by James Joyce
* Boy, bumpkin.
* The name of this periodical was An Claidheamh Soluis (The Sword of Light).
* The words, “offering him the grapes, ‘I never eat Muscatel grapes,’” appear in pencil in the MS. margin here, to be inserted after “orator.” Joyce evidently forgot to alter the text to fit them.
-XX-
The President’s indefinite manner of closing the interview had left some doubts in Stephen’s mind; he was unable to decide whether the retreat upstairs was a breach of friendly relations or a politic confession of inability. However as no definite prohibition had been pronounced upon him he determined to proceed calmly on his way until he encountered a substantial check. When he met McCann again he smiled and waited to be questioned. His account of the interview went the rounds of the undergraduate classes and he was much amused to observe the startled expression of many pairs of eyes which, to judge from their open humiliated astonishment, appeared to behold in him characteristics of a moral Nelson. Maurice listened to his brother’s account of his battle with recognised authority but he made no remark upon it. Stephen himself, in default of another’s service, began to annotate the incident copiously, expending every suggestive phase of the interview. He consumed much imaginative fuel in this diverting chase of the presumable and his rapid changeful courses kindled in him a flame of discontent for Maurice’s impassiveness:
— Are you listening to me at all? Do you know what I’m talking about?
— Yes, it’s all right … You can read your paper, can’t you?
— Yes, of course, I can … But what’s up with you? Are you bored? Are you thinking of anything?
— Well … yes, I am.
— What?
— I have found out why I feel different this evening. Why, do you think?
— I don’t know. Tell us.
— I have been walking [on] from the ball of my left foot. I usually walk from the ball of my right foot.
Stephen looked sideways at the speaker’s solemn face to see if there were any signs thereon of a satirical mood but, finding only steadfast self-analysis, he said:
— Indeed? That’s damned interesting.
On the Saturday night which had been fixed for the reading of the paper Stephen found himself facing the benches in the Physics’ Theatre. While the minutes were being read out by the secretary he had time to observe his father’s eyeglass glimmering high up near the window and he divined more than saw the burly form of Mr Casey hard by that observant centre. He could not see his brother but in the front benches he noticed Father Butt and McCann and two other priests. The chairman was Mr Keane, the professor of English composition. When the formal business was ended the chairman called on the essayist to read his paper and Stephen stood up. He waited until a compliment of discreet applause had subsided, and until McCann’s « energetic hands had given four resounding claps as a concluding solo of welcome. » Then he read out his essay. He read it quietly and distinctly, involving every hardihood of thought or expression in an envelope of low innocuous melody. He read it on calmly to the end: his reading was never once interrupted with applause: and when he had read out the final sentences in a tone of metallic clearness he sat down.
The first single thought that emerged through a swift mood of confusion was the bright conviction that he should never have written his essay. While he was gloomily taking counsel with himself as to whether he should fling the « manuscript at their heads » and march home or remain as he was shading his face from the light of the candles on the Chairman’s table he became aware that the discussion on his paper had begun: this discovery surprised him. Whelan, the orator of the College, was proposing a vote of thanks and wagging his head in time to ornate phrases. Stephen wondered did anyone else observe the infantile movements of the orator’s mouth. He wished that Whelan would shut his jaws with a clap so as to reveal the presence of solid teeth; the mere sound of the speech reminded him of the noise Nurse Sarah used to make when she mashed Isabel’s bread-and-milk in the blue bowl which his mother now used to hold starch. But he at once corrected himself for such a manner of criticism and strove to listen to the words of the orator. Whelan was profusely admiring: he felt (he said) during the reading of Mr Daedalus’ essay as though he had been listening to the discourse of angels and did not know the language that they spoke. It was with some diffidence that he ventured to criticise but it was evident that Mr Daedalus did not understand the beauty of the Attic theatre. He pointed out that Eschylus was an imperishable name and he predicted that the drama of the Greeks would outlive many civilisations. Stephen noticed that Whelan said ‘yisterday’ twice instead of ‘yesterday’ in imitation of Father Butt who was a South of England man and he speculated as to whether it was a Dominican preacher or a Jesuit preacher [that] who had given the orator his final phrase. “Greek art” said Whelan “is not for a time but for all times. It stands aloof, alone. It is « imperial, imperious and imperative. »”
McCann seconded the vote of thanks which had been so ably proposed by Mr Whelan and he desired to add his tribute to Mr Whelan’s eloquent tribute to the essayist of the night. There were perhaps many things in the paper which Mr Daedalus had read to them with which he could not agree, but he was not such a blind partizan of antiquity for antiquity’s sake as Mr Whelan seemed to be. Modern ideas must find their expression: the modern world had to face pressing problems: and he considered that any writer who could call attention to those problems in a striking way was well worthy of every serious person’s consideration. He considered that he was speaking for one and all of those present when he said that Mr Daedalus, by reading his frank and earnest essay that night, had conferred a benefit on the society.
