menu_book Chapter 10

Section 9 of 1916, First Chapters Collection, Part 2. Tony Addison, 1916, First Chapters Collection, by Varius. Section 9, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, by James Joyce. A great fire banked high and red, flamed in the grate, and under the ivy-twined branches of the chandelier the Christmas table was spread. They had come home a

little late and still dinner was not ready, but it would be ready in a jiffy, his mother had said. They were waiting for the door to open and for the servants to come in, holding the big dishes, covered with their heavy metal covers. All were waiting. Uncle Charles, who sat far away in the shadow of the window, Dante and Mr Casey, who sat in the easy chairs at either side of the hearth, Stephen, seated on a chair between them, his feet resting on the

toasted boss. Mr Dedalus looked at himself in the pier glass above the mantelpiece, waxed out his mustache ends, and then parting his coat-tails, stood with his back to the glowing fire, and still from time to time he withdrew a hand from his coat-tail to wax out one of his mustache ends. Mr Casey leaned his head to one side and, smiling, tapped the gland of his neck with his fingers, and Stephen smiled too, for he knew now that it was not true that Mr Casey had a purse of

silver in his throat. He smiled to think how the silvery noise which Mr Casey used to make had deceived him, and when he had tried to open Mr Casey's hand to see if the purse of silver was hidden there, he had seen that the fingers could not be straightened out, and Mr Casey had told him that he had got those three cramped fingers, making a birthday present for Queen Victoria. Mr Casey tapped the gland of his neck and smiled at Stephen with sleepy eyes,

and Mr Dedalus said to him, Yes, well now, that's all right. We had a good walk, hadn't we, John? Yes. I wonder if there's any likelihood of dinner this evening? Yes. Oh, well now, we got a good breath of ozone round the head today. Ah, be dad. He turned to Dantie and said, You didn't stare out at all, Mrs Redden? Dantie frowned and said shortly, No. Mr Dedalus dropped his coat-tails and went over to the

sideboard. He brought forth a great stone jar of whisky from the locker and filled the decanter slowly, bending now and then to see how much he had poured in. Then, replacing the jar in the locker, he poured a little of the whisky into two glasses, added a little water, and came back with them to the fireplace. A thimbleful, John, he said, just to whet your appetite. Mr Casey took the glass, drank, and placed it near him on the mantelpiece. Then he said, Well, I can't hope

thinking of our friend Christopher manufacturing. He broke into a fit of laughter and coughing, and added, Manufacturing that champagne for those fellows. Mr Dedalus laughed loudly. Is it Christy, he said? Ah, there's more cunning in one of those warts on his bald head than in a pack of jack-foxes. He inclined his head, closed his eyes, and, licking his lips profusely, began to speak with the voice of the hotel-keeper. And he has such a soft mouth when he's speaking to you,

don't you know? He's very moist and watery about the two laps, oh, God bless him. Mr Casey was still struggling through his fit of coughing and laughter. Stephen, seeing and hearing the hotel-keeper through his father's face and voice, laughed. Mr Dedalus put up his eyeglass, and staring down at him, said quietly and kindly, What are you laughing at, you little puppy, you? The servants entered and placed the dishes on the table. Mrs Dedalus followed, and the places were

arranged. Sit over, she said. Mr Dedalus went to the end of the table and said, Now, Mrs Riordan, sit over. John, sit you down, my hearty. He looked round to where Uncle Charles sat and said, Now then, sir, there's a bird here waiting for you. When all had taken their seats, he laid his hand on the cover and then said quickly, withdrawing it, Now, Stephen. Stephen stood up in his place to say the grace before meals. Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts,

which through thy bounty we are about to receive, through Christ our Lord. Amen. All blessed themselves, and Mr Dedalus, with a sigh of pleasure, lifted from the dish the heavy cover, pearled round the edge with glistening drops. Stephen looked at the plump turkey, which had lain, trust and skewered, on the kitchen table. He knew that his father had paid a guinea for it in duns of Dolia Street, and that the man had prodded it often at the breastbone

to show how good it was, and he remembered the man's voice when he had said, Take that one, sir, that's the real Ali Dali. Why did Mr Barrett in Clongows call his panty-bat a turkey? But Clongows was far away, and the warm heavy smell of turkey and ham and celery rose from the plates and dishes, and the great fire was banked high and red in the grate, and the green ivy and red holly made you feel so happy, and when dinner was ended the big plum pudding would be carried in,

studded with peeled almonds and sprigs of holly, with bluish fire running around it, and a little green flag flying from the top. It was his first Christmas dinner, and he thought to his little brothers and sisters who were waiting in the nursery as he had often waited till the pudding came. The deep low collar and the eaten jacket made him feel queer and oldish, and that morning when his mother had brought him down to the parlour dressed for mass his father had cried.

That was because he was thinking of his own father, and Uncle Charles had said so too. Mr Dedalus covered the dish and began to eat hungrily. Then he said, Poor old Christy, he's nearly lopsided now with roguery. Simon, said Mrs Dedalus, you haven't given Mrs Reardon any sauce. Mr Dedalus seized the sauce-pot. Haven't I? he cried. Mrs Reardon pity the poor blind.

Dantie Cabot played with her hands and said no thanks. Mr Dedalus turned to Uncle Charles. How are you, officer? Right as the mail, Simon. You jump. I'm all right. Go on yourself. Mary, here, Stephen, here's something to make your hair cow. He poured sauce freely over Stephen's plate and set the boat again on the table.

Then he asked Uncle Charles was it tender. Uncle Charles could not speak because his mouth was full, but he nodded that it was. That was a good answer, our friend made to the cannon. What? said Mr Dedalus. I didn't think he had that much in him, said Mr Casey.

I'll pay your dues, father, when you cease turning the house of God into a polling-booth. A nice answer, said Dantie, for any man calling himself a Catholic to give to his priest. They have only themselves to blame, said Mr Dedalus, wobbly. If they took a fool's advice, they would confine their attention to religion. It is religion, Dantie said. They are doing their duty in warning the people.

We go to the house of God, Mr Casey said, in all humility to pray to our Maker and not to hear election addresses. It is religion, Dantie said again. They are right. They must direct their flocks. And preach politics from the altar, is it? asked Mr Dedalus. Certainly, said Dantie. It is a question of public morality. A priest would not be a priest if he did not tell his flock what is right and what is wrong.

Mrs Dedalus laid down her knife and fork, saying, For pity's sake, and for pity's sake, let us have no political discussion on this day of all days in the year. Quite right, ma'am, said Uncle Charles. Now, Simon, that's quite enough now. Not another word now. Yes, yes, said Mr Dedalus quickly. He uncovered the dish boldly and said, Now then, who's for more turkey? Nobody answered. Dantie said,

Nice language for any Catholic to use. Mrs Reardon, I appeal to you, said Mrs Dedalus, to let the matter drop now. Dantie turned on her and said, And am I just a tear and listen to the busters of my church being flouted? Nobody is saying a word against them, said Mr Dedalus, so long as they don't meddle in politics.

The bishops and priests of Ireland have spoken, said Dantie, and they must be obeyed. Let them leave politics alone, said Mr Casey, for the people may leave their church alone. You hear? said Dantie, turning to Mrs Dedalus. Mr Casey, Simon, said Mrs Dedalus, let it end now. Too bad, too bad, said Uncle Charles.

What, cried Mr Dedalus, were we to desert him at the bidding of the English people? He was no longer worthy to lead, said Dantie. He was a public sinner. We are all sinners and black sinners, said Mr Casey coldly. Woe be to the man by whom the scandal cometh, said Mrs Reardon. It would be better for him that a millstone were tied about his neck and that he were cast into the depths of the sea,

rather than that he should scandalize one of these, my least little ones. That is the language of the Holy Ghost. And very bad language, if you ask me, said Mr Dedalus coolly. Simon, Simon, said Uncle Charles the boy. Boy, yes, yes, said Mr Dedalus. I meant about the I was thinking about the bad language of the

railway porter. Well, now that's all right. Here, Stephen, show me your plate, old chap. Eat away now, here. He heaped up the food on Stephen's plate and served Uncle Charles and Mr Casey to large pieces of turkey and splashes of sauce. Mrs Dedalus was eating little, and Dantie sat with her hands in her lap. She was red in the face. Mr Dedalus rooted with the carvers at the end of the

dish and said, There's a tasty bit here we call the Pope's nose, if any lady or gentleman. He held a piece of fowl up on the prong of the carving fork. Nobody spoke. He put it on his own plate, saying, Well, you can't say, but you were asked. I think I'd better eat it myself, because I'm not well in my health lately. He winked at Stephen and, replacing the dish cover, began to eat again. There was a silence while he ate. Then he said, Well, now,

the day kept up fine after all. There were plenty of strangers down too. Nobody spoke. He said again, I think there were more strangers down than last Christmas. He looked round at the others, whose faces were bent towards their plates, and receiving no reply, waited for a moment and said bitterly, Well, my Christmas dinner has been spoiled anyhow. There could be neither luck nor grace, Dantie said, in a house where there is no

respect for the pastors of the church. Mr Dedalus threw his knife and fork noisily on his plate. Respect, he said. Is it for Billy with the lip or for the tub of guts up in a mark? Respect. Princes of the church, said Mr Casey with slow scorn. Lord Lightrim's coachmen, yes, said Mr Dedalus. They are the Lord's anointed, Dantie said.

They are an honour to the country. Tub of guts, said Mr Dedalus coarsely. He has a handsome face, mind you, in repose. You should see that fellow lapping up his bacon and cabbage of a cold winter's day. Oh, Johnny! He twisted his features into a grimace of heavy bestiality and made a lapping noise with his lips. Really, Simon, you should not speak that way before Stephen. It's not right.

Oh, he'll remember all this when he grows up, said Dantie Huttley, the language he heard against God and religion and priests in his own home. Let him remember too, cried Mr Casey to her from across the table, the language with which the priests and the priests' pawns broke Parnell's heart and hounded him into his crag. Let him remember that too when he grows up.

Sons of bitches, cried Mr Dedalus. When he was down they turned on him to betray him and rend him like rats in a sewer, low-lived dogs. And they look it, by Christ they look it. They behaved rightly, cried Dantie. They obeyed their bishops and their priests' honour to them. Well, it is perfectly dreadful to say that not even for one day in the year, said Mrs Dedalus, can we be free from these dreadful disputes.

Uncle Charles raised his hands mildly and said, Come now, come now, come now. Can we not have our opinions whatever they are without this bad temper and this bad language? It is too bad, surely. Mrs Dedalus spoke to Dantie in a low voice, but Dantie said loudly, I will not say nothing. I will defend my church and my religion when it is insulted and spit on

by renegade Catholics. Mr Casey pushed his plate rudely into the middle of the table and resting his elbows before him, said in a hoarse voice to his host, Tell me, did I tell you that story about a very famous spit? You did not, John, said Mr Dedalus. Why then, said Mr Casey, it is a most instructive story.

It happened not long ago in the county Wicklow where we are now. He broke off and turned towards Dantie, said with quiet indignation, And I may tell you, ma'am, that I, if you mean me, am the renegade Catholic. I am a Catholic as my father wasn't his father before him and his father before him again. When we gave up our lives rather than sow our fates.

The more shame to you now, Dantie said, to speak as you do. The story, John, said Mr Dedalus, smiling, let us have the story anyhow. Catholic indeed, repeated Dantie ironically. The blackest Protestant in the land would not speak the language I have heard this evening. Mr Dedalus began to sway his head to and fro, crooning like a country singer.

I am no Protestant, I tell you again, said Mr Casey, blushing. Mr Dedalus, still crooning and swaying his head, began to sing in a grunting nasal tone. Ah, come all you Roman Catholics, that never went to mass. He took up his knife and fork again in good humour, and set to eating, saying to Mr Casey, Let us have the story, John, it will help us to digest.

Stephen looked with affection at Mr Casey's face, which stared across the table over his joined hands. He liked to sit near him at the fire, looking up at his dark, fierce face. But his dark eyes were never fierce, and his slow voice was good to listen to. But why was he then against the priests? Because Dantie must be right then. But he had heard his father say that she was a spoiled nun, and that she had come out of the

convent in the Alleghenies when her brother had got the money from the savages for the trinkets and the chaineers. Perhaps that made her severe against Parnell. And she did not like him to play with Eileen, because Eileen was a Protestant, and when she was young she knew children that used to play with Protestants, and the Protestants used to make fun of the litany of the Blessed Virgin. Tower of Ivory, they used to say, house of gold. How could a woman be a tower of ivory,

or a house of gold? Who was right then? And he remembered the evening in the infirmary in Clongowes, the dark waters, the light at the pier-head, and the moan of sorrow from the people when they had heard. Eileen had long white hands. One evening, when playing Tig, she had put her hands over his eyes, long and white and thin and cold and soft. That was ivory, a cold white thing. That was the meaning of Tower of Ivory. The story is very short and sweet, Mr Casey said.

It was one day down in Arclow, a cold, bitter day, not long before the chief died. May God have mercy on him. He closed his eyes wearily and paused. Mr Dedalus took a bone from his plate and tore some meat from it with his teeth, saying, Before he was killed, you mean? Mr Casey opened his eyes, sighed, and went on. It was down in Arclow one day. We were down there at a meeting, and after the meeting was over we had to make our way to the railway station through the crowd.

Such a booing and barring man you never heard. They call us all the names in the world. Well, there was one old lady, and a drunken old harrowden she was surely, that paid all her attention to me. She kept dancing along beside me in the mud, bawling and screaming into my face, Priest Hunter, the parish funds, Mr Fox, Kitty O'Shea. And what did you do, John? asked Mr Dedalus.

I let her ball away, said Mr Casey. It was a cold day, and to keep up my heart, I had saving your presents, ma'am. A quid of Tullamore in my mouth, and sure I couldn't say a word in any case, because my mouth was full of tobacco juice. Well, John? Well, I let her ball away to her heart's content, Kitty O'Shea, and the rest of it. Till at last she called that lady a name, that I won't sully this Christmas board, or your ears, ma'am, nor my own lips by repeating.

He paused. Mr Dedalus, lifting his head from the bone, asked, And what did you do, John? Do? said Mr Casey. She stuck her ugly old face up at me when she said it, and I had my mouth full of tobacco juice, and I bent down to her, and pshh, says I to her, like that. He turned aside, and made the act of spitting. Pshh, says I to her, like that, right into her eye. He clapped his hand to his eye, and gave a hoarse scream of pain.

Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, says she. I'm blinded, I'm blinded and trounded. He stopped in a fit of coughing and laughter, repeating, I'm blinded entirely. Mr Dedalus laughed loudly, and lay back in his chair, while Uncle Charles swayed his head to and fro. Dante looked terribly angry, and repeated while they laughed, Very nice, oh, ha, ha, very nice. It was not nice about the spit in the woman's eye. But what was the name the woman had called

Kitty O'Shea that Mr Casey would not repeat? He thought of Mr Casey walking through the crowds of people and making speeches from a wagonette. That was what he had been imprisoned for, and he remembered that one night Sergeant O'Neill had come to the house and had stood in the hall, talking in a low voice with his father, and chewing nervously at the chin strap of his cap. And that night Mr Casey had not gone to Dublin by train, but a car had come to the door, and he had

heard his father say something about the cabin teary road. He was for Ireland and Parnell, and so was his father, and so was Dante too. For one night at the band on the Esplanade, she had hit a gentleman on the head with her umbrella, because she had taken off his hat when the band played God Save the Queen at the end. Mr Dedalus gave us note of contempt. Ah, Johnny said, it is true for them. We are an unfortunate priest-ridden race, and always were,

and always will be till the end of the chapter. Uncle Chow shook his head, saying, a bad business, a bad business. Mr Dedalus repeated, a priest-ridden, God forsaken race. He pointed to the portrait of his grandfather on the wall to his right. Do you see that old chap up there, John? He said. He was a good Irishman when there was no money in the job. He was condemned to death as a wet boy, but he had a saying about our clerical friends

that he would never let one of them put his two feet under his mahogany. Dante broke in angrily. If we are a priest-ridden race, we ought to be proud of it. They are the apple of God's eyes. Touch them not, says Christ, for they are the apple of my eye. And can we not love our country then, asked Mr Casey. Are we not to follow the man that was born to lead us? A traitor to his country, replied Dante. A traitor and adulterer.

The priests were right to abandon him. The priests were always the true friends of Ireland. Were they fake, said Mr Casey. He threw his fist on the table, and frowning angrily, protruded one finger after another. Didn't the bishops of Ireland betray us in the time of the Union when Bishop Lanigan presented an addressable loyalty to the Marquess Cornwallis? Didn't the bishops and priests sell the aspirations of their country in 1829

in return for Catholic emancipation? Didn't they denounce the Fenian movement from the pulpit and in the confession box? And didn't they dishonour the ashes of Terence Bolo MacManus? His face was glowing with anger, and Stephen felt the glow rise to his own cheek, as the spoken words thrilled him. Mr Daddalous uttered a guffaw of coarse scorn.

Oh, my God! he cried. I forgot little old Paul Cullen, another apple of God's eye. Dante bent across the table and cried to Mr Casey. Right, right, they were always right. God and morality and religion come first. Mrs Daddalous, seeing her excitement, said to her, Mrs Reardon, don't excite yourself answering them.

God and religion before everything, Dante cried. God and religion before the world. Mr Casey raised his clenched fist and brought it down on the table with a crash. Very well then, he shouted hoarsely, if it comes to that. No God for Ireland.

John, John, cried Mr Daddalous, seizing his guest by the coat sleeve. Dante stared across the table, her cheeks shaking. Mr Casey struggled up from his chair and bent across the table towards her, scraping the air from before his eyes with one hand, as though he were tearing aside a cobweb. No God for Ireland, he cried. We have had too much God in Ireland. Awake, we're gone.

Blasphemy. Devil. Screamed Dante, starting to her feet and almost spitting in his face. Uncle Charles and Mr Daddalous pulled Mr Casey back into his chair again, talking to him from both sides reasonably.

He stared before him, at him, his dark flaming eyes repeating, away with God, I say. Dante shoved her chair violently aside and up the table, upsetting her napkin ring. Which rolled slowly along the carpet and came to rest against the foot of an easy chair. Mrs Daddalous rose quickly and followed her towards the door. At the door Dante turned round violently and shouted down the room,

her cheeks flushed and quivering with rage. Devil, out of hell, we won, we crushed him to death. Fiend. The door slammed behind her. Mr Casey, freeing his arms from his holders, suddenly bowed his head on his hand with a sob of pain. Poor Bodnell, he cried loudly.

My Dad King. He sobbed loudly and bitterly. He cried loudly. Stephen, raising his terror-stricken face, saw that his father's eyes were full of tears. The fellows took together in little groups.

One fellow said they were caught near the hill of Lyon. Who caught them? Mr Gleeson and the minister. They were on a car, the same fellow added. A fellow in the higher line told me. Fleming asked. But why did they run away? Tell us.

I know why, Cecil Thunder said. Because they had vect cash out of the rector's room. Who vected? Kiccom's brother. And they all went shares in it. But that was stealing. How could they have done that? A fat lot you know about it, Thunder. Well said. I know why they scut.

Tell us why. I was told not to, Wells said. Oh, go on, Wells, all said. You might tell us. We won't let it out. Stephen bent forward his head to hear. Wells looked round to see if anyone was coming. Then he said, secretly.

You know the altar wine they keep in the press in the sacristy. Yes. Well, they drank that. And it was Boundert who did it by the smell. And that's why they ran away, if you want to know. And the fellow who had spoken first said. Yes, that's what I heard too from the fellow in the higher line.

The fellows all were silent. Stephen stood among them, afraid to speak, listening. A faint sickness of awe made him feel weak. How could they have done that? He thought of the dark, silent sacristy.

There were dark wooden presses there. Where the crimped surfaces they quietly folded. It was not the chapel. But still you had to speak under your breath. It was a holy place.

He remembered the summer evening he had been there. To be dressed as boat bearer. The evening of the procession to the little altar in the wood. A strange and holy place. The boy that held the censer had swung it,

lifted by the middle chain to keep the coals lighting. That was called charcoal. And it had burned quietly as the fellow had swung it gently. And had given off a weak sour smell. And then when all were vested he had stood holding out the boat to the rector.

And the rector had put a spoonful of incense in it. And it had hissed on the red coals. The fellows were talking together in little groups. Here and there on the playground. The fellows seemed to him to have grown smaller.

That was because a sprinter had knocked him down the day before. A fellow out of second of grammar. He had been thrown by the fellows machine lightly on the cinder path. And his spectacles had been broken in three pieces. And some of the grit of the cinders had gone into his mouth.

That was why the fellows seemed to him smaller and farther away. And the goalposts so thin and far. And the soft grey sky so high up. But there was no play on the football grounds where cricket was coming. And some said that barns would be prof.

And some said it would be flowers. And all over the playgrounds they were playing rounders and bowling twisters and lobs. And from here and from there came the sounds of the cricket bats through the soft grey air. They said,

Little drops of water in a fountain slowly falling in the brimming bowl. Athy, who had been silent, said quietly, You're all wrong. All turned towards him eagerly. Why?

Do you know? Who told you? Tell us, Athy. Athy pointed across the playground to where Simon Moonen was walking by himself, kicking a stone before him.

Ask him, he said. The fellows looked there and then said, Why him? Is he in it? Athy lowered his voice and said,

Do you know why there's fellows, Scutt? I will tell you, but you must not let on you know. Tell us, Athy, go on. You might if you know. He might if you know.

He paused for a moment and then said mysteriously, They were caught with Simon Moonen and Tusker Boyle in the square one night. The fellows looked at him and asked, Caught? What doing?

Athy said, Smugging. All the fellows were silent and Athy said, And that's why. Stephen looked at the faces of the fellows,

but they were all looking across the playground. He wanted to ask somebody about it. What did that mean about the smugging in the square? Why did the five fellows out of the higher line run away for that? It was a joke, he thought.

Simon Moonen had nice clothes, and one night he had shown him a ball of fire. He had shown him a ball of creamery sweets that the fellows of the football fifteen had rolled down to him along the carpet in the middle of the refectory when he was at the door.

It was the night of the match against the Bechtive Rangers, and the ball was made just like a red and green apple. Only it opened and it was full of the creamery sweets. And one day, Boyle had said that an elephant had two Tuskers instead of two Tusks,

and that was why he was called Tusker Boyle. But some fellows called him Lady Boyle, because he was always at his nails, pairing them. Eileen had long thin cool white hands too, because she was a girl. They were like ivory, only soft.

That was the meaning of Tower of Ivory, but Protestants could not understand it and made fun of it. One day he had stood beside her looking into the hotel grounds. A waiter was running up a trail of bunting on the black staff, and a fox terrier was scampering to and fro on the sunny lawn.

She had put her hand into his pocket where his hand was, and he had felt how cool and thin and soft her hand was. She had said that pockets were funny things to have, and then all of a sudden she had broken away and had run laughing down the sloping curve of the path.

Her fair hair had streamed out behind her like gold in the sun. Tower of Ivory, House of Gold. By thinking of things you could understand them. But why in the square? You went there when you wanted to do something.

It was all thick slabs of slate and water trickled all day out of tiny pinholes, and there was a queer smell of stale water there. And behind the door of one of the closets there was a drawing in red pencil of a bearded man in a Roman dress with a brick in each hand, and underneath was the name of the drawing.

Baubus was building a wall. Some fellow had drawn it there for a cod. It had a funny face, but it was very like a man with a beard, and on the wall of another closet there was written in backhand in beautiful writing, Julius Caesar wrote the Calico belly.

