Complete Works of James Joyce Read online

  Rise in one eucharistic hymn

  Are you not weary of ardent ways?

  While sacrificing hands upraise

  The chalice flowing to the brim.

  Tell no more of enchanted days.

  He spoke the verses aloud from the first lines till the music and rhythm suffused his mind, turning it to quiet indulgence; then copied them painfully to feel them the better by seeing them; then lay back on his bolster.

  The full morning light had come. No sound was to be heard; but he knew that all around him life was about to awaken in common noises, hoarse voices, sleepy prayers. Shrinking from that life he turned towards the wall, making a cowl of the blanket and staring at the great overblown scarlet flowers of the tattered wallpaper. He tried to warm his perishing joy in their scarlet glow, imagining a roseway from where he lay upwards to heaven all strewn with scarlet flowers. Weary! Weary! He too was weary of ardent ways.

  A gradual warmth, a languorous weariness passed over him descending along his spine from his closely cowled head. He felt it descend and, seeing himself as he lay, smiled. Soon he would sleep.

  He had written verses for her again after ten years. Ten years before she had worn her shawl cowlwise about her head, sending sprays of her warm breath into the night air, tapping her foot upon the glassy road. It was the last tram; the lank brown horses knew it and shook their bells to the clear night in admonition. The conductor talked with the driver, both nodding often in the green light of the lamp. They stood on the steps of the tram, he on the upper, she on the lower. She came up to his step many times between their phrases and went down again and once or twice remained beside him forgetting to go down and then went down. Let be! Let be!

  Ten years from that wisdom of children to his folly. If he sent her the verses? They would be read out at breakfast amid the tapping of egg-shells. Folly indeed! Her brothers would laugh and try to wrest the page from each other with their strong hard fingers. The suave priest, her uncle, seated in his arm-chair, would hold the page at arm’s length, read it smiling and approve of the literary form.

  No, no; that was folly. Even if he sent her the verses she would not show them to others. No, no; she could not.

  He began to feel that he had wronged her. A sense of her innocence moved him almost to pity her, an innocence he had never understood till he had come to the knowledge of it through sin, an innocence which she too had not understood while she was innocent or before the strange humiliation of her nature had first come upon her. Then first her soul had begun to live as his soul had when he had first sinned, and a tender compassion filled his heart as he remembered her frail pallor and her eyes, humbled and saddened by the dark shame of womanhood.

  While his soul had passed from ecstasy to languor where had she been? Might it be, in the mysterious ways of spiritual life, that her soul at those same moments had been conscious of his homage? It might be.

  A glow of desire kindled again his soul and fired and fulfilled all his body. Conscious of his desire she was waking from odorous sleep, the temptress of his villanelle. Her eyes, dark and with a look of languor, were opening to his eyes. Her nakedness yielded to him, radiant, warm, odorous and lavish-limbed, enfolded him like a shining cloud, enfolded him like water with a liquid life; and like a cloud of vapour or like waters circumfluent in space the liquid letters of speech, symbols of the element of mystery, flowed forth over his brain.

  Are you not weary of ardent ways,

  Lure of the fallen seraphim?

  Tell no more of enchanted days.

  Your eyes have set man’s heart ablaze

  And you have had your will of him.

  Are you not weary of ardent ways?

  Above the flame the smoke of praise

  Goes up from ocean rim to rim.

  Tell no more of enchanted days.

  Our broken cries and mournful lays

  Rise in one eucharistic hymn.

  Are you not weary of ardent ways?

  While sacrificing hands upraise

  The chalice flowing to the brim.

  Tell no more of enchanted days.

  And still you hold our longing gaze

  With languorous look and lavish limb!

  Are you not weary of ardent ways?

  Tell no more of enchanted days.

  What birds were they? He stood on the steps of the library to look at them, leaning wearily on his ashplant. They flew round and round the jutting shoulder of a house in Molesworth Street. The air of the late March evening made clear their flight, their dark quivering bodies flying clearly against the sky as against a limp-hung cloth of smoky tenuous blue.

  He watched their flight; bird after bird: a dark flash, a swerve, a flutter of wings. He tried to count them before all their darting quivering bodies passed: six, ten, eleven: and wondered were they odd or even in number. Twelve, thirteen: for two came wheeling down from the upper sky. They were flying high and low but ever round and round in straight and curving lines and ever flying from left to right, circling about a temple of air.

  He listened to the cries: like the squeak of mice behind the wainscot: a shrill twofold note. But the notes were long and shrill and whirring, unlike the cry of vermin, falling a third or a fourth and trilled as the flying beaks clove the air. Their cry was shrill and clear and fine and falling like threads of silken light unwound from whirring spools.

  The inhuman clamour soothed his ears in which his mother’s sobs and reproaches murmured insistently and the dark frail quivering bodies wheeling and fluttering and swerving round an airy temple of the tenuous sky soothed his eyes which still saw the image of his mother’s face.

  Why was he gazing upwards from the steps of the porch, hearing their shrill twofold cry, watching their flight? For an augury of good or evil? A phrase of Cornelius Agrippa flew through his mind and then there flew hither and thither shapeless thoughts from Swedenborg on the correspondence of birds to things of the intellect and of how the creatures of the air have their knowledge and know their times and seasons because they, unlike man, are in the order of their life and have not perverted that order by reason.

  And for ages men had gazed upward as he was gazing at birds in flight. The colonnade above him made him think vaguely of an ancient temple and the ashplant on which he leaned wearily of the curved stick of an augur. A sense of fear of the unknown moved in the heart of his weariness, a fear of symbols and portents, of the hawk-like man whose name he bore soaring out of his captivity on osier-woven wings, of Thoth, the god of writers, writing with a reed upon a tablet and bearing on his narrow ibis head the cusped moon.

  He smiled as he thought of the god’s image for it made him think of a bottle-nosed judge in a wig, putting commas into a document which he held at arm’s length, and he knew that he would not have remembered the god’s name but that it was like an Irish oath. It was folly. But was it for this folly that he was about to leave for ever the house of prayer and prudence into which he had been born and the order of life out of which he had come?

  They came back with shrill cries over the jutting shoulder of the house, flying darkly against the fading air. What birds were they? He thought that they must be swallows who had come back from the south. Then he was to go away for they were birds ever going and coming, building ever an unlasting home under the eaves of men’s houses and ever leaving the homes they had built to wander.

  Bend down your faces, Oona and Aleel.

  I gaze upon them as the swallow gazes

  Upon the nest under the eave before

  He wander the loud waters.

  A soft liquid joy like the noise of many waters flowed over his memory and he felt in his heart the soft peace of silent spaces of fading tenuous sky above the waters, of oceanic silence, of swallows flying through the sea-dusk over the flowing waters.

  A soft liquid joy flowed through the words where the soft long vowels hurtled noiselessly and fell away, lapping and flowing back and ever shaking the white bells of their waves in mute
chime and mute peal, and soft low swooning cry; and he felt that the augury he had sought in the wheeling darting birds and in the pale space of sky above him had come forth from his heart like a bird from a turret, quietly and swiftly.

  Symbol of departure or of loneliness? The verses crooned in the ear of his memory composed slowly before his remembering eyes the scene of the hall on the night of the opening of the national theatre. He was alone at the side of the balcony, looking out of jaded eyes at the culture of Dublin in the stalls and at the tawdry scene-cloths and human dolls framed by the garish lamps of the stage. A burly policeman sweated behind him and seemed at every moment about to act. The catcalls and hisses and mocking cries ran in rude gusts round the hall from his scattered fellow students.

  — A libel on Ireland!

  — Made in Germany.

  — Blasphemy!

  — We never sold our faith!

  — No Irish woman ever did it!

  — We want no amateur atheists.

  — We want no budding buddhists.

  A sudden swift hiss fell from the windows above him and he knew that the electric lamps had been switched on in the reader’s room. He turned into the pillared hall, now calmly lit, went up the staircase and passed in through the clicking turnstile.