The general diversion of the night began when these two opening speeches had ended. Stephen was subjected to the fires of six or seven hostile speakers. One speaker, a young man named Magee, said he was surprised that any paper which was conceived in a spirit so hostile to the spirit of religion itself — he did not know if Mr Daedalus understood the true purport of the theory he propounded — should find approval in their society. Who but the Church had sustained and fostered the artistic temper? Had not the drama owed its very birth to religion? That was indeed a poor theory which tried to bolster up the dull dramas of sinful intrigues and to decry the immortal masterpieces. Mr Magee said he did not know as much about Ibsen as Mr Daedalus did — nor did he want to know anything about him — but he knew that one of his plays was about the sanitary condition of a bathing-place. If this was drama he did not see why some Dublin Shakespeare should not pen an immortal work dealing with the new Main Drainage Scheme of the Dublin Corporation. This speech was the signal for a general attack. The essay was pronounced a jingle of meaningless words, a clever presentation of vicious principles in the guise of artistic theories, a reproduction of the decadent literary opinions of exhausted European capitals. The essayist was supposed to intend parts of his essay as efforts at practical joking: everyone knew that Macbeth would be famous when the unknown authors of whom Mr Daedalus was so fond were dead and forgotten. Ancient art loved to uphold the beautiful and the sublime: modern art might select other themes: but those who still preserved their minds uncontaminated by atheistic poisons would know which to choose. The climax of aggressiveness was reached when Hughes stood up. He declared in ringing Northern accents that the moral welfare of the Irish people was « menaced by such theories. » They wanted no foreign filth. Mr Daedalus might read what authors he liked, of course, but the Irish people had their own glorious literature where they could always find fresh ideals to spur them on to new patriotic endeavours. Mr Daedalus was himself a renegade from the Nationalist ranks: he professed cosmopolitism. But a man that was of all countries was of no country — you must first have a nation before you have art. Mr Daedalus might do as he pleased, kneel at the shrine of Art (with a capital A), and rave about obscure authors. In spite of [his] any hypocritical use of the name of a great doctor of the Church Ireland would be on
her guard against the insidious theory that art can be separated from morality. It they were to have art let it be moral art, art that elevated, above all, national art,
Kindly Irish of the Irish,
Neither Saxon nor Italian.
When the time had come for the Chairman to sum up and to put the motion before the house there was the usual pause. In this pause Father Butt rose and begged leave to say a few words. The benches applauded with excitement and settled themselves to hear a denunciation ex cathedra. Father Butt excused himself amid cries of “No, no” for detaining his audience at such an advanced hour but he thought he should enter a word in favour of the much-abused essayist. He would be advocatus diaboli and he felt the uncomfortableness of his office all the more since one of the speakers had, not unjustly, described the language in which Mr Daedalus’ essay had been couched as a language of angels. Mr Daedalus had contributed a very striking paper, a paper which had filled the house and entertained them by the lively discussion which it had provoked. Of course everyone could not be of the same opinion in « matters artistic. » Mr Daedalus admitted the conflict between romantics and classicals as the condition of all achievement and they had certainly proof that night that a conflict between antagonistic theories had been able to produce such distinct achievements as the essay itself, a remarkable piece of work, on the one hand and the memorable attack delivered by Mr Hughes, as leader of the opposition, on the other hand. He thought that one or two of the speakers had been unduly severe with the essayist but he was confident that the essayist was well able to take care of himself in the matter of argument. As for the theory itself Father Butt confessed that it was a new sensation for him to hear Thomas Aquinas quoted as an authority on esthetic philosophy. Esthetic philosophy was a modern branch and if it was anything at all, it was practical. Aquinas had treated slightly of the beautiful but always from a theoretic standpoint. To interpret his statements practically one needed a fuller knowledge than Mr Daedalus could have of his entire theology. At the same time he would not go so far as to say that Mr Daedalus had really, intentionally or unintentionally, misinterpreted Aquinas. But just as an act which may be good in itself may become bad by reason of circumstances so an object intrinsically beautiful may be vitiated by other considerations. Mr Daedalus had chosen to consider beauty intrinsically and to neglect these other considerations. But beauty also has its practical side. Mr Daedalus was a passionate admirer of the artistic and such people are not always the most practical people in the [side] world. Father Butt then reminded his audience of the story of King Alfred and the old woman who was cooking cakes — of the theorist, that is, and of the practical person and concluded by expressing the hope that the essayist would emulate King Alfred and not be too severe on the practical persons who had criticised him.
The chairman in his summing-up speech complimented the essayist on his style but he said the essayist had evidently forgotten that art implies selection. He thought that the discussion on the paper had been very instructive and he was sure they were all thankful to Father Butt for his clear, concise criticism. Mr Daedalus had been somewhat severely handled but he thought that, considering the many excellences of his paper, he (the Chairman) was well justified in asking them to agree unanimously that the best thanks of this society [are] were due and [are] were hereby tendered to Mr Daedalus for his admirable and instructive paper! The vote of thanks was passed unanimously but without enthusiasm.
Stephen stood up and bowed. It was customary for the essayist of the night to avail himself of this occasion for replying to his critics but Stephen contented himself with acknowledging the vote of thanks. Some called on him for a speech but, when the Chairman had waited in vain for a few moments, the proceedings ran on rapidly to a close. In five minutes the Physics’ Theatre was empty. Downstairs in the hall the young men were busy putting on their coats and lighting cigarettes. Stephen looked for his father and Maurice but could see them nowhere so he set out for home alone. At the corner of the Green he came up with a group of four young men, Madden, Cranly, a young medical student named Temple, and a clerk in the Custom-House. Madden caught Stephen’s arm and said consolingly in private:
— Well, old man, I told you those fellows wouldn’t understand it. I knew it was too good for them.
Stephen was touched by this show of friendship but he shook his head as if he wished to change the subject. Besides, he knew that Madden really understood very little of the paper and disapproved of what he understood. When Stephen came up with the four young men they were strolling very slowly, discussing a projected trip to Wicklow on Easter Monday. Stephen walked beside Madden at the edge of the footpath and thus the group advanced abreast along the wide footpath. Cranly in the centre was linking Madden and the clerk from the Custom-House. Stephen listened vaguely. Cranly was speaking (as was his custom when he walked with other gentlemen of leisure) in a language the base of which was Latin and the superstructure of which was composed of Irish, French and German:
— Atque ad duas horas in Wicklowio venit.
— Damnum longum tempus prendit, said the clerk from the Custom-House.
— Quando … no, I mean … quo in … bateau … irons-nous? asked Temple.
— Quo in batello? said Cranly, in “Regina Maris.”
So after a little talk the young men agreed to take a trip to Wicklow on the Sea-Queen. Stephen was much relieved to listen to this conversation: in a few minutes the sting of his « disaster was no longer felt so acutely. Cranly at last observed Stephen walking at the edge of the path and said:
— Ecce orator qui in malo humore est.
— Non sum, said Stephen.
— Credo ut estis, said Cranly.
— Minime.
— Credo ut vos sanguinarius mendax estis quia facies vestra mostrat [sic] ut vos in malo humore estis. »
Madden who could not talk this language well led the group back to English. The clerk from the Custom-House seemed to have it on his conscience to express admiration for Stephen’s style. He was a big stout young man with a lardy face and he carried an « umbrella. » He was several years [younger] older than any of his companions but he had decided to read for his degree in Mental and Moral Science. He was a constant companion of Cranly’s and it was the latter’s eloquence which had induced him to enter the night-classes in the College. Cranly spent a great part of his time persuading young men to « adopt different lines of life. » The clerk from the Custom-House was named O’Neill. He was a very amiable person, always laughing asthmatically at Cranly’s serious fooling, but he was interested to hear of any occasion whereby he might improve himself mentally. He attended the Debating Society and the meetings of the College Sodality because he was thus brought into ‘touch’ with University life. He was a circumspect young man but he allowed Cranly to ‘chaff’ him about girls. Stephen tried to dissuade the company from alluding to his essay but O’Neill had accepted the occasion as one to be availed of. He asked Stephen questions such as are to be found in the pages of young ladies’ confession-albums and Stephen thought that his mental heaven must greatly resemble a confectioner’s shop. Temple was a raw Gipsy-looking youth with a shambling gait and a shambling manner of speaking. He was from the West of Ireland and he was known to be very revolutionary. When O’Neill had spoken for some time to Cranly, who had answered him more politely than Stephen, Temple after a few false starts got in a phrase:
— I think … was a bloody fine paper.
Cranly turned a vacant face in the direction of the speaker but [O’Neill] Temple continued:
— Made ’em sit up too.
— Habesne bibitum? asked Cranly.
— ’Scuse me, sir, said [O’Neill] Temple to Stephen across the intervening bodies, do you believe in Jesus … I don’t believe in Jesus, he added.
Stephen laughed loudly at the tone of this statement and he continued when Temple began to shamble through a kind of apology:
— ’Course I don’t know … if you believe in Jesus
. I believe in Man … If you b’lieve in Jesus … of course … I oughtn’t to say anything the first time I met you … Do you think that?
O’Neill preserved a solemn silence until Temple’s speech had faded into indistinct mutterings; then he said, as if he were beginning an entirely new subject:
— I was very much interested in your paper and in the speeches too … What did you think of Hughes?
Stephen did not answer.
— Bloody cod, said Temple.
— I thought his speech was in very bad taste, said O’Neill sympathetically.
— Bellam boccam habet, said Cranly.
— Yes, I think he went too far, said Madden, but, you see, he gets carried away by his enthusiasm.
— Patrioticus est.
— Yes, he is a patriotic ’cus, said O’Neill laughing wheezily. But I thought Father Butt’s speech very good, very clear and philosophical.
— Did you think that? cried Temple from the inside of the path, to Stephen … ’Scuse me … I wanted to know what he thought of Butt’s speech, he explained at the same time to the other [four] three … Did you think … he was a bloody cod too?
Stephen could not help laughing at this novel form of address though Father Butt’s speech had put him into anything but a charitable mood.
— It was just the kind of thing he gives us every day, said Madden. You know the style.
— His speech annoyed me, said Stephen curtly.
— Why was that? said Temple eagerly. Why was it he annoyed you?
Stephen made a grimace instead of answering:
