A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
It was queer that they had not given him any medicine. Perhaps Brother
Michael would bring it back when he came. They said you got stinking
stuff to drink when you were in the infirmary. But he felt better now
than before. It would be nice getting better slowly. You could get a
book then. There was a book in the library about Holland. There were
lovely foreign names in it and pictures of strangelooking cities and
ships. It made you feel so happy.
How pale the light was at the window! But that was nice. The fire rose
and fell on the wall. It was like waves. Someone had put coal on and he
heard voices. They were talking. It was the noise of the waves. Or the
waves were talking among themselves as they rose and fell.
He saw the sea of waves, long dark waves rising and falling, dark under
the moonless night. A tiny light twinkled at the pierhead where the
ship was entering: and he saw a multitude of people gathered by the
waters’ edge to see the ship that was entering their harbour. A tall
man stood on the deck, looking out towards the flat dark land: and by
the light at the pierhead he saw his face, the sorrowful face of
Brother Michael.
He saw him lift his hand towards the people and heard him say in a loud
voice of sorrow over the waters:
—He is dead. We saw him lying upon the catafalque. A wail of sorrow
went up from the people.
—Parnell! Parnell! He is dead!
They fell upon their knees, moaning in sorrow.
And he saw Dante in a maroon velvet dress and with a green velvet
mantle hanging from her shoulders walking proudly and silently past the
people who knelt by the water’s edge.
A great fire, banked high and red, flamed in the grate and under the
ivytwined 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 easychairs 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 pierglass
above the mantelpiece, waxed out his moustache 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 moustache 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. O, we had a good walk, hadn’t we,
John? Yes... I wonder if there’s any likelihood of dinner this evening.
Yes... O, well now, we got a good breath of ozone round the Head today.
Ay, bedad.
He turned to Dante and said:
—You didn’t stir out at all, Mrs Riordan?
Dante 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 help 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. 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 dewlaps, 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 around the edge with glistening
drops.
Stephen looked at the plump turkey which had lain, trussed and
skewered, on the kitchen table. He knew that his father had paid a
guinea for it in Dunn’s of D’Olier 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 Ally Daly.
Why did Mr Barrett in Clongowes call his pandybat a turkey? But
Clongowes 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 of 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 Eton 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 Riordan any sauce.
Mr Dedalus seized the sauceboat.
—Haven’t I? he cried. Mrs Riordan, pity the poor blind.
Dante covered her plate with her hands and said:
—No, thanks.
Mr Dedalus turned to uncle Charles.
—How are you off, sir?
—Right as the mail, Simon.
—You, John?
—I’m all right. Go on yourself.
—Mary? Here, Stephen, here’s something to make your hair curl.
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 canon. 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 Dante, for any man calling himself a catholic to
give to his priest.
—They have only themselves to blame, said Mr Dedalus suavely. If they
took a fool’s advice they would confine their attention to religion.
—It is religion, Dante 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, Dante said again. They are right. They must direct
their flocks.
—And preach politics from the altar, is it? asked Mr Dedalus.
—Certainly, said Dante. 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 sake and for pity 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. Dante said:
—Nice language for any catholic to use!
—Mrs Riordan, I appeal to you, said Mrs Dedalus, to let the matter drop
now.
Dante turned on her and said:
—And am I to sit here and listen to the pastors 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 Dante, and they
must be obeyed.
—Let them leave politics alone, said Mr Casey, or the people may leave
their church alone.
—You hear? said Dante, 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 Dante. 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 Riordan. _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
scandalise 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.
—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 Dante 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 carvingfork. Nobody
spoke. He put it on his own plate, saying:
—Well, you can’t say but you were asked. I think I had better eat it
myself because I’m not well in my health lately.
He winked at Stephen and, replacing the dishcover, 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.