  Cranly was sitting over near the dictionaries. A thick book, opened at the frontispiece, lay before him on the wooden rest. He leaned back in his chair, inclining his ear like that of a confessor to the face of the medical student who was reading to him a problem from the chess page of a journal. Stephen sat down at his right and the priest at the other side of the table closed his copy of THE TABLET with an angry snap and stood up.

  Cranly gazed after him blandly and vaguely. The medical student went on in a softer voice:

  — Pawn to king’s fourth.

  — We had better go, Dixon, said Stephen in warning. He has gone to complain.

  Dixon folded the journal and rose with dignity, saying:

  — Our men retired in good order.

  — With guns and cattle, added Stephen, pointing to the titlepage of Cranly’s book on which was printed DISEASES OF THE OX.

  As they passed through a lane of the tables Stephen said:

  — Cranly, I want to speak to you.

  Cranly did not answer or turn. He laid his book on the counter and passed out, his well-shod feet sounding flatly on the floor. On the staircase he paused and gazing absently at Dixon repeated:

  — Pawn to king’s bloody fourth.

  — Put it that way if you like, Dixon said.

  He had a quiet toneless voice and urbane manners and on a finger of his plump clean hand he displayed at moments a signet ring.

  As they crossed the hall a man of dwarfish stature came towards them. Under the dome of his tiny hat his unshaven face began to smile with pleasure and he was heard to murmur. The eyes were melancholy as those of a monkey.

  — Good evening, gentlemen, said the stubble-grown monkeyish face.

  — Warm weather for March, said Cranly. They have the windows open upstairs.

  Dixon smiled and turned his ring. The blackish, monkey-puckered face pursed its human mouth with gentle pleasure and its voice purred:

  — Delightful weather for March. Simply delightful.

  — There are two nice young ladies upstairs, captain, tired of waiting, Dixon said.

  Cranly smiled and said kindly:

  — The captain has only one love: sir Walter Scott. Isn’t that so, captain?

  — What are you reading now, captain? Dixon asked. THE BRIDE OF LAMMERMOOR?

  — I love old Scott, the flexible lips said, I think he writes something lovely. There is no writer can touch sir Walter Scott.

  He moved a thin shrunken brown hand gently in the air in time to his praise and his thin quick eyelids beat often over his sad eyes.

  Sadder to Stephen’s ear was his speech: a genteel accent, low and moist, marred by errors, and, listening to it, he wondered was the story true and was the thin blood that flowed in his shrunken frame noble and come of an incestuous love?

  The park trees were heavy with rain; and rain fell still and ever in the lake, lying grey like a shield. A game of swans flew there and the water and the shore beneath were fouled with their green-white slime. They embraced softly, impelled by the grey rainy light, the wet silent trees, the shield-like witnessing lake, the swans. They embraced without joy or passion, his arm about his sister’s neck. A grey woollen cloak was wrapped athwart her from her shoulder to her waist and her fair head was bent in willing shame. He had loose red-brown hair and tender shapely strong freckled hands. Face? There was no face seen. The brother’s face was bent upon her fair rain-fragrant hair. The hand freckled and strong and shapely and caressing was Davin’s hand.

  He frowned angrily upon his thought and on the shrivelled mannikin who had called it forth. His father’s jibes at the Bantry gang leaped out of his memory. He held them at a distance and brooded uneasily on his own thought again. Why were they not Cranly’s hands? Had Davin’s simplicity and innocence stung him more secretly?

  He walked on across the hall with Dixon, leaving Cranly to take leave elaborately of the dwarf.

  Under the colonnade Temple was standing in the midst of a little group of students. One of them cried:

  — Dixon, come over till you hear. Temple is in grand form.

  Temple turned on him his dark gipsy eyes.

  — You’re a hypocrite, O’Keeffe, he said. And Dixon is a smiler. By hell, I think that’s a good literary expression.

