart above the untenanted sideboard. H_aw her approach him in a lull of the talk and beg him to sing one of hi_urious songs. Then he saw himself sitting at the old piano, striking chord_oftly from its speckled keys and singing, amid the talk which had risen agai_n the room, to her who leaned beside the mantelpiece a dainty song of th_lizabethans, 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 t_isten, his heart was at rest but when the quaint old songs had ended and h_eard again the voices in the room he remembered his own sarcasm: the hous_here young men are called by their christian names a little too soon.
  • At certain instants her eyes seemed about to trust him but he had waited i_ain. She passed now dancing lightly across his memory as she had been tha_ight at the carnival ball, her white dress a little lifted, a white spra_odding in her hair. She danced lightly in the round. She was dancing toward_im and, as she came, her eyes were a little averted and a faint glow was o_er cheek. At the pause in the chain of hands her hand had lain in his a_nstant, a soft merchandise.
  • —You are a great stranger now.
  • —Yes. I was born to be a monk.
  • —I am afraid you are a heretic.
  • —Are you much afraid?
  • For answer she had danced away from him along the chain of hands, dancin_ightly and discreetly, giving herself to none. The white spray nodded to he_ancing 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 hereti_ranciscan, willing and willing not to serve, spinning like Gherardino d_orgo San Donnino, a lithe web of sophistry and whispering in her ear.
  • No, it was not his image. It was like the image of the young priest in whos_ompany he had seen her last, looking at him out of dove's eyes, toying wit_he pages of her Irish phrase-book.
  • —Yes, yes, the ladies are coming round to us. I can see it every day. Th_adies are with us. The best helpers the language has.
  • —And the church, Father Moran?
  • —The church too. Coming round too. The work is going ahead there too. Don'_ret about the church.
  • Bah! he had done well to leave the room in disdain. He had done well not t_alute her on the steps of the library! He had done well to leave her to flir_ith her priest, to toy with a church which was the scullery-maid o_hristendom.
  • 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. O_ll sides distorted reflections of her image started from his memory: th_lower girl in the ragged dress with damp coarse hair and a hoyden's face wh_ad called herself his own girl and begged his handsel, the kitchen-girl i_he next house who sang over the clatter of her plates, with the drawl of _ountry singer, the first bars of BY KILLARNEY'S LAKES AND FELLS, a girl wh_ad laughed gaily to see him stumble when the iron grating in the footpat_ear Cork Hill had caught the broken sole of his shoe, a girl he had glance_t, attracted by her small ripe mouth, as she passed out of Jacob's biscui_actory, who had cried to him over her shoulder:
  • —Do you like what you seen of me, straight hair and curly eyebrows?
  • And yet he felt that, however he might revile and mock her image, his ange_as also a form of homage. He had left the classroom in disdain that was no_holly sincere, feeling that perhaps the secret of her race lay behind thos_ark eyes upon which her long lashes flung a quick shadow. He had told himsel_itterly as he walked through the streets that she was a figure of th_omanhood of her country, a bat- like soul waking to the consciousness o_tself in darkness and secrecy and loneliness, tarrying awhile, loveless an_inless, with her mild lover and leaving him to whisper of innocen_ransgressions in the latticed ear of a priest. His anger against her foun_ent in coarse railing at her paramour, whose name and voice and feature_ffended his baffled pride: a priested peasant, with a brother a policeman i_ublin and a brother a potboy in Moycullen. To him she would unveil her soul'_hy nakedness, to one who was but schooled in the discharging of a formal rit_ather than to him, a priest of the eternal imagination, transmuting the dail_read of experience into the radiant body of everliving life.
  • The radiant image of the eucharist united again in an instant his bitter an_espairing thoughts, their cries arising unbroken in a hymn of thanksgiving.
  • Our broken cries and mournful lays Rise in one eucharistic hymn Are you no_eary of ardent ways?
  • While sacrificing hands upraise The chalice flowing to the brim. Tell no mor_f enchanted days.
  • He spoke the verses aloud from the first lines till the music and rhyth_uffused his mind, turning it to quiet indulgence; then copied them painfull_o 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 tha_ll around him life was about to awaken in common noises, hoarse voices, sleepy prayers. Shrinking from that life he turned towards the wall, making _owl of the blanket and staring at the great overblown scarlet flowers of th_attered wallpaper. He tried to warm his perishing joy in their scarlet glow, imagining a roseway from where he lay upwards to heaven all strewn wit_carlet flowers. Weary! Weary! He too was weary of ardent ways.
  • A gradual warmth, a languorous weariness passed over him descending along hi_pine from his closely cowled head. He felt it descend and, seeing himself a_e lay, smiled. Soon he would sleep.
  • He had written verses for her again after ten years. Ten years before she ha_orn her shawl cowlwise about her head, sending sprays of her warm breath int_he night air, tapping her foot upon the glassy road. It was the last tram; the lank brown horses knew it and shook their bells to the clear night i_dmonition. The conductor talked with the driver, both nodding often in th_reen 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 an_ent down again and once or twice remained beside him forgetting to go dow_nd then went down. Let be! Let be!
  • Ten years from that wisdom of children to his folly. If he sent her th_erses? They would be read out at breakfast amid the tapping of egg-shells.
  • Folly indeed! Her brothers would laugh and try to wrest the page from eac_ther with their strong hard fingers. The suave priest, her uncle, seated i_is arm-chair, would hold the page at arm's length, read it smiling an_pprove of the literary form.
  • No, no; that was folly. Even if he sent her the verses she would not show the_o others. No, no; she could not.
  • He began to feel that he had wronged her. A sense of her innocence moved hi_lmost to pity her, an innocence he had never understood till he had come t_he knowledge of it through sin, an innocence which she too had not understoo_hile she was innocent or before the strange humiliation of her nature ha_irst come upon her. Then first her soul had begun to live as his soul ha_hen he had first sinned, and a tender compassion filled his heart as h_emembered her frail pallor and her eyes, humbled and saddened by the dar_hame of womanhood.
  • While his soul had passed from ecstasy to languor where had she been? Might i_e, in the mysterious ways of spiritual life, that her soul at those sam_oments had been conscious of his homage? It might be.
  • A glow of desire kindled again his soul and fired and fulfilled all his body.
  • Conscious of his desire she was waking from odorous sleep, the temptress o_is villanelle. Her eyes, dark and with a look of languor, were opening to hi_yes. 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 liqui_etters of speech, symbols of the element of mystery, flowed forth over hi_rain.
  • Are you not weary of ardent ways, Lure of the fallen seraphim? Tell no more o_nchanted days.
  • Your eyes have set man's heart ablaze And you have had your will of him. Ar_ou not weary of ardent ways?
  • Above the flame the smoke of praise Goes up from ocean rim to rim. Tell n_ore of enchanted days.
  • Our broken cries and mournful lays Rise in one eucharistic hymn. Are you no_eary of ardent ways?
  • While sacrificing hands upraise The chalice flowing to the brim. Tell no mor_f enchanted days.
  • And still you hold our longing gaze With languorous look and lavish limb! Ar_ou 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 wearily on his ashplant. They flew round and round the juttin_houlder of a house in Molesworth Street. The air of the late March evenin_ade clear their flight, their dark quivering bodies flying clearly agains_he sky as against a limp-hung cloth of smoky tenuous blue.
  • He watched their flight; bird after bird: a dark flash, a swerve, a flutter o_ings. He tried to count them before all their darting quivering bodie_assed: six, ten, eleven: and wondered were they odd or even in number.
  • Twelve, thirteen: for two came wheeling down from the upper sky. They wer_lying high and low but ever round and round in straight and curving lines an_ver flying from left to right, circling about a temple of air.
  • He listened to the cries: like the squeak of mice behind the wainscot: _hrill twofold note. But the notes were long and shrill and whirring, unlik_he cry of vermin, falling a third or a fourth and trilled as the flying beak_love the air. Their cry was shrill and clear and fine and falling lik_hreads of silken light unwound from whirring spools.
  • The inhuman clamour soothed his ears in which his mother's sobs and reproache_urmured insistently and the dark frail quivering bodies wheeling an_luttering and swerving round an airy temple of the tenuous sky soothed hi_yes which still saw the image of his mother's face.
  • Why was he gazing upwards from the steps of the porch, hearing their shril_wofold cry, watching their flight? For an augury of good or evil? A phrase o_ornelius Agrippa flew through his mind and then there flew hither and thithe_hapeless thoughts from Swedenborg on the correspondence of birds to things o_he intellect and of how the creatures of the air have their knowledge an_now their times and seasons because they, unlike man, are in the order o_heir life and have not perverted that order by reason.
  • And for ages men had gazed upward as he was gazing at birds in flight. Th_olonnade above him made him think vaguely of an ancient temple and th_shplant on which he leaned wearily of the curved stick of an augur. A sens_f fear of the unknown moved in the heart of his weariness, a fear of symbol_nd portents, of the hawk-like man whose name he bore soaring out of hi_aptivity on osier-woven wings, of Thoth, the god of writers, writing with _eed 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 bottle- nosed judge in a wig, putting commas into a document which he held at arm'_ength, and he knew that he would not have remembered the god's name but tha_t was like an Irish oath. It was folly. But was it for this folly that he wa_bout to leave for ever the house of prayer and prudence into which he ha_een born and the order of life out of which he had come?
  • 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 tha_hey must be swallows who had come back from the south. Then he was to go awa_or they were birds ever going and coming, building ever an unlasting hom_nder the eaves of men's houses and ever leaving the homes they had built t_ander.
  • Bend down your faces, Oona and Aleel. I gaze upon them as the swallow gaze_pon the nest under the eave before He wander the loud waters.
  • A soft liquid joy like the noise of many waters flowed over his memory and h_elt in his heart the soft peace of silent spaces of fading tenuous sky abov_he waters, of oceanic silence, of swallows flying through the sea-dusk ove_he flowing waters.
  • A soft liquid joy flowed through the words where the soft long vowels hurtle_oiselessly and fell away, lapping and flowing back and ever shaking the whit_ells of their waves in mute chime and mute peal, and soft low swooning cry; and he felt that the augury he had sought in the wheeling darting birds and i_he pale space of sky above him had come forth from his heart like a bird fro_ turret, quietly and swiftly.
  • Symbol of departure or of loneliness? The verses crooned in the ear of hi_emory composed slowly before his remembering eyes the scene of the hall o_he night of the opening of the national theatre. He was alone at the side o_he balcony, looking out of jaded eyes at the culture of Dublin In the stall_nd at the tawdry scene-cloths and human dolls framed by the garish lamps o_he stage. A burly policeman sweated behind him and seemed at every momen_bout to act. The catcalls and hisses and mocking cries ran in rude gust_ound the hall from his scattered fellow students.
  • —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.
  • A sudden swift hiss fell from the windows above him and he knew that th_lectric lamps had been switched on in the reader's room. He turned into th_illared hall, now calmly lit, went up the staircase and passed in through th_licking turnstile.
  • Cranly was sitting over near the dictionaries. A thick book, opened at th_rontispiece, 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 studen_ho was reading to him a problem from the chess page of a journal. Stephen sa_own at his right and the priest at the other side of the table closed hi_opy of THE TABLET with an angry snap and stood up.
  • Cranly gazed after him blandly and vaguely. The medical student went on in _ofter voice:
  • —Pawn to king's fourth.
  • —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.
  • —With guns and cattle, added Stephen, pointing to the titlepage of Cranly'_ook on which was printed DISEASES OF THE OX.
  • As they passed through a lane of the tables Stephen said:
  • —Cranly, I want to speak to you.
  • Cranly did not answer or turn. He laid his book on the counter and passed out, his well-shod feet sounding flatly on the floor. On the staircase he pause_nd gazing absently at Dixon repeated:
  • —Pawn to king's bloody fourth.
  • —Put it that way if you like, Dixon said.
  • He had a quiet toneless voice and urbane manners and on a finger of his plum_lean hand he displayed at moments a signet ring.
  • As they crossed the hall a man of dwarfish stature came towards them. Unde_he dome of his tiny hat his unshaven face began to smile with pleasure and h_as heard to murmur. The eyes were melancholy as those of a monkey.
  • —Good evening, gentlemen, said the stubble-grown monkeyish face.
  • —Warm weather for March, said Cranly. They have the windows open upstairs.
  • Dixon smiled and turned his ring. The blackish, monkey-puckered face purse_ts 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, Dixo_aid.
  • Cranly smiled and said kindly:
  • —The captain has only one love: sir Walter Scott. Isn't that so, captain?
  • —What are you reading now, captain? Dixon asked. THE BRIDE OF LAMMERMOOR?—_ove old Scott, the flexible lips said, I think he writes something 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 prais_nd 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 was the story true and wa_he thin blood that flowed in his shrunken frame noble and come of a_ncestuous 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 th_hore beneath were fouled with their green-white slime. They embrace_oftly,—impelled by the grey rainy light, the wet silent trees, the shield- like witnessing lake, the swans. They embraced without joy or passion, his ar_bout his sister's neck. A grey woollen cloak was wrapped athwart her from he_houlder to her waist and her fair head was bent in willing shame. He ha_oose red-brown hair and tender shapely strong freckled hands. Face? There wa_o face seen. The brother's face was bent upon her fair rain-fragrant 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 ha_alled it forth. His father's jibes at the Bantry gang leaped out of hi_emory. He held them at a distance and brooded uneasily on his own though_gain. Why were they not Cranly's hands? Had Davin's simplicity and innocenc_tung him more secretly?
  • He walked on across the hall with Dixon, leaving Cranly to take leav_laborately of the dwarf.
  • Under the colonnade Temple was standing in the midst of a little group o_tudents. 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 is a smiler. By hell, _hink that's a good literary expression.
  • He laughed slyly, looking in Stephen's face, repeating:
  • —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.
  • —He had, faith, Temple said. And he was a married man too. And all the priest_sed to be dining there. By hell, I think they all had a touch.
  • —We shall call it riding a hack to spare the hunter, said Dixon.
  • —Tell us, Temple, O'Keeffe said, how many quarts of porter have you in you?
  • —All your intellectual soul is in that phrase, O'Keeffe, said Temple with ope_corn.
  • 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 o_he nape of his neck and picking his teeth with care.
  • And here's the wiseacre, said Temple. Do you know that about the Forsters?
  • He paused for an answer. Cranly dislodged a figseed from his teeth on th_oint of his rude toothpick and gazed at it intently
  • —The Forster family, Temple said, is descended from Baldwin the First, king o_landers. He was called the Forester. Forester and Forster are the same name.
  • A descendant of Baldwin the First, captain Francis Forster, settled in Irelan_nd married the daughter of the last chieftain of Clanbrassil. Then there ar_he Blake Forsters. That's a different branch.
  • —From Baldhead, king of Flanders, Cranly repeated, rooting again deliberatel_t his gleaming uncovered teeth.
  • —Where did you pick up all that history? O'Keeffe asked.
  • —I know all the history of your family, too, Temple said, turning to Stephen.
  • Do you know what Giraldus Cambrensis says about your family?
  • —Is he descended from Baldwin too? asked a tall consumptive student with dar_yes.
  • —Baldhead, Cranly repeated, sucking at a crevice in his teeth.
  • —PERNOBILIS ET PERVETUSTA FAMILIA, Temple said to Stephen. The stout studen_ho stood below them on the steps farted briefly. Dixon turned towards him, saying in a soft voice:
  • —Did an angel speak?
  • Cranly turned also and said vehemently but without anger:
  • —Goggins, you're the flamingest dirty devil I ever met, do you know.
  • —I had it on my mind to say that, Goggins answered firmly. It did no one an_arm, did it?
  • —We hope, Dixon said suavely, that it was not of the kind known to science a_ PAULO POST FUTURUM.
  • —Didn't I tell you he was a smiler? said Temple, turning right and left.
  • Didn'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 o_isgust, he shoved him violently down the steps.
  • —Go away from here, he said rudely. Go away, you stinkpot. And you are _tinkpot.
  • Goggins skipped down on to the gravel and at once returned to his place wit_ood humour. Temple turned back to Stephen and asked:
  • —Do you believe in the law of heredity?
  • —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.
  • —The most profound sentence ever written, Temple said with enthusiasm, is th_entence at the end of the zoology. Reproduction 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.
  • —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:
  • —Cranly, you're always sneering at me. I can see that. But I am as good as yo_ny day. Do you know what I think about you now as compared with myself?
  • —My dear man, said Cranly urbanely, you are incapable, do you know, absolutel_ncapable of thinking.
  • —But do you know, Temple went on, what I think of you and of myself compare_ogether?
  • —Out with it, Temple! the stout student cried from the steps. Get it out i_its!
  • Temple turned right and left, making sudden feeble gestures as he spoke.
  • —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:
  • —And it does you every credit, Temple.
  • —But he, Temple said, pointing to Cranly, he is a ballocks, too, like me. Onl_e 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 sai_ith a sudden eagerness:
  • —That word is a most interesting word. That's the only English dual number.
  • Did you know?
  • —Is it? Stephen said vaguely.
  • He was watching Cranly's firm-featured suffering face, lit up now by a smil_f false patience. The gross name had passed over it like foul water poure_ver an old stone image, patient of injuries; and, as he watched him, he sa_im raise his hat in salute and uncover the black hair that stood stiffly fro_is forehead like an iron crown.
  • She passed out from the porch of the library and bowed across Stephen in repl_o 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 comments, the sudde_ntrusions of rude speech with which he had shattered so often Stephen'_rdent wayward confessions? Stephen had forgiven freely for he had found thi_udeness also in himself. And he remembered an evening when he had dismounte_rom a borrowed creaking bicycle to pray to God in a wood near Malahide. H_ad 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 tw_onstabulary men had come into sight round a bend in the gloomy road he ha_roken off his prayer to whistle loudly an air from the last pantomime.
  • He began to beat the frayed end of his ashplant against the base of a pillar.
  • Had Cranly not heard him? Yet he could wait. The talk about him ceased for _oment and a soft hiss fell again from a window above. But no other sound wa_n the air and the swallows whose flight he had followed with idle eyes wer_leeping.
  • She had passed through the dusk. And therefore the air was silent save for on_oft hiss that fell. And therefore the tongues about him had ceased thei_abble. Darkness was falling.
  • Darkness falls from the air.
  • A trembling joy, lambent as a faint light, played like a fairy host aroun_im. But why? Her passage through the darkening air or the verse with it_lack 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 student_hom he had left: and allowed his mind to summon back to itself the age o_owland and Byrd and Nash.
  • Eyes, opening from the darkness of desire, eyes that dimmed the breaking east.
  • What was their languid grace but the softness of chambering? And what wa_heir shimmer but the shimmer of the scum that mantled the cesspool of th_ourt of a slobbering Stuart. And he tasted in the language of memory ambere_ines, dying fallings of sweet airs, the proud pavan, and saw with the eyes o_emory kind gentlewomen in Covent Garden wooing from their balconies wit_ucking mouths and the pox-fouled 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 an_nflaming but her image was not entangled by them. That was not the way t_hink of her. It was not even the way in which he thought of her. Could hi_ind then not trust itself? Old phrases, sweet only with a disinterre_weetness like the figseeds Cranly rooted out of his gleaming teeth.
  • It was not thought nor vision though he knew vaguely that her figure wa_assing homeward through the city. Vaguely first and then more sharply h_melt her body. A conscious unrest seethed in his blood. Yes, it was her bod_e smelt, a wild and languid smell, the tepid limbs over which his music ha_lowed desirously and the secret soft linen upon which her flesh distille_dour and a dew.
  • A louse crawled over the nape of his neck and, putting his thumb an_orefinger deftly beneath his loose collar, he caught it. He rolled its body, tender yet brittle as a grain of rice, between thumb and finger for an instan_efore he let it fall from him and wondered would it live or die. There cam_o his mind a curious phrase from CORNELIUS A LAPIDE which said that the lic_orn of human sweat were not created by God with the other animals on th_ixth day. But the tickling of the skin of his neck made his mind raw and red.
  • The life of his body, ill clad, ill fed, louse-eaten, made him close hi_yelids in a sudden spasm of despair and in the darkness he saw the brittl_right 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 awakene_ere false. His mind bred vermin. His thoughts were lice born of the sweat o_loth.
  • He came back quickly along the colonnade towards the group of students. Wel_hen, let her go and be damned to her! She could love some clean athlete wh_ashed himself every morning to the waist and had black hair on his chest. Le_er.
  • Cranly had taken another dried fig from the supply in his pocket and wa_ating it slowly and noisily. Temple sat on the pediment of a pillar, leanin_ack, his cap pulled down on his sleepy eyes. A squat young man came out o_he porch, a leather portfolio tucked under his armpit. He marched towards th_roup, striking the flags with the heels of his boots and with the ferrule o_is heavy umbrella. Then, raising the umbrella in salute, he said to all:
  • —Good evening, sirs.
  • He struck the flags again and tittered while his head trembled with a sligh_ervous movement. The tall consumptive student and Dixon and O'Keeffe wer_peaking 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 stil_hewing the fig, answered with loud movements of his jaws.
  • —Good? Yes. It is a good evening.
  • The squat student looked at him seriously and shook his umbrella gently an_eprovingly.
  • —I can see, he said, that you are about to make obvious remarks.
  • —Um, Cranly answered, holding out what remained of the half chewed fig an_erking 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, sai_ravely, still tittering and prodding his phrase 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.
  • 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 the Adelphi to loo_or you and Moynihan. What have you there? he asked, tapping the portfoli_nder Glynn's arm.
  • —Examination papers, Glynn answered. I give them monthly examinations to se_hat they are profiting by my tuition.
  • He also tapped the portfolio and coughed gently and smiled.
  • —Tuition! said Cranly rudely. I suppose you mean the barefooted children tha_re 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.
  • —A bloody ape, Cranly repeated with emphasis, and a blasphemous bloody ape!
  • Temple stood up and, pushing past Cranly, addressed Glynn:
  • —That phrase you said now, he said, is from the new testament about suffer th_hildren to come to me.
  • —Go to sleep again, Temple, said O'Keeffe.
  • —Very well, then, Temple continued, still addressing Glynn, and if Jesu_uffered the children to come why does the church send them all to hell i_hey die unbaptized? Why is that?
  • —Were you baptized yourself, Temple? the consumptive student asked.
  • —But why are they sent to hell if Jesus said they were all to come? Templ_aid, his eyes searching Glynn's eyes.
  • Glynn coughed and said gently, holding back with difficulty the nervous titte_n his voice and moving his umbrella at every word:
  • —And, as you remark, if it is thus, I ask emphatically whence comes thi_husness.
  • —Because the church is cruel like all old sinners, Temple said.
  • —Are you quite orthodox on that point, Temple? Dixon said suavely.
  • —Saint Augustine says that about unbaptized children going to hell, Templ_nswered, because he was a cruel old sinner too.
  • —I bow to you, Dixon said, but I had the impression that limbo existed fo_uch cases.
  • —Don't argue with him, Dixon, Cranly said brutally. Don't talk to him or loo_t him. Lead him home with a sugan the way you'd lead a bleating goat.
  • —Limbo! Temple cried. That's a fine invention too. Like hell.
  • —But with the unpleasantness left out, Dixon said. He turned smiling to th_thers and said:
  • —I think I am voicing the opinions of all present in saying so much.
  • -You are, Glynn said in a firm tone. On that point Ireland is united.
  • He struck the ferrule of his umbrella on the stone floor of the colonnade.
  • —Hell, Temple said. I can respect that invention of the grey spouse of Satan.
  • Hell is Roman, like the walls of the Romans, strong and ugly. But what i_imbo?
  • —Put him back into the perambulator, Cranly, O'Keeffe called out.
  • Cranly made a swift step towards Temple, halted, stamping his foot, crying a_f to a fowl:
  • —Hoosh!
  • Temple moved away nimbly.
  • —Do you know what limbo is? he cried. Do you know what we call a notion lik_hat in Roscommon?
  • —Hoosh! Blast you! Cranly cried, clapping his hands.
  • —Neither my arse nor my elbow! Temple cried out scornfully. And that's what _all limbo.
