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 muchworn 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.