Perhaps that was why they were there, because it was a place where some fellows wrote things for cod. But all the same it was queer what Athy said, and the way he said it. It was not a cod, because they had run away.

He looked with the others across the playground and began to feel afraid. At last Fleming said, And we are all to be punished for what other fellows did. I won't come back, see if I do, Cecil Thunder said. Three days' silence in the refectory,

and sending us up for six and eight every minute. Yes, said Wales, And old Barrett has a new way of twisting the note, so that you can't open it and fold it again, to see how many ferulii you are to get.

I won't come back too. Yes, said Cecil Thunder, and the prefect of studies was in second of grammar this morning. Let us get up a rebellion, Fleming said, will we? All the fellows were silent.

The air was very silent, and you could hear the cricket bats, but more slowly than before, pick-pock. Wales asked, What is going to be done to them?

Simon, Moonen and Tusker are going to be flogged, Athy said, and the fellows in the higher line got their choice of flogging or being expelled. And which are they taking? asked the fellow, who had spoken first.

All are taking expulsion except Corrigan, Athy answered. He's going to be flogged by Mr Gleeson. I know why, Cecil Thunder said. He is right and the other fellows are wrong, because the flogging wears off after a bit,

but a fellow that has been expelled from college is known all his life on account of it. Besides, Gleeson won't flog him hard. It's best of his play not to, Fleming said. I wouldn't like to be Simon, Moonen and Tusker, Cecil Thunder said.

But I don't believe they will be flogged. Perhaps they will be sent up for twice nime. No, no, said Athy, they'll both get it on the vital spot. Wales rubbed himself and said in a crying voice, Please sir, let me off.

Athy grinned and turned up the sleeves of his jacket saying, It can't be helped, it must be done, So down with your breeches and out with your bum. The fellows laughed, but he felt that they were a little afraid. In the silence of the soft grey air,

he heard the cricket bats from here and from there, bop. That was a sound to hear, but if you were hit, then you would feel a pain. The panty bat made a sound too, but not like that. The fellow said it was made of whale bone and leather with lead inside,

and he wondered what was the pain like. There were different kinds of sounds. A long thin cane would have a high whistling sound, and he wondered what was that pain like. It made him shivery to think of it in cold,

and what Athy said too. But what was there to laugh at in it? It made him shivery, but that was because you always bop like a shiver when you let down your trousers. It was the same in the bath when you undressed yourself.

He wondered who had to let them down, the master of the boy himself. Oh, how could they laugh about it that way? He looked at Athy's rolled-up sleeves and knuckle-y inky hands. He had rolled up his sleeves to show how Mr Gleeson would roll up his sleeves, but Mr Gleeson had round shiny cups and clean white wrists and fattish white hands,

and the nails of them were long and pointed. Perhaps he pared them too like Lady Boyle, but they were terribly long and pointed nails, so long and cruel they were, though the white fattish hands were not cruel but gentle. And though he trembled with cold and fright to think of the cruel long nails and of the high whistling sound of the cane and of the chill you felt at the end of your shirt

when you undressed yourself, yet he felt a feeling of queer, quiet pleasure inside him to think of the white fattish hands, clean and strong and gentle. And he thought of what Zasulfander had said, that Mr Gleeson would not flog Corrigan hard, and Fleming had said he would not, because it was best of his play not to, but that was not why. A voice from far out on the playground cried,

All in! And other voices cried, All in! All in! During the writing lesson he sat with his arms folded,

listening to the slow scraping of the pens. Mr Harford went to and fro, making little signs in red pencil, and sometimes sitting beside the boy to show him how to hold his pen. He had tried to spell out the headline for himself, though he knew already what it was, for it was the last of the book.

Zeal without prudence is like a ship adrift, but the lines of the letters were like fine invisible threads. And it was only by closing his right eye tight, and staring out of the left eye, that he could make out the full curves of the capital. But Mr Harford was very decent and never got into a wax.

All the other masters got into dreadful waxes. But why would they to suffer for what fellows in the higher line did? Wells had said that they had drunk some of the altar wine out of the press in the sacristy, and that it had been found out who had done it by the smell. Perhaps they had stolen a monstrance to run away with and sell it somewhere.

That must have been a terrible sin, to go in there quietly at night, to open the dark press and steal the flushing gold thing, into which God was put on the altar in the middle of flowers and candles at benediction, while the incense went up in clouds at both sides as the fellow swung the censer. And Dominic Kelly sang the first part by himself in the choir.

But God was not in it, of course, when they stole it. But still it was a strange and a great sin even to touch it. He thought of it with deep awe, a terrible and strange sin. It thrilled him to think of it in the silence when the pens scraped lightly. But to drink the altar wine out of the press

and be found out by the smell was a sin too. But it was not terrible and strange. It only made you feel a little sickish on account of the smell of the wine. Because on the day when he had made his first Holy Communion in the chapel, he had shut his eyes and opened his mouth and put out his tongue a little.

And when the rector had stooped down to give him the Holy Communion, he had smelt a faint, whiny smell. Off the rector's breath after the wine of the mass. The word was beautiful, wine. It made you think of dark purple because the grapes were dark purple

that grew in Greece outside houses like white temples. But the faint smell of the rector's breath had made him feel a sick feeling on the morning of his first communion. The day of your first communion was the happiest day of your life. And once a lot of generals had asked Napoleon what was the happiest day of his life.

They thought he would say the day he won some great battle or the day he was made an emperor. But he said, Gentlemen, the happiest day of my life was the day on which I made my first Holy Communion. Father Arnold came in and the Latin lesson began.

And he remained still, leaning on the desk with his arms folded. Father Arnold gave out the theme books. And he said that they were scandalous and that they were all to be written out again with the corrections at once. But the worst of all was Fleming's theme.

Because the pages were stuck together by a blot. And Father Arnold held it up by a corner and said it was an insult to any master to send him up such a theme. Then he asked Jack Lawton to decline the noun, Mare.