  • —Give us that stick here, Cranly said.
  • He snatched the ashplant roughly from Stephen's hand and sprang down th_teps: but Temple, hearing him move in pursuit, fled through the dusk like _ild creature, nimble and fleet-footed. Cranly's heavy boots were heard loudl_harging across the quadrangle and then returning heavily, foiled and spurnin_he gravel at each step.
  • His step was angry and with an angry abrupt gesture he thrust the stick bac_nto Stephen's hand. Stephen felt that his anger had another cause but, feigning patience, touched his arm slightly and said quietly:
  • —Cranly, I told you I wanted to speak to you. Come away. Cranly looked at hi_or a few moments and asked:
  • —Now?
  • —Yes, now, Stephen said. We can't speak here. Come away.
  • They crossed the quadrangle together without speaking. The bird call fro_IGFRIED whistled softly followed them from the steps of the porch. Cranl_urned, and Dixon, who had whistled, called out:
  • —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 b_layed in the Adelphi hotel. Stephen walked on alone and out into the quiet o_ildare Street opposite Maple's hotel he stood to wait, patient again. Th_ame of the hotel, a colourless polished wood, and its colourless front stun_im like a glance of polite disdain. He stared angrily back at the softly li_rawing-room of the hotel in which he imagined the sleek lives of th_atricians of Ireland housed in calm. They thought of army commissions an_and agents: peasants greeted them along the roads in the country; they kne_he names of certain French dishes and gave orders to jarvies in high-pitche_rovincial voices which pierced through their skin-tight accents.
  • How could he hit their conscience or how cast his shadow over the imagination_f their daughters, before their squires begat upon them, that they migh_reed a race less ignoble than their own? And under the deepened dusk he fel_he thoughts and desires of the race to which he belonged flitting like bat_cross the dark country lanes, under trees by the edges of streams and nea_he pool-mottled bogs. A woman had waited in the doorway as Davin had passe_y 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 who could be secret. But him no woman'_yes had wooed.
  • His arm was taken in a strong grip and Cranly's voice said:
  • —Let us eke go.
  • They walked southward in silence. Then Cranly said:
  • —That blithering idiot, Temple! I swear to Moses, do you know, that I'll b_he death of that fellow one time.
  • But his voice was no longer angry and Stephen wondered was he thinking of he_reeting to him under the porch.
  • They turned to the left and walked on as before. When they had gone on so fo_ome time Stephen said:
  • —Cranly, I had an unpleasant quarrel this evening.
  • —With your people? Cranly asked.
  • —With my mother.
  • —About religion?
  • —Yes, Stephen answered.
  • After a pause Cranly asked:
  • —What age is your mother?
  • —Not old, Stephen said. She wishes me to make my easter duty.
  • —And will you?
  • —I will not, Stephen said.
  • —Why not? Cranly said.
  • —I will not serve, answered Stephen.
  • —That remark was made before, Cranly said calmly.
  • —It is made behind now, said Stephen hotly.
  • Cranly pressed Stephen's arm, saying:
  • —Go easy, my dear man. You're an excitable bloody man, do you know.
  • He laughed nervously as he spoke and, looking up into Stephen's face wit_oved and friendly eyes, said:
  • —Do you know that you are an excitable man?
  • —I daresay I am, said Stephen, laughing also.
  • Their minds, lately estranged, seemed suddenly to have been drawn closer, on_o the other.
  • —Do you believe in the eucharist? Cranly asked.
  • —I do not, Stephen said.
  • —Do you disbelieve then?
  • —I neither believe in it nor disbelieve in it, Stephen answered.
  • —Many persons have doubts, even religious persons, yet they overcome them o_ut them aside, Cranly said. Are your doubts on that point too strong?
  • —I do not wish to overcome them, Stephen answered.
  • Cranly, embarrassed for a moment, took another fig from his pocket and wa_bout to eat it when Stephen said:
  • —Don't, please. You cannot discuss this question with your mouth full o_hewed fig.
  • Cranly examined the fig by the light of a lamp under which he halted. Then h_melt it with both nostrils, bit a tiny piece, spat it out and threw the fi_udely into the gutter.
  • Addressing it as it lay, he said:
  • —Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire! Taking Stephen's arms, h_ent on again and said:
  • —Do you not fear that those words may be spoken to you on the day o_udgement?
  • —What is offered me on the other hand? Stephen asked. An eternity of bliss i_he company of the dean of studies?
  • —Remember, Cranly said, that he would be glorified.
  • —Ay, Stephen said somewhat bitterly, bright, agile, impassible and, above all, subtle.
  • —It is a curious thing, do you know, Cranly said dispassionately, how you_ind is supersaturated with the religion in which you say you disbelieve. Di_ou believe in it when you were at school? I bet you did.
  • —I did, Stephen answered.
  • —And were you happier then? Cranly asked softly, happier than you are now, fo_nstance?
  • —Often happy, Stephen said, and often unhappy. I was someone else then.
  • —How someone else? What do you mean by that statement?
  • —I mean, said Stephen, that I was not myself as I am now, as I had to become.
  • —Not as you are now, not as you had to become, Cranly repeated. Let me ask yo_ question. Do you love your mother?
  • Stephen shook his head slowly.
  • —I don't know what your words mean, he said simply.
  • —Have you never loved anyone? Cranly asked.
  • —Do you mean women?
  • —I am not speaking of that, Cranly said in a colder tone. I ask you if yo_ver felt love towards anyone or anything?
  • Stephen walked on beside his friend, staring gloomily at the footpath.
  • —I tried to love God, he said at length. It seems now I failed. It is ver_ifficult. 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—
  • Cranly cut him short by asking:
  • —Has your mother had a happy life?
  • —How do I know? Stephen said.
  • —How many children had she?
  • —Nine or ten, Stephen answered. Some died.
  • —Was your… father Cranly interrupted himself for an instant, and then said: _on't want to pry into your family affairs. But was your father what is calle_ell-to-do? I mean, when you were growing up?
  • —Yes, Stephen said.
  • —What was he? Cranly asked after a pause.
  • Stephen began to enumerate glibly his father's attributes.
  • —A medical student, an oarsman, a tenor, an amateur actor, a shoutin_olitician, a small landlord, a small investor, a drinker, a good fellow, _tory-teller, somebody's secretary, something in a distillery, a tax-gatherer, a bankrupt and at present a praiser of his own past.
  • Cranly laughed, tightening his grip on Stephen's arm, and said:
  • —The distillery is damn good.
  • —Is there anything else you want to know? Stephen asked.
  • —Are you in good circumstances at present?
  • —Do, look it? Stephen asked bluntly.
  • —So then, Cranly went on musingly, you 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 withou_onviction.
  • —Your mother must have gone through a good deal of suffering, he said then.
  • Would you not try to save her from suffering more even ifor would you?
  • —If I could, Stephen said, that would cost me very little.
  • —Then do so, Cranly said. Do as she wishes you to do. What is it for you? Yo_isbelieve in it. It is a form: nothing else. And you will set her mind a_est.
  • He ceased and, as Stephen did not reply, remained silent. Then, as if givin_tterance to the process of his own thought, he said:
  • —Whatever else is unsure in this stinking dunghill of a world a mother's lov_s not. Your mother brings you into the world, 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. Ever_ackass going the roads thinks he has ideas.
  • Stephen, who had been listening to the unspoken speech behind the words, sai_ith assumed carelessness:
  • —Pascal, if I remember rightly, would not suffer his mother to kiss him as h_eared the contact of her sex.
  • —Pascal was a pig, said Cranly.
  • —Aloysius Gonzaga, I think, was of the same mind, Stephen said.
  • —And he was another pig then, said Cranly.
  • —The church calls him a saint, Stephen objected.
  • -I don't care a flaming damn what anyone calls him, Cranly said rudely and flatly. I call him a pig.
  • Stephen, preparing the words neatly in his mind, continued:
  • —Jesus, too, seems to have treated his mother with scant courtesy in publi_ut Suarez, a jesuit theologian and Spanish gentleman, has apologized for him.
  • —Did the idea ever occur to you, Cranly asked, that Jesus was not what h_retended to be?
  • —The first person to whom that idea occurred, Stephen answered, was Jesu_imself.
  • —I mean, Cranly said, hardening in his speech, did the idea ever occur to yo_hat he was himself a conscious hypocrite, what he called the jews of hi_ime, a whited sepulchre? Or, to put it more plainly, that he was _lackguard?
  • —That idea never occurred to me, Stephen answered. But I am curious to kno_re you trying to make a convert of me or a pervert of yourself?
  • He turned towards his friend's face and saw there a raw smile which some forc_f will strove to make finely significant.
  • Cranly asked suddenly in a plain sensible tone:
  • —Tell me the truth. Were you at all shocked by what I said?
  • —Somewhat, Stephen said.
  • —And why were you shocked, Cranly pressed on in the same tone, if you fee_ure that our religion is false and that Jesus was not the son of God?
  • —I am not at all sure of it, Stephen said. He is more like a son of God than _on of Mary.
  • —And is that why you will not communicate, Cranly asked, because you are no_ure of that too, because you feel that the host, too, may be the body an_lood of the son of God and not a wafer of bread? And because you fear that i_ay be?
  • —Yes, Stephen said quietly, I feel that and I also fear it.
  • —I see, Cranly said.
  • Stephen, struck by his tone of closure, reopened the discussion at once b_aying:
  • —I fear many things: dogs, horses, fire-arms, the sea, thunder-storms, machinery, the country roads at night.
  • —But why do you fear a bit of bread?
  • —I imagine, Stephen said, that there is a malevolent reality behind thos_hings I say I fear.
  • —Do you fear then, Cranly asked, that the God of the Roman catholics woul_trike you dead and damn you if you made a sacrilegious communion?
  • —The God of the Roman catholics could do that now, Stephen said. I fear mor_han that the chemical action which would be set up in my soul by a fals_omage to a symbol behind which are massed twenty centuries of authority an_eneration.
  • —Would you, Cranly asked, in extreme danger, commit that particular sacrilege?
  • For instance, if you lived in the penal days?
  • —I cannot answer for the past, Stephen replied. Possibly not.
  • —Then, said Cranly, you do not intend to become a protestant?
  • —I said that I had lost the faith, Stephen answered, but not that I had los_elf-respect. What kind of liberation would that be to forsake an absurdit_hich is logical and coherent and to embrace one which is illogical an_ncoherent?
  • They had walked on towards the township of Pembroke and now, as they went o_lowly along the avenues, the trees and the scattered lights in the villa_oothed their minds. The air of wealth and repose diffused about them seeme_o comfort their neediness. Behind a hedge of laurel a light glimmered in th_indow of a kitchen and the voice of a servant was heard singing as sh_harpened knives. She sang, in short broken bars:
  • Rosie O'Grady.
  • Cranly stopped to listen, saying:
  • —MULIER CANTAT.
  • The soft beauty of the Latin word touched with an enchanting touch the dark o_he evening, with a touch fainter and more persuading than the touch of musi_r of a woman's hand. The strife of their minds was quelled. The figure of _oman as she appears in the liturgy of the church passed silently through th_arkness: a white-robed figure, small and slender as a boy, and with a fallin_irdle. Her voice, frail and high as a boy's, was heard intoning from _istant choir the first words of a woman which pierce the gloom and clamour o_he first chanting of the passion:
  • ET TU CUM JESU GALILAEO ERAS.
  • And all hearts were touched and turned to her voice, shining like a youn_tar, shining clearer as the voice intoned the pro-paroxytone and more faintl_s the cadence died.
  • The singing ceased. They went on together, Cranly repeating in strongl_tressed rhythm the end of the refrain:
  • And when we are married, O, how happy we'll be For I love sweet Rosie O'Grad_nd Rosie O'Grady loves me.
  • —There's real poetry for you, he said. There's real love.
  • He glanced sideways at Stephen with a strange smile and said:
  • —Do you consider that poetry? Or do you know what the words mean?
  • —I want to see Rosie first, said Stephen.
  • —She's easy to find, Cranly said.
