by James Joyce
Stephen did not in the least shrink from applying the reproach to himself but he found himself honestly unable to admit its justice. His sister had become almost a stranger to him on account of the way in which she had been brought up. He had hardly spoken a hundred words to her since the time when they had been children together. He could not speak to her now except as to a stranger. She had acquiesced in the religion of her mother; she had accepted everything that had been proposed to her. If she lived she had exactly the temper for a Catholic wife of limited intelligence and of pious docility and if she died she was supposed to have earned for herself a place in the eternal heaven of Christians from which her two brothers were likely to be shut out. Calamities in this world are reported to sit lightly on the shoulders of the true Christian who can bide his time until the Creator institutes the kingdom of the good. Isabel’s case moved Stephen’s anger and commiseration but he saw at once how hopeless it was and how vain it would be for him to interfere. Her life had been and would always be a trembling walk before God. The slightest interchange of ideas between them must be either a condescension on his part or an attempt to corrupt. No consciousness of their nearness in blood troubled him with natural, unreasoning affection. She was called his sister as his mother was called his mother but there had never been any proof of that relation offered him in their emotional attitude towards him, or any recognition of it permitted in his emotional attitude towards them. The Catholic husband and wife, the Catholic father and mother, are allowed to be natural at discretion but the same grace is not vouchsafed to Catholic children. They must preserve an unquestioning orderliness even at the risk of being upbraided as unnatural by the very preachers who assert that nature is the possession of Satan. Stephen had felt impulses of pity for his mother, for his father, for Isabel, for Wells also but he believed that he had done right in resisting them: he had first of all to save himself and he had no business trying to save others unless his experiment with himself justified him. Cranly had all but formulated serious charges against him, calling up by implication the picture of Isabel with her gradually wasting flame, her long dark hair and great wondering eyes, but Stephen stood up to the charges and answered in his heart that it was injustice to point a finger of reproach at him and that a vague inactive pity from those who upheld a system of mutual servile association towards those who accepted it was only a play upon emotions as characteristic of the egoist as of the man of sentiment. Isabel, moreover, did not seem to Stephen to be in any great danger. He told Cranly she was probably growing too fast; many girls were delicate at that age. He confessed that the subject tired him a little. Cranly stood still and looked at him fixedly:
— My dear man, said he, d’ye know what it is . . . You’re an extraordinary . . . man.
A week before the examination Cranly explained to Stephen his plan for reading the course in five days. It was a carefully made plan, founded upon an intimate knowledge of examiners and examination papers. Cranly’s plan was to study from ten in the morning until half past two in the afternoon, then from four to six, and then from half past seven to ten. Stephen declined to follow this plan as he imagined he had a fair chance of passing on what he called ‘roundabout’ knowledge but Cranly said that the plan was perfectly safe.
— I don’t quite see that, said Stephen, how can you manage to pass — in Latin composition, say — after such a cursory run over it? If you like I’ll show you some things — not that I can write so marvellously . . .
Cranly meditated without seeming to observe the offer. Then he averred flatly that his plan would work:
— I’ll take my dyin’ bible, he said, I’ll write them as good a thing, d’ye know, ay — as good a thing as they want. What do they know about Latin prose?
— Not much, I suppose, said Stephen, but they may not be quite ignorant of Latin grammar.
Cranly thought this over and then found his remedy:
— D’ye know what, he said, whenever I can’t think of the grammar I’ll bring in a piece out of Tacitus.
— Apropos of what?
— What the flamin’ hell does it matter what it’s apropos of?
— Quite right, said Stephen.
Cranly’s plan neither succeeded nor failed for the very good reason that it was never followed. The nights before the examination were spent sitting outside under the porch of the Library. The two young men gazed up into the tranquil sky and discussed how it was possible to live with the least amount of labour. Cranly suggested bees: he seemed to know the entire economy of bee-life and he did not seem as intolerant towards bees as towards men. Stephen said it would be a good arrangement if Cranly were to live on the labour of the bees and allow him (Stephen) to live on the united labours of the bees and of their keeper.