And Jack Lawton stopped at the ablative singular and could not go on with the plural. You should be ashamed of yourself, said Father Arnold sternly. You, the leader of the class. Then he asked the next boy and the next and the next nobody knew. Father Arnold became very quiet.

More and more quiet as each boy tried to answer it and could not. But his face was black looking and his eyes were staring though his voice was so quiet. Then he asked Fleming and Fleming said that the word had no plural. Father Arnold suddenly shut the book and shouted at him. Kneel out there in the middle of the class.

You are one of the idlest boys I ever met. Copy out your themes again, the rest of you. Fleming moved heavily out of his place and knelt between the two last benches. The other boys bent over their theme books and began to write. A silence filled the classroom and Stephen, glancing timidly at Father Arnold's dark face,

saw that it was a little red from the wax he was in. Was that a sin for Father Arnold to be in a wax or was he allowed to get into a wax when the boys were idle because that made them study better or was he only letting on to be in a wax? It was because he was allowed because the priest would know what a sin was and would not do it.

But if he did it one time by mistake what would he do to go to confession? Perhaps he would go to confession to the minister and if the minister did it he would go to the rector and the rector to the provincial and the provincial to the general of the Jesuits. That was called the order and he had heard his father say that they were all clever men.

They could all have become higher people in the world if they had not become Jesuits and he wondered what Father Arnold and Paddy Barrett would have become and what Mr. MacLade and Mr. Gleeson would have become if they had not become Jesuits. It was hard to think what because you would have to think of them in a different way, with different coloured coats and trousers and with beards and mustaches and different kinds of hats.

The door opened quietly and closed. A quick whisper ran through the class, the prefect of studies. There was an instant of dead silence and then the loud crack of a pandy bat on the last desk. Stephen's heart leapt up in fear. Any boys want flogging here?

Father Arnold cried the prefect of studies. Any lazy idle loafers that want flogging in this class? He came to the middle of the class and saw Fleming on his knees. Ho ho! he cried. Who was this boy? Why is he on his knees? What is your name, boy? Fleming, sir.

Ho ho! Fleming! An idler, of course. I can see it in your eyes. Why is he on his knees, Father Arnold? He wrote a bad Latin theme, Father Arnold said, and he missed all the questions in grammar. Of course he did, cried the prefect of studies. Of course he did a born idler. I can see it in the corner of his eye.

He banged his pandy bat down on the desk and cried, up Fleming, up my boy. Fleming stood up slowly. Hold out! cried the prefect of studies. Fleming held out his hand. The pandy bat came down on it with a loud smacking sound. One, two, three, four, five, six.

Other hand! The pandy bat came down again in six loud quick smacks. Kneel down! cried the prefect of studies. Fleming knelt down, squeezing his hands under his armpits, his face contorted with pain. But Stephen knew how hard his hands were, because Fleming was always rubbing rosin into them.

But perhaps he was in great pain for the noise of the pandy bat was terrible. Stephen's heart was beating and fluttering. At your work, all of you! shouted the prefect of studies. We want no lazy idle lopers here. Lazy idle little schemers at your work, I tell you.

Father Dolan will be in to see you every day. Father Dolan will be in tomorrow. He poked one of the boys in the side with his pandy bat, saying, You boy, when will Father Dolan be in again? Tomorrow, sir, said Tom Furlong's voice. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, said the prefect of studies.

Make up your minds for that. Every day, Father Dolan. Right away. You boy. Who are you? Stephen's heart jumped suddenly. Daddler, sir. Why are you not writing like the others?

I, my. He could not speak with fright. Why is he not writing, Father Arnold? He broke his glasses, said Father Arnold, and I exempted him from work. Bro, what is this I hear? What is this?

Your name is, said the prefect of studies. Daddler, sir. Out here, Daddler, lazy little schemer. I see schemer in your face. Where did you break your glasses? Stephen stumbled into the middle of the class, blinded by fear and haste.

Where did you break your glasses? repeated the prefect of studies. The cinder-path, sir. Ho, ho! The cinder-path, cried the prefect of studies. I know that trick. Stephen lifted his eyes in wonder and saw for a moment Father Dolan's white-grey, not young face, his baldy, white-grey head with fluff at the sides of it,

the steel rims of his spectacles, and his no-coloured eyes looking through the glasses. Why did he say he knew that trick? Lazy, idle little loafer, cried the prefect of studies. Broke my glasses, an old schoolboy trick. Out with you, in this moment. Stephen closed his eyes and held out in the air his trembling hand with the palm upwards.

He felt the prefect of studies touch it for a moment at the fingers to straighten it, and then the swish of the sleeve of the suteen as the pandy bat was lifted to strike. A hot, burning, stinging, tingling blow, like the loud crack of a broken stick, made his trembling hand crumple together like a leaf in the fire. And at the sound and the pain, scalding tears were driven into his eyes.

His whole body was shaking with fright, his arm was shaking, and his crumpled, burning, livid hand shook like a loose leaf in the air. A cry sprang to his lips, a prayer to be let up. But though the tear scalded his eyes and his limbs quivered with pain and fright, he held back the hot tears and the cry that scalded his throat.

Other hand! shouted the prefect of studies. Stephen drew back his maimed and quivering right arm and held out his left hand. The suteen sleeve swished again as the pandy bat was lifted, and a loud crashing sound and a fierce maddening, tingling, burning pain made his hand shrink together with the palms and fingers in a livid quivering mass.

The scalding water burst forth from his eyes and burning with shame and agony and fear. He drew back his shaking arm in terror and burst out into a whine of pain. His body shook with a palsy of fright and in shame and rage, he felt the scalding cry come from his throat and the scalding tears falling out of his eyes and down his flaming cheeks.

Kneel down! cried the prefect of studies. Stephen knelt down, quickly pressing his beaten hands to his sides. To think of them beaten and swollen with pain all in a moment made him feel so sorry for them as if they were not his own but someone else's that he felt sorry for. And as he knelt, calming the last sobs in his throat and feeding him with his own blood,

and feeling the burning, tingling pain pressed into his sides, he thought of the hands which he had held out in the air with the palms up and of the firm touch of the prefect of studies when he had steadied the shaking fingers and of the beaten, swollen, reddened mass of palm and fingers that shook helplessly in the air. Get at your work, all of you! cried the prefect of studies from the door.

