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 But why were they to suffer for what fellows in the higher line did? Wells had said that they had drunk some of the altar wine out of the press in the sacristy and that it had been found out who had done it by the smell. Perhaps they had stolen a monstrance to run away with and sell it somewhere. That must have been a terrible sin, to go in there quietly at night, to open the dark press and steal the flashing gold thing into which God was put on the altar in the middle of flowers and candles at benediction while the incense went up in clouds at both sides as the fellow swung the censer and Dominic Kelly sang the first part by himself in the choir. But God was not in it of course when they stole it. But still it was a strange and a great sin even to touch it. He thought of it with deep awe; a terrible and strange sin: it thrilled him to think of it in the silence when the pens scraped lightly. But to drink the altar wine out of the press and be found out by the smell was a sin too: but it was not terrible and strange. It only made you feel a little sickish on account of the smell of the wine. Because on the day when he had made his first holy communion in the chapel he had shut his eyes and opened his mouth and put out his tongue a little: and when the rector had stooped down to give him the holy communion he had smