Complete Works of James Joyce

by Unknown

  Madden was prepared to admit the truth of much of this but he gave Stephen to understand that the new movement was politic. If the least infidelity were hoisted on the standard the people would not flock to it and for this reason the promoters desired as far as possible to work hand in hand with the priests. Stephen objected that this working hand in hand with the priests had over and over again ruined the chances of revolutions. Madden agreed: but now at least the priests were on the side of the people.

  — Do you not see, said Stephen, that they encourage the study of Irish that their flocks may be more safely protected from the wolves of disbelief; they consider it is an opportunity to withdraw the people into a past of literal, implicit faith?

  — But really our peasant has nothing to gain from English Literature.

  — Rubbish!

  — Modern at least. You yourself are always railing . . .

  — English is the medium for the Continent.

  — We want an Irish Ireland.

  — It seems to me you do not care what banality a man expresses so long as he expresses it in Irish.

  — I do not entirely agree with your modern notions. We want to have nothing of this English civilisation.

  — But the civilisation of which you speak is not English — it is Aryan. The modern notions are not English; they point the way of Aryan civilisation.

  — You want our peasants to ape the gross materialism of the Yorkshire peasant?

  — One would imagine the country was inhabited by cherubim. Damme if I see much difference in peasants: they all seem to me as like one another as a peascod is like another peascod. The Yorkshireman is perhaps better fed.

  — Of course you despise the peasant because you live in the city.

  — I don’t despise his office in the least.

  — But you despise him — he’s not clever enough for you.

  — Now, you know, Madden that’s nonsense. To begin with he’s as cute as a fox — try to pass a false coin on him and you’ll see. But his cleverness is all of a low order. I really don’t think that the Irish peasant represents a very admirable type of culture.

  — That’s you all out! Of course you sneer at him because he’s not up-to-date and lives a simple life.

  — Yes, a life of dull routine — the calculation of coppers, the weekly debauch and the weekly piety — a life lived in cunning and fear between the shadows of the parish chapel and the asylum!

  — The life of a great city like London seems to you better?

  — The [English] intelligence of an English city is not perhaps at a very high level but at least it is higher than the mental swamp of the Irish peasant.

  — And what about the two as moral beings?

  — Well?

  — The Irish are noted for at least one virtue all the world over.

  — Oho! I know what’s coming now!

  — But it’s a fact — they are chaste.

  — To be sure.

  — You like to run down your own people at every hand’s turn but you can’t accuse them . . .

  — Very good: you are partly right. I fully recognise that my countrymen have not yet advanced [to] as far as the machinery of Parisian harlotry because . . .

  — Because . . . ?

  — Well, because they can do it by hand, that’s why!

  — Good God, you don’t mean to say you think . . .

  — My good youth, I know what I am saying is true and so do you know it. Ask Father Pat and ask Dr Thisbody and ask Dr Thatbody. I was at school and you were at school — and that’s enough about it.

  — O, Daedalus!

  This accusation laid a silence on the conversation. Then Madden spoke:

  — Well, if these are your ideas I don’t see what you want coming to me and talking about learning Irish.

  — I would like to learn it — as a language, said Stephen lyingly. At least I would like to see first.

  — So you admit you are an Irishman after all and not one of the red garrison.

  — Of course I do.

  — And don’t you think that every Irishman worthy of the name should be able to speak his native tongue?

  — I really don’t know.

  — And don’t you think that we as a race have a right to be free?

  — O, don’t ask me such questions, Madden. You can use these phrases of the platform but I can’t.

  — But surely you have some political opinions, man!

  — I am going to think them out. I am an artist, don’t you see? Do you believe that I am?

  — O, yes, I know you are.

  — Very well then, how the devil can you expect me to settle everything all at once? Give me time.

  So it was decided that Stephen was to begin a course of lessons in Irish. He bought the O’Growney’s primers published by the Gaelic League but refused either to pay a subscription to the League or to wear the badge in his buttonhole. He had found out what he had desired, namely, the class in which Miss Clery was. People at home did not seem opposed to this new freak of his. Mr Casey taught him a few Southern songs in Irish and always raised his glass to Stephen saying “Sinn Fein” instead of “Good Health.” Mrs Daedalus was probably pleased for she thought that the superintendence of priests and the society of harmless enthusiasts might succeed in influencing her son in the right direction: she had begun to fear for him. Maurice said nothing and asked no questions. He did not understand what made his brother associate with the patriots and he did not believe that the study of Irish seemed in any way useful to Stephen: but he was silent and waited. Mr Daedalus said that he did not mind his son’s learning the language so long as it did not keep him from his legitimate work.

  One evening when Maurice came back from school he brought with him the news that the retreat would begin in three days’ time. This news suddenly delivered showed Stephen his position. He could hardly believe that in a year his point of view had changed so completely. Only twelve months ago he had been clamouring for forgiveness and promising endless penances. He could hardly believe that it was no other than he who had clung so fiercely to the sole means of salvation which the Church vouchsafes to her guilty children. He marvelled at the terror which had then possessed him. One evening during the retreat he asked his brother what kind of sermons the priest was giving. The two were standing together looking into the window of a stationer’s shop and it was a picture of S. Anthony in the window which had led to the question. Maurice smiled broadly as he answered:

  — Hell today.

  — And what kind of a sermon was it?

  — Usual kind of thing. Stink in the morning and pain of loss in the evening.

  Stephen laughed and looked at the square-shouldered boy beside him. Maurice announced facts in a dry satirical voice and his cloudy complexion did not change colour when he laughed. He made Stephen think of the pictures in ‘Silas Verney.’ His sombre gravity, his careful cleansing of his much-worn clothes, and the premature disillusionment of his manner all suggested the human vesture of some spiritual or philosophic problem transplanted from Holland. Stephen did not know in what stage the problem was and he thought it wiser to allow it its own path of solution.

  — Do you know what the priest told us also? asked Maurice after a pause.

  — What?

  — He said we weren’t to have companions.

  — Companions?

  — That we weren’t to go for walks in the evenings with any special companions. If we wanted to take a walk, he said, a lot of us were to go together.

  Stephen halted in the street and struck the palms of his hands together.

  — What’s up with you? said Maurice.

  — I know what’s up with them, said Stephen. They’re afraid.

  — Of course they’re afraid, said Maurice gravely.

  — By the bye of course you have made the retreat?

  — O, yes. I’m going to the altar in the morning.

  — Are you really?

  — Tell the
truth, Stephen. When mother gives you the money on Sunday to go in to short twelve in Marlboro’ St do you really go to Mass?

  Stephen coloured slightly.

  — Why do you ask that?

  — Tell the truth.

  — No . . . I don’t.

  — And where do you go?

  — O anywhere . . . about the town.

  — So I thought.

  — You’re a ‘cute fellow, said Stephen in a sidewise fashion. Might I ask do you go to mass yourself?

  — O, yes, said Maurice.

  They walked on [then] for a short time in silence. Then Maurice said:

  — I have bad hearing.

  Stephen made no remark.

  — And I think I must be a little stupid.

  — How’s that?

  In his heart Stephen felt that he was condemning his brother. In this instance he could not admit that freedom from strict religious influences was desirable. It seemed to him that anyone who could contemplate the condition of his soul in such a prosaic manner was not worthy of freedom and was fit only for the severest shackles of the Church.

  — Well today the priest was telling us a true story. It was about the death of the drunkard. The priest came in to see him and talked to him and asked him to say he was sorry and to promise to give up drink. The man felt that he was going to die in a few moments but he sat upright in the bed, the priest said, and pulled out a black bottle from under the bedclothes

  — Well?

  — And said “Father, if this was to be the last I was ever to drink in this world I must drink it.”

  — Well?

  — So he drained the bottle dry. That very moment he dropped dead, said the priest lowering his voice. “That man fell dead in the bed, stone dead. He died and went . . . “ He spoke so low that I couldn’t hear but I wanted to know where the man went so I leaned forward to hear and hit my nose a wallop against the bench in front. While I was rubbing it the fellows knelt down to say the prayer so I didn’t hear where he went. Amn’t I stupid?

  Stephen exploded ill laughter. He laughed so loudly that the people who were passing turned to look at him and had to smile themselves by attraction. He put his hands to his sides and the tears almost fell out of his eyes. Every glimpse he caught of Maurice’s solemn olive-coloured face set him off on a new burst. He could say nothing between times but—”I’d have given anything to have seen it—’Father, if this was the last’ . . . and you with your mouth open. I’d have given anything to have seen it.”

  The Irish class was held every Wednesday night in a back room on the second floor of a house in O’Connell St. The class consisted of six young men and three young women. The teacher was a young man in spectacles with a very sick-looking face and a very crooked mouth. He spoke in a high-pitched voice and with a cutting Northern accent. He never lost an opportunity of sneering at seoninism and at those who would not learn their native tongue. He said that Beurla was the language of commerce and Irish the speech of the soul and he had two witticisms which always made his class laugh. One was the ‘Almighty Dollar’ and the other was the ‘Spiritual Saxon.’ Everyone regarded Mr Hughes as a great enthusiast and some thought he had a great career before him as an orator. On Friday nights when there was a public meeting of the League he often spoke but as he did not know enough Irish he always excused himself at the beginning of his speech for having to speak to the audience in the language of the [gallant] ‘Spiritual Saxon.’ At the end of every speech he quoted a piece of verse. He scoffed very much at Trinity College and at the Irish Parliamentary Party. He could not regard as patriots men who had taken oaths of allegiance to the Queen of England and he could not regard as a national university an institution which did not express the religious convictions of the majority of the Irish people. His speeches were always loudly applauded and Stephen heard some of the audience say that they were sure he would be a great success at the bar. On enquiry, Stephen found that Hughes, who was the son of a Nationalist solicitor in Armagh, was a law-student at the King’s Inns.

  The Irish class which Stephen attended was held in a very sparely furnished room lit [with] by a gasjet which had a broken globe. Over the mantelpiece hung the picture of a priest with a beard who, Stephen found, was Father O’Growney. It was a beginners’ class and its progress was retarded by the stupidity of two of the young men. The others in the class learned quickly and worked very hard. Stephen found it very [hard] troublesome to pronounce the gutturals but he did the best he could. The class was very serious and patriotic. The only time Stephen found it inclined to levity was at the lesson which introduced the word ‘gradh.’ The three young women laughed and the two stupid young men laughed, finding something very funny in the Irish word for ‘love’ or perhaps in the notion itself. But Mr Hughes and the other three young men and Stephen were all very grave. When the excitement of the word had passed Stephen’s attention was attracted to the younger of the stupid young men who was still blushing violently. His blush continued for such a long time that Stephen began to feel nervous. The young man grew more and more confused and what was worst was that he was making all this confusion for himself for no-one in the class but Stephen seemed to have noticed him. He continued so till the end of the hour never once daring to raise his eyes from his book and when he had occasion to use his handkerchief he did so stealthily with his left hand.

  The meetings on Friday nights were public and were largely patronised by priests. The organisers brought in reports from different districts and the priests made speeches of exhortation. Two young men would then be called on for songs in Irish and when it was time for the whole company to break up all would rise and sing the Rallying-Song. The young women would then begin to chatter while their cavaliers helped them into their jackets. A very stout black-bearded citizen who always wore a wideawake hat and a long bright green muffler was a constant figure at these meetings. When the company was going home he was usually to be seen surrounded by a circle of young men who looked very meagre about his bulk. He had the voice of an ox and he could be heard at a great distance, criticising, denouncing and scoffing. His circle was the separatist centre and in it reigned the irreconcilable temper. It had its headquarters in Cooney’s tobacco-shop where the members sat every evening in the ‘Divan’ talking Irish loudly and smoking churchwardens. To this circle Madden who was the captain of a club of hurley-players reported the muscular condition of the young irreconcilables under his charge and the editor of the weekly journal of the irreconcilable party reported any signs of Philocelticism which he had observed in the Paris newspapers.

  By all this society liberty was held to be the chief desirable; the members of it were fierce democrats. The liberty they desired for themselves was mainly a liberty of costume and vocabulary: and Stephen could hardly understand how such a poor scarecrow of liberty could bring [to their] serious human beings to their knees in worship. As in the Daniels’ household he had seen people playing at being important so here he saw people playing at being free. He saw that many political absurdities arose from the lack of a just sense of comparison in public men. The orators of this patriotic party were not ashamed to cite the precedents of Switzerland and France. The intelligent centres of the movement were so scantily supplied that the analogies they gave out as exact and potent were really analogies built haphazard upon very inexact knowledge. The cry of a solitary Frenchman (A bas l’Angleterre! ) at a Celtic re-union in Paris would be made by these enthusiasts the subject of a leading article in which would be shown the imminence of aid for Ireland from the French Government. A glowing example was to be found for Ireland in the case of Hungary, an example, as these patriots imagined, of a long-suffering minority, entitled by every right of race and justice to a separate freedom, finally emancipating itself. In emulation of that achievement bodies of young Gaels conflicted murderously in the Phoenix Park with whacking hurley-sticks, thrice armed in their just quarrel since their revolution had been blessed for them by the Anointed, and the same
bodies were set aflame with indignation [at] by the unwelcome presence of any young sceptic who was aware of the capable aggressions of the Magyars upon the Latin and Slav and Teutonic populations, greater than themselves in number, which are politically allied to them, and of the potency of a single regiment of infantry to hold in check a town of twenty thousand inhabitants.

  Stephen said one day to Madden:

  — I suppose these hurley-matches and walking tours are preparations for the great event.

  — There is more going on in Ireland at present than you are aware of.

  — But what use are camans?

  — Well, you see, we want to raise the physique of the country.

  Stephen meditated for a moment and then he said:

  — It seems to me that the English Government is very good to you in this matter.

  — How is that may I ask?

  — The English Government will take you every summer in batches to different militia camps, train you to the use of modern weapons, drill you, feed you and pay you and then send you home again when the manoeuvres are over.

  — Well?

  — Wouldn’t that be better for your young men than hurley-practice in the Park?

  — Do you mean to say you want young Gaelic Leaguers to wear the redcoat and take an oath of allegiance to the Queen and take her shilling too?

  — Look at your friend, Hughes.

  — What about him?

  — One of these days he will be a barrister, a Q.C., perhaps a judge — and yet he sneers at the Parliamentary Party because they take an oath of allegiance.

  — Law is law all the world over — there must be someone to administer it, particularly here, where the people have no friends in Court.

  — Bullets are bullets, too. I do not quite follow the distinction you make between administering English law and administering English bullets: there is the same oath of allegiance for both professions.

  — Anyhow it is better for a man to follow a line of life which civilisation regards as humane. Better be a barrister than a redcoat.