  • His hat had come down on his forehead. He shoved it back and in the shadow o_he trees Stephen saw his pale face, framed by the dark, and his large dar_yes. Yes. His face was handsome and his body was strong and hard. He ha_poken of a mother's love. He felt then the sufferings of women, th_eaknesses of their bodies and souls; and would shield them with a strong an_esolute 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.
  • —Probably I shall go away, he said.
  • —Where? Cranly asked.
  • —Where I can, Stephen said.
  • —Yes, Cranly said. It might be difficult for you to live here now. But is i_hat makes you go?
  • —I have to go, Stephen answered.
  • —Because, Cranly continued, you need not look upon yourself as driven away i_ou do not wish to go or as a heretic or an outlaw. There are many goo_elievers who think as you do. Would that surprise you? The church is not th_tone building nor even the clergy and their dogmas. It is the whole mass o_hose born into it. I don't know what you wish to do in life. Is it what yo_old me the night we were standing outside Harcourt Street station?
  • —Yes, Stephen said, smiling in spite of himself at Cranly's way of rememberin_houghts in connexion with places. The night you spent half an hour wranglin_ith Doherty about the shortest way from Sallygap to Larras.
  • —Pothead! Cranly said with calm contempt. What does he know about the way fro_allygap to Larras? Or what does he know about anything for that matter? An_he big slobbering washing-pot head of him!
  • He broke into a loud long laugh.
  • —Well? Stephen said. Do you remember the rest?
  • What you said, is it? Cranly asked. Yes, I remember it. To discover the mod_f life or of art whereby your spirit could express itself in unfettere_reedom.
  • Stephen raised his hat in acknowledgement.
  • —Freedom! Cranly repeated. But you are not free enough yet to commit _acrilege. Tell me would you rob?
  • —I would beg first, Stephen said.
  • —And if you got nothing, would you rob?
  • —You wish me to say, Stephen answered, that the rights of property ar_rovisional, 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. Appl_o the jesuit theologian, Juan Mariana de Talavera, who will also explain t_ou in what circumstances you may lawfully Kill your King and whether you ha_etter hand him his poison in a goblet or smear it for him upon his robe o_is 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 th_ecular arm?
  • —And would you?
  • —I think, Stephen said, it would pain me as much to do so as to be robbed.
  • —I see, Cranly said.
  • He produced his match and began to clean the crevice between two teeth. The_e said carelessly:
  • —Tell me, for example, would you deflower a virgin?
  • —Excuse me, Stephen said politely, is that not the ambition of most youn_entlemen?
  • —What then is your point of view? Cranly asked.
  • His last phrase, sour smelling as the smoke of charcoal and disheartening, excited Stephen's brain, over which its fumes seemed to brood.
  • —Look here, Cranly, he said. You have asked me what I would do and what _ould not do. I will tell you what I will do and what I will not do. I wil_ot 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 o_ife or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defenc_he only arms I allow myself to use— silence, exile, and cunning.
  • Cranly seized his arm and steered him round so as to lead him back toward_eeson Park. He laughed almost slyly and pressed Stephen's arm with an elder'_ffection.
  • —Cunning indeed! he said. Is it you? You poor poet, you!
  • —And you made me confess to you, Stephen said, thrilled by his touch, as _ave confessed to you so many other things, have I not?
  • —Yes, my child, Cranly said, still gaily.
  • —You made me confess the fears that I have. But I will tell you also what I d_ot fear. I do not fear to be alone or to be spurned for another or to leav_hatever I have to leave. And I am not afraid to make a mistake, even a grea_istake, a lifelong mistake, and perhaps as long as eternity too.
  • Cranly, now grave again, slowed his pace and said:
  • —Alone, quite alone. You have no fear of that. And you know what that wor_eans? Not only to be separate from all others but to have not even on_riend.
  • —I will take the risk, said Stephen.
  • —And not to have any one person, Cranly said, who would be 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 h_poken of himself, of himself as he was or wished to be? Stephen watched hi_ace for some moments in silence. A cold sadness was there. He had spoken o_imself, of his own loneliness which he feared.
  • —Of whom are you speaking? Stephen asked at length. Cranly did not answer.
  • * * * * *
  • MARCH 20. Long talk with Cranly on the subject of my revolt.
  • He had his grand manner on. I supple and suave. Attacked me on the score o_ove for one's mother. Tried to imagine his mother: cannot. Told me once, in _oment of thoughtlessness, his father was sixty-one when he was born. Can se_im. Strong farmer type. Pepper and salt suit. Square feet. Unkempt, grizzle_eard. Probably attends coursing matches. Pays his dues regularly but no_lentifully to Father Dwyer of Larras. Sometimes talks to girls afte_ightfall. 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.
  • Hence Cranly's despair of soul: the child of exhausted loins.
  • MARCH 21, MORNING. Thought this in bed last night but was too lazy and free t_dd to it. Free, yes. The exhausted loins are those of Elizabeth and Zacchary.
  • Then 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 ster_evered head or death mask as if outlined on a grey curtain or veronica.
  • Decollation they call it in the gold. Puzzled for the moment by saint John a_he Latin gate. What do I see? A decollated percursor trying to pick the lock.
  • MARCH 21, NIGHT. Free. Soul free and fancy free. Let the dead bury the dead.
  • Ay. And let the dead marry the dead.
  • MARCH 22. In company with Lynch followed a sizeable hospital nurse. Lynch'_dea. Dislike it. Two lean hungry greyhounds walking after a heifer.
  • MARCH 23. Have not seen her since that night. Unwell? Sits at the fire perhap_ith mamma's shawl on her shoulders. But not peevish. A nice bowl of gruel?
  • Won't you now?
  • MARCH 24. Began with a discussion with my mother. Subject: B.V.M. Handicappe_y my sex and youth. To escape held up relations between Jesus and Pap_gainst those-between Mary and her son. Said religion was not a lying-i_ospital. 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 com_ack to faith because I had a restless mind. This means to leave church b_ack door of sin and re-enter through the skylight of repentance. Canno_epent. Told her so and asked for sixpence. Got threepence.
  • Then went to college. Other wrangle with little round head rogue's eye Ghezzi.
  • This time about Bruno the Nolan. Began in Italian and ended in pidgin English.
  • He said Bruno was a terrible heretic. I said he was terribly burned. He agree_o this with some sorrow. Then gave me recipe for what he calls RISOTTO ALL_ERGAMASCA. When he pronounces a soft O he protrudes his full carnal lips a_f he kissed the vowel. Has he? And could he repent? Yes, he could: and cr_wo round rogue's tears, one from each eye.
  • Crossing Stephen's, that is, my green, remembered that his countrymen and no_ine had invented what Cranly the other night called our religion. A quarte_f them, soldiers of the ninety-seventh infantry regiment, sat at the foot o_he 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. A_ 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 Rotunda. At the end were pictures of big nobs.
  • Among them William Ewart Gladstone, just then dead. Orchestra played O WILLIE, WE HAVE MISSED YOU.
  • A race of clodhoppers!
  • MARCH 25, 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 i_eopled by the images of fabulous kings, set in stone. Their hands are folde_pon their knees in token of weariness and their eyes are darkened for th_rrors of men go up before them for ever as dark vapours.
  • Strange figures advance as from a cave. They are not as tall as men. One doe_ot 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.
  • MARCH 30. This evening Cranly was in the porch of the library, proposing _roblem 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 i_ack. Crocodile said all right if she told him what he was going to do wit_he child, eat it or not eat It.
  • This mentality, Lepidus would say, is indeed bred out of your mud by th_peration of your sun.
  • And mine? Is it not too? Then into Nile mud with it!
  • APRIL 1. Disapprove of this last phrase.
  • APRIL 2. Saw her drinking tea and eating cakes in Johnston's, Mooney an_'Brien's. Rather, lynx-eyed Lynch saw her as we passed. He tells me Cranl_as invited there by brother. Did he bring his crocodile? Is he the shinin_ight now? Well, I discovered him. I protest I did. Shining quietly behind _ushel of Wicklow bran.
  • APRIL 3. Met Davin at the cigar shop opposite Findlater's church. He was in _lack sweater and had a hurley stick. Asked me was it true I was going awa_nd why. Told him the shortest way to Tara was VIA Holyhead. Just then m_ather came up. Introduction. Father polite and observant. Asked Davin if h_ight 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 di_ot join a rowing club. I pretended to think it over. Told me then how h_roke Pennyfeather's heart. Wants me to read law. Says I was cut out for that.
  • More mud, more crocodiles.
  • APRIL 5. Wild spring. Scudding clouds. O life! Dark stream of swirlin_ogwater on which apple-trees have cast down their delicate flowers. Eyes o_irls among the leaves. Girls demure and romping. All fair or auburn: no dar_nes. They blush better. Houpla!
  • APRIL 6. Certainly she remembers the past. Lynch says all women do. Then sh_emembers the time of her childhood—and mine, if I was ever a child. The pas_s consumed in the present and the present is living only because it bring_orth the future. Statues of women, if Lynch be right, should always be full_raped, one hand of the woman feeling regretfully her own hinder parts.
  • APRIL 6, LATER. Michael Robartes remembers forgotten beauty and, when his arm_rap her round, he presses in his arms the loveliness which has long fade_rom the world. Not this. Not at all. I desire to press in my arms th_oveliness which has not yet come into the world.
  • APRIL 10. Faintly, under the heavy night, through the silence of the cit_hich has turned from dreams to dreamless sleep as a weary lover whom n_aresses move, the sound of hoofs upon the road. Not so faintly now as the_ome near the bridge; and in a moment, as they pass the darkened windows, th_ilence is cloven by alarm as by an arrow. They are heard now far away, hoof_hat shine amid the heavy night as gems, hurrying beyond the sleeping field_o what journey's end—what heart? —bearing what tidings?
  • APRIL 11. Read what I wrote last night. Vague words for a vague emotion. Woul_he like it? I think so. Then I should have to like it also.
  • APRIL 13. That tundish has been on my mind for a long time. I looked it up an_ind it English and good old blunt English too. Damn the dean of studies an_is funnel! What did he come here for to teach us his own language or to lear_t from us. Damn him one way or the other!
  • APRIL 14. 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 i_ mountain cabin. Old man had red eyes and short pipe. Old man spoke Irish.
  • Mulrennan spoke Irish. Then old man and Mulrennan spoke English. Mulrenna_poke to him about universe and stars. Old man sat, listened, smoked, spat.
  • Then said:
  • —Ah, there must be terrible queer creatures at the latter and of the world.
  • I fear him. I fear his red-rimmed horny eyes. It is with him I must struggl_ll through this night till day come, till he or I lie dead, gripping him b_he sinewy throat till.
  • Till what? Till he yield to me? No. I mean no harm.
  • APRIL 15. Met her today point blank in Grafton Street. The crowd brought u_ogether. We both stopped. She asked me why I never came, said she had hear_ll sorts of stories about me. This was only to gain time. Asked me was _riting poems? About whom? I asked her. This confused her more and I fel_orry and mean. Turned off that valve at once and opened the spiritual-heroi_efrigerating apparatus, invented and patented in all countries by Dant_lighieri. Talked rapidly of myself and my plans. In the midst of it unluckil_ made a sudden gesture of a revolutionary nature. I must have looked like _ellow throwing a handful of peas into the air. People began to look at us.
  • She shook hands a moment after and, in going away, said she hoped I would d_hat 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 seem_ new feeling to me. Then, in that case, all the rest, all that I thought _hought and all that I felt I felt, all the rest before now, in fact. O, giv_t up, old chap! Sleep it off!
  • APRIL 16. Away! Away!
  • The spell of arms and voices: the white arms of roads, their promise of clos_mbraces and the black arms of tall ships that stand against the moon, thei_ale of distant nations. They are held out to say: We are alone—come. And th_oices say with them: We are your kinsmen. And the air is thick with thei_ompany as they call to me, their kinsman, making ready to go, shaking th_ings of their exultant and terrible youth.
  • APRIL 26. 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 wha_he heart is and what it feels. Amen. So be it. Welcome, O life, I go t_ncounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in th_mithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.
  • APRIL 27. Old father, old artificer, stand me now and ever in good stead.
  • Dublin, 1904 Trieste, 1914