Father Dolan will be in every day to see if any boy, any lazy, idle little loafer, wants blogging every day, every day. The door closed behind him. The hushed class continued to copy out the themes. Father Arnold rose from his seat and went among them,

helping the boys with gentle words and telling them the mistakes they had made. His voice was very gentle and soft. Then he returned to his seat and said to Fleming and Stephen, You may return to your places, you two. Fleming and Stephen rose and, walking to their seat, sat down.

Stephen, scarlet with shame, opened a book quickly with one weak hand and bent down upon it, his face close to the page. It was unfair and cruel, because the doctor had told him not to read without glasses, and he had written home to his father that morning to send him a new pair, and Father Arnold had said that he need not study till the new glasses came,

then to be called a schemer before the class, and to be pandered, when he always got the card for first or second and was the leader of the Yorkists. How could the prefect of studies know that it was a trick? He felt the touch of the prefect's fingers as they had steadied his hand, and at first he had thought he was going to shake hands with him,

because the fingers were soft and firm, but then in an instant he had heard the swish of the suteen sleeve and the crash. It was cruel and unfair to make him kneel in the middle of the class then, and Father Arnold had told them both that they might return to their places without making any difference between them.

He listened to Father Arnold's low and gentle voice as he corrected the themes. Perhaps he was sorry now and wanted to be decent, but it was unfair and cruel. The prefect of studies was a priest, but that was cruel and unfair, and his white-grey face and the no-coloured eyes behind the steel-rimmed spectacles were cruel-looking, because he had steadied the hand first with his firm soft fingers,

and that was to hit it better and louder. It's a stinking mean thing, that's what it is, said Fleming in the corridor, as the classes were passing out in file to the refectory, to pandy a fellow for what is not his fault. You really broke your glasses by accident, didn't you?

Nasty Rush asked. Stephen felt his heart filled by Fleming's words and did not answer. Of course he did, said Fleming. I wouldn't stand it. I'd go up and tell the rector on him.

Yes, said Cecil Thunder eagerly, and I saw him lift the pandy bat over his shoulder, and he's not allowed to do that. Did they hurt you much? Nasty Rush asked. Very much.

Stephen said. I wouldn't stand it, Fleming repeated, from Baldiehead or any other Baldiehead. It's a stinking mean low trick, that's what it is. I'd go straight up to the rector and tell him about it, after dinner. Yes, do, yes, do, said Cecil Thunder.

Yes, do, yes, go up and tell the rector on him, Daedalus, said Nasty Rush. Because he said that he'd come in tomorrow again and pandy you. Yes, yes, tell the rector, all said. And there were some fellows out of second of grammar listening, and one of them said, the Senate and the Roman people declared

that Daedalus had been wrongly punished. It was wrong, it was unfair and cruel, and as he sat in the refectory, he suffered time after time in memory, the same humiliation, until he began to wonder whether it might not really be that there was something in his face which made him look like a schemer.

And he wished he had a little mirror to see, but there could not be, and it was unjust and cruel and unfair. He could not eat the blackish fish fritters they got on Wednesdays in Lent, and one of his potatoes had the mark of the spade in it. Yes, he would do what the fellows had told him,

he would go up and tell the rector that he had been wrongly punished. A thing like that had been done before by somebody in history, by some great person whose head was in the books of history. And the rector would declare that he had been wrongly punished, because the Senate and the Roman people always declared

that the men who did that had been wrongly punished. Those were the great men whose names were in Richemont Magnell's questions. History was all about those men and what they did, and that was what Peter Parley's tales about Greece and Rome were all about. Peter Parley himself was on the first page in a picture.

There was a road over a heap with grass at the side and little bushes, and Peter Parley had a broad hat like a Protestant minister and a big stick, and he was walking fast along the road to Greece and Rome. It was easy what he had to do. All he had to do was, when the dinner was over,

and he came out in his turn to go on walking, but not out to the corridor, but up the staircase on the right that led to the castle. He had nothing to do but that, to turn to the right and walk fast up the staircase, and in half a minute he would be in the low, dark, narrow corridor that led through the castle to the rector's room.

And every fellow had said that it was unfair, even the fellow out of second of grammar who had said that about the Senate and the Roman people. What would happen? He heard the fellows of the higher line stand up at the top of the refectory, and heard their steps as they came down the matting,

Paddy Rath and Jimmy McGee and the Spaniard and the Portuguese, and the fifth was Big Corrigan who was going to be flogged by Mr Gleeson. That was why the prefect of studies had called him a schemer and patted him for nothing, and straining his weak eyes, tired with the tears, he watched Big Corrigan's broad shoulders and Big hanging black-haired passing in the file.

But he had done something, and besides Mr Gleeson would not flog him hard, and he remembered how Big Corrigan looked in the bath. He had skin the same colour as the turquoise-coloured bog water in the shallow end of the bath, and when he walked along the side his feet slapped loudly on the wet tiles, and at every step his thighs shook a little because he was fat.

The refectory was half empty, and the fellows were still passing out in file. He could go up the staircase, because there was never a priest or a prefect outside the refectory door, but he could not go. The rector would side with the prefect of studies and think it was a schoolboy trick, and then the prefect of studies would come in every day the same, only it would be worse because he would be dreadfully waxy at any fellow going up to the rector about him.

The fellows had told him to go, but they would not go themselves. They had forgotten all about it. No, it was best to forget all about it, and perhaps the prefect of studies had only said he would come in. No, it was best to hide out of the way, because when you were small and young you could often escape that way. The fellows at his table stood up. He stood up and passed out among them in the file. He had to decide. He was coming near the door. If he went on with the

fellows he could never go up to the rector, because he could not leave the playground for that. And if he went and was pended all the same, all the fellows would make fun and talk about young Daedalus going up to the rector to tell on the prefect of studies. He was walking down along the matting, and he saw the door before him. It was impossible he could not. He thought of the baldy head of the prefect of studies, with the cruel, no-coloured eyes looking at him, and he heard the

voice of the prefect of studies, asking him twice what his name was. Why could he not remember the name when he was told the first time? Was he not listening the first time, or was it to make fun out of the name? The great men in the history had names like that, and nobody made fun of them. It was his own name that he should have made fun of if he wanted to make fun. Dolan. It was like the name of a woman who washed clothes. He had reached the door, and turning quickly up to the

right, walked up the stairs, and before he could make up his mind to come back, he had entered the low, dark, narrow corridor that led to the castle. And as he crossed the threshold of the door of the corridor, he saw, without turning his head to look, that all the fellows were looking after him as they went filing by. He passed along the narrow, dark corridor, passing little doors that were the doors of the rooms of the community. He peered in front of him, and right and left through the gloom,

and thought that those must be portraits. It was dark and silent, and his eyes were weak and tired with tears, so that he could not see. But he thought they were the portraits of the saints and great men of the order, who were looking down on him silently as he passed. Saint Ignatius Loyola, holding an open book, and pointing to the words, Ad Maiorum Dei Gloriam in it. Saint Francis Xavier, pointing to his chest. Lorenzo Ricci, with his baratta on his head, like one of the prefects

of the lines, the three patrons of Holy Youth, Saint Stanislaus Kostka, Saint Aloysius Gonzago, and blessed John Bertmans, all with young faces, because they died when they were young, and Father Peter Kenny sitting in a chair, wrapped in a big cloak. He came out on the landing above the entrance hall and looked about him. That was where Hamilton Rowan had passed, and the marks of the soldier slugs were there, and it was there that the old servants had seen the ghost in the

white cloak of a marshal. An old servant was sweeping at the end of the landing. He asked him where was the rector's room, and the old servant pointed to the door at the far end, and looked after him as he went on to it and knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again, more likely, and his heart jumped when he heard a muffled voice say, Come in. He turned the handle and opened the door and fumbled for the handle of the green bay's door inside. He found it and pushed it

open and went in. He saw the rector sitting at a desk writing. There was a skull on the desk, and a strange, solemn smell in the room, like the old leather of chairs. His heart was beating fast on account of the solemn place he was in and the silence of the room, and he looked at the skull and at the rector's kind-looking face. Well, my little man, said the rector, what is it? Stephen swallowed down the thing in his throat and said, I broke my glasses, sir. The rector

opened his mouth and said, Oh. Then he smiled and said, Well, if we broke our glasses, we must write home for a new pair. I wrote home, sir, said Stephen, and Father Arnold said, I am not to study till they come. Quite right, said the rector. Stephen swallowed down the thing again and tried to keep his legs and his voice from shaking. But, sir, yes. Father Dolan came in today and pandered me because I was not writing my theme. The rector looked at him in silence,

and he could feel the blood rising to his face and the tears about to rise to his eyes. The rector said, Your name is Daedalus, isn't it? Yes, sir. And where did you break your glasses? On the sender-path, sir. A fellow was coming out of the bicycle-house and I fell and they got broken. I don't know the fellow's name. The rector looked at him again in silence. Then he smiled and said, Oh, well, it was a mistake. I am sure Father Dolan did not know, but I told him I broke them,

sir, and he pandered me. Did you tell him that you had written home for a new pair, the rector asked? No, sir. Oh, well then, said the rector. Father Dolan did not understand. You can say that I excuse you from your lessons for a few days. Stephen said quickly, for fear his trembling would prevent him. Yes, sir, but Father Dolan said he will come in tomorrow to pund me again for it. Very well, the rector said, it is a mistake, and I shall speak to Father Dolan myself.

Will that do now? Stephen felt the tears wetting his eyes and murmured, Oh, yes, sir, thanks. The rector held his hand across the side of the desk where the skull was, and Stephen, placing his hand in it for a moment, felt a cool moist palm. Good day now, said the rector, withdrawing his hand and bowing. Good day, sir, said Stephen. He bowed and walked quietly out of the room,

closing the doors carefully and slowly. But when he had passed the old servant on the landing, and was again in the low narrow dark corridor, he began to walk faster and faster, faster and faster he hurried on through the gloom excitedly. He bumped his elbow against the door at the end, and hurrying down the staircase, walked quickly through the two corridors and out into the air. He could hear the cries of the fellows on the playgrounds. He broke into a run, and running

quicker and quicker, ran across the cinder path and reached the third line playground panting. The fellows had seen him running. They closed round him in a ring, pushing one against another to hear, tell us, tell us, what did he say, did you go in, what did he say, tell us, tell us. He told them what he had said, and what the rector had said, and when he had told them, all the fellows flung their caps spinning up into the air and cried, hurrah!

They caught their caps and sent them up again, spinning sky high, and cried again, hurrah! Hurrah! They made a cradle of their locked hands, and hoisted him up among them, and carried him along till he struggled to get free. And when he had escaped from them, they broke away in all directions, flinging their caps again into the air, and whistling as they went spinning up and crying, hurrah! And they gave three groans for Baldiehead Dolan, and three cheers for Con Mee,

and they said he was the decentest rector that was ever in Clongows. The cheers died away in the soft grey air. He was alone, he was happy and free, but he would not be anyway proud with Father Dolan. He would be very quiet and obedient, and he wished that he could do something kind for him, to show him that he was not proud. The air was soft and grey and mild, and evening was coming. There was the smell of evening in the air, the smell of the fields in the country, where they

digged up turnips to peel them and eat them when they went out for a walk to Major Barton's, the smell that was in the little wood beyond the pavilion, where the Gornuts were. The fellows were practising long shies and bowling globs and slow twisters. In the soft grey silence, he could hear the bump of the balls, and from here and from there, through the quiet air, the sound of the cricket bats, pick, pack, pock, puck, like drops of water in a fountain, falling softly in the brimming ball.

End of section nine. A portrait of the artist as a young man. Chapter one, part two, by James Joyce.