  He laughed slyly, looking in Stephen’s face, repeating:

  — By hell, I’m delighted with that name. A smiler.

  A stout student who stood below them on the steps said:

  — Come back to the mistress, Temple. We want to hear about that.

  — He had, faith, Temple said. And he was a married man too. And all the priests used to be dining there. By hell, I think they all had a touch.

  — We shall call it riding a hack to spare the hunter, said Dixon.

  — Tell us, Temple, O’Keeffe said, how many quarts of porter have you in you?

  — All your intellectual soul is in that phrase, O’Keeffe, said Temple with open scorn.

  He moved with a shambling gait round the group and spoke to Stephen.

  — Did you know that the Forsters are the kings of Belgium? he asked.

  Cranly came out through the door of the entrance hall, his hat thrust back on the nape of his neck and picking his teeth with care.

  — And here’s the wiseacre, said Temple. Do you know that about the Forsters?

  He paused for an answer. Cranly dislodged a figseed from his teeth on the point of his rude toothpick and gazed at it intently.

  — The Forster family, Temple said, is descended from Baldwin the First, king of Flanders. He was called the Forester. Forester and Forster are the same name. A descendant of Baldwin the First, captain Francis Forster, settled in Ireland and married the daughter of the last chieftain of Clanbrassil. Then there are the Blake Forsters. That’s a different branch.

  — From Baldhead, king of Flanders, Cranly repeated, rooting again deliberately at his gleaming uncovered teeth.

  — Where did you pick up all that history? O’Keeffe asked.

  — I know all the history of your family, too, Temple said, turning to Stephen. Do you know what Giraldus Cambrensis says about your family?

  — Is he descended from Baldwin too? asked a tall consumptive student with dark eyes.

  — Baldhead, Cranly repeated, sucking at a crevice in his teeth.

  — PERNOBILIS ET PERVETUSTA FAMILIA, Temple said to Stephen.

  The stout student who stood below them on the steps farted briefly. Dixon turned towards him, saying in a soft voice:

  — Did an angel speak?

  Cranly turned also and said vehemently but without anger:

  — Goggins, you’re the flamingest dirty devil I ever met, do you know.

  —
I had it on my mind to say that, Goggins answered firmly. It did no one any harm, did it?

  — We hope, Dixon said suavely, that it was not of the kind known to science as a PAULO POST FUTURUM.

  — Didn’t I tell you he was a smiler? said Temple, turning right and left. Didn’t I give him that name?

  — You did. We’re not deaf, said the tall consumptive.

  Cranly still frowned at the stout student below him. Then, with a snort of disgust, he shoved him violently down the steps.

  — Go away from here, he said rudely. Go away, you stinkpot. And you are a stinkpot.

  Goggins skipped down on to the gravel and at once returned to his place with good humour. Temple turned back to Stephen and asked:

  — Do you believe in the law of heredity?

  — Are you drunk or what are you or what are you trying to say? asked Cranly, facing round on him with an expression of wonder.

  — The most profound sentence ever written, Temple said with enthusiasm, is the sentence at the end of the zoology. Reproduction is the beginning of death.

  He touched Stephen timidly at the elbow and said eagerly:

  — Do you feel how profound that is because you are a poet?

  Cranly pointed his long forefinger.

  — Look at him! he said with scorn to the others. Look at Ireland’s hope!

  They laughed at his words and gesture. Temple turned on him bravely, saying:

  — Cranly, you’re always sneering at me. I can see that. But I am as good as you any day. Do you know what I think about you now as compared with myself?

  — My dear man, said Cranly urbanely, you are incapable, do you know, absolutely incapable of thinking.

  — But do you know, Temple went on, what I think of you and of myself compared together?

  — Out with it, Temple! the stout student cried from the steps. Get it out in bits!

  Temple turned right and left, making sudden feeble gestures as he spoke.

  — I’m a ballocks, he said, shaking his head in despair. I am and I know I am. And I admit it that I am.

  Dixon patted him lightly on the shoulder and said mildly:

  — And it does you every credit, Temple.