—”I will watch from dawn to gloom
The lake-reflected sun illume
The yellow bees in the ivy bloom.’’
—”Illume”? said Cranly.
— You know the meaning of “illume”?
— Who wrote that?
— Shelley.
— Illume — it’s just the word, d’ye know, for autumn, deep gold colour.
— A spiritual interpretation of landscape is very rare. Some people think they write spiritually if they make their scenery dim and cloudy.
— That bit you said now doesn’t seem to me spiritual.
— Nor to me: but sometimes Shelley does not address the eye. He says “many a lake-surrounded flute.” Does that strike your eye or your sense of colour?
— Shelley has a face that reminds me of a bird. What is it? “The lake-surrounded sun illume”? . . .
—”The lake-reflected sun illume
The yellow bees in the ivy bloom.”
— What are you quoting? asked Glynn who had just come out of the Library after several hours of study.
Cranly surveyed him before answering:
— Shelley.
— O, Shelley? What was the quotation again?
Cranly nodded towards Stephen.
— What was the quotation? asked Glynn. Shelley is an old flame of mine.
Stephen repeated the lines and Glynn nodded his head nervously several times in approval.
— Beautiful poetry Shelley wrote, didn’t he? So mystical.
— D’ye know what they call them yellow bees in Wickla? asked Cranly suddenly, turning to Glynn.
— No? what?
— Red-arsed bees.
Cranly laughed loudly at his own remark and struck his heels on the granite steps. Glynn, conscious of a false position, began to fumble with his umbrella and to search for one of his stock witticisms.
— But that is only, he said, if you will pardon the expression, that is only so to speak . . .
—”The lake-surrounded sun illume
The red-arsed bees in the ivy bloom.”
— It’s every bit as good bloody poetry as Shelley’s, said Cranly to Glynn. What do you think?
— It seems to me undeniable, said Glynn driving his unsteady umbrella before him as an emphasis, that the bees are in the bloom. Of that we may say that it is distinctly so.
The examination lasted five days. After the first two days Cranly did not even go through the form of entering the examination hall but after each paper he was to be seen outside the University going over all the questions carefully with his more diligent friends. He said that the papers were very easy and that anyone could pass them on a fair knowledge. He did not ask Stephen any particular questions but said merely “I suppose you’re through.” “I expect so” said Stephen. McCann usually came to meet the students who had been under examination. He came partly because he considered it was part of his duty to show an interest in all that concerned the College, and partly because one of Mr Daniel’s daughters was under examination. Stephen who did not care very much whether he succeeded or failed in the examination was very much amused observing the jealousies and nervous anxieties which tried to conceal themselves under airs of carelessne
ss. Students who had studied hard all the year pretended to be in the same case as idlers and idle and diligent both appeared to submit to the examination with great unwillingness. Those who were rivals did not speak to each other, being afraid to trust their eyes, but one questioned wandering acquaintances privily about the other’s success. Their excitement was so genuine that even the excitement of sex failed to overcome it. The girl students were not the subject of the usual sniggers and jokes but were regarded with some aversion as sly enemies. Some of the young men eased their enmity and vindicated their superiority at the same time by saying that it was no wonder the women would do well seeing that they could study ten hours [all] a day all the year round. McCann, who acted as go-between, told them the gossip from the other camp and it was he who [had] spread the report that Landy would not get first class honours in English because Miss Reeves had written an essay of twenty pages on
The examination ended on Tuesday. On Wednesday morning Stephen’s mother seemed to be rather anxious. Stephen had not given his parents much satisfaction as to his conduct at the examination but he could not think that this was the cause of his mother’s trouble: he waited, however, for the trouble to declare itself. His mother waited till the room was clear and then she said casually:
— You have not made your Easter duty yet, have you, Stephen?
Stephen answered that he had not.
— It would be better for you to go to confession in the daytime. Tomorrow is Ascension Thursday and the chapels are sure to be crowded tonight by people who have left off making their Easter duty till the last moment. It’s a wonder people wouldn’t have more shame in them. Goodness knows they have time enough from Ash Wednesday, without waiting till the stroke of twelve to go to the priest . . . I’m not speaking of you, Stephen. I know you have been studying for your examination. But people who have nothing to do . . .
Stephen made no answer to this but went on scraping diligently in his eggshell.
— I have made my Easter duty already — on Holy Thursday — but I’m going to the altar in the morning. I am making a novena and I want you to offer up your communion for a special intention of mine.
— What special intention?
— Well, dear, I’m very much concerned about Isabel . . . I don’t know what to think . . .
Stephen stuck his spoon angrily through the bottom of the shell and asked was there any more tea.
— There’s no more in the pot but I can boil some water in a minute.
— O, never mind.
— It won’t be a jiffy.
Stephen allowed the water to be put on as it would [allow] give him time to put an end to the conversation. He was much annoyed that his mother should try to wheedle him into conformity by using his sister’s health as an argument. He felt that such an attempt dishonoured him and freed him from the last dissuasions of considerate piety. His mother put on the water and appeared to be less anxious as if she had expected a blunt refusal. She even ventured on the small talk of religious matrons.
— I must try and get in to town tomorrow in time for High Mass in Marlborough St. Tomorrow is a great feast-day in the Church.
— Why? asked Stephen smiling.
— The Ascension of Our Lord, answered his mother gravely.
— And why is that a great feast-day?
— Because it was on that day he showed Himself Divine: he ascended into Heaven.
Stephen began to plaster butter over a crusty heel of the loaf while his features settled into definite hostility:
— Where did he go off?
— From Mount Olivet, answered his mother reddening under her eyes.
— Head first?
— What do you mean, Stephen?
— I mean he must have been rather giddy by the time he arrived. Why didn’t he go by balloon?
— Stephen, are you trying to scoff at Our Lord? I really thought you had more intelligence than to use that kind of language: it’s only what people who believe only in what they can see under their noses say. I’m surprised.
— Tell me, mother, said Stephen between mouthfuls, do you mean to tell me you believe that our friend went up off the mountain as they say he did?
— I do.
— I don’t.
— What are you saying, Stephen?
— It’s absurd: it’s Barnum. He comes into the world God knows how, walks on the water, gets out of his grave and goes up off the Hill of Howth. What drivel is this?
— Stephen!
— I don’t believe it: and it would be no credit if I did. It’s no credit to me that I don’t. It’s drivel.
— The most learned doctors of the Church believe it and that’s good enough for me.
— He can fast for forty days .
— God can do all things.
— There’s a fellow in Capel St at present in a show who says he can eat glass and hard nails. He calls himself
— Stephen, said his mother, I’m afraid you have lost your faith.
— I’m afraid so too, said Stephen.
Mrs Daedalus looked very discomposed and sat down helplessly on the nearest chair. Stephen fixed his attention on the water and when it was ready made himself another cup of tea.
— I little thought, said his mother, that it would come to this — that a child of mine would lose the faith.
— But you knew some time ago.
— How could I know?
— You knew.
— I suspected something was wrong but I never thought
— And yet you wanted me to receive Holy Communion!
— Of course you cannot receive it now. But I thought you would make your Easter duty as you have done every year up till now. I do not know what led you astray unless it was those books you read. John, too, your uncle — he was led astray by books when he was young but — only for a time.
— Poor fellow! said Stephen.
— You were religiously brought up by the Jesuits, in a Catholic home . . .
— A very Catholic home!
— None of your people, neither your father’s nor mine, have a drop of anything but Catholic blood in their veins.
— Well, I’ll make a beginning in the family.
— This is the result of being left too much liberty. You do as you like and believe what you like.
— I don’t believe, for example, that Jesus was the only man that ever had pure auburn hair.
— Well?
— Nor that he was the only man that was exactly six feet high, neither more nor less.
— Well?
— Well, you believe that. I heard you tell that years ago to our nurse in Bray — do you remember nurse Sarah?
Mrs Daedalus defended the tradition in a half-hearted way.
— That is what they say.
— O, they say! They say a great deal.
— But you need not believe that if you don’t want to.
— Thanks very much.
— All you are asked to believe in is the word of God. Think of the beautiful teachings of Our Lord. Think of your own life when you believed in those teachings. Weren’t you better and happier then?
— It was good for me at the time, perhaps, but it is quite useless for me now.
— I know what is wrong with you — you suffer from the pride of the intellect. You forget that we are only worms of the earth. You think you can defy God because you have misused the talents he has given you.
— I think Jehovah gets too high a salary for judging motives. I want to retire him on the plea of old age.
Mrs Daedalus stood up.
— Stephen, you may use that kind of language with your companions whoever they are but I will not allow you to use it with me. Even your father, bad as he is supposed to be, does not speak such blasphemy as you do. I am afraid that you are a changed boy since you went to that University. I suppose you fell in with some of those students . . .
— Good Lord, moth
er, said Stephen, don’t believe that. The students are awfully nice fellows. They love their religion: they wouldn’t say boo to a goose.
— Wherever you’ve learnt it I will not allow you to use such language to me when you speak of holy things. Keep that for the street-corners at night.
— Very well, mother, said Stephen. But you began the conversation.
— I never thought I would see the day when a child of mine would lose the faith. God knows I didn’t. I did my best for you to keep you in the right way.
Mrs Daedalus began to cry. Stephen, having eaten and drunk all within his province, rose and went towards the door:
— It’s all the fault of those books and the company you keep. Out at all hours of the night instead of in your home, the proper place for you. I’ll burn every one of them. I won’t have them in the house to corrupt anyone else.
Stephen halted at the door and turned towards his mother who had now broken out into tears:
— If you were a genuine Roman Catholic, mother, you would burn me as well as the books.
— I knew no good would come of your going to that place. You are ruining yourself body and soul. Now your faith is gone!
— Mother, said Stephen from the threshold, I don’t see what you’re crying for. I’m young, healthy, happy. What is the crying for? . . . It’s too silly . . .
Stephen went over to the Library that evening expressly to see Cranly and [tell him of] narrate his latest conflict with orthodoxy. Cranly was standing under the Library porch announcing the results of the examinations beforehand. He was surrounded, as usual, by a little group among whom were his friend, the clerk from the Custom House, and another bosom friend, a very grave-looking elderly student named Lynch. Lynch was of a very idle disposition and had allowed six or seven years to intervene between [his] leaving school and beginning a course in medicine at the College of Surgeons. He was much esteemed by his colleagues because he had a deep bass voice, never ‘stood’ any drinks in return for those which he accepted from others, and seldom uttered any remarks in return for those he listened to. He always kept both his a hands in his trousers’ pockets when he walked and jutted out his chest in a manner which was intended as a criticism of life. He spoke, however, to Cranly principally about women and for this reason Cranly had nicknamed him Nero. It was possible to accuse his mouth of a Neronic tendency but he destroyed the illusion of imperialism by wearing his cap very far back from a shock forehead. He had unbounded contempt for medical students and their ways and, if he had not absorbed so much Dublin into his mind, he would have been a lover of the fine arts. He was, in fact, very interested in the art of singing. [and] He used this interest to attempt an intimacy with Stephen and, his gravity covering a shame-faced idealism, he had already begun to feel through Cranly the influence of Stephen’s vivifying disorderliness. His objection, singular enough in a lax character, to trite and meaningless execrations, to the facile iniquities of the lips, had resulted for him in two moments of inspiration. He execrated in yellow in protest against the sanguine adjective of uncertain etymology and, to describe the hymeneal tract, he had one invariable term. He called it oracle and all within the frontiers he called oracular. The term was considered distinguished in his circle and he was careful never to explain the process which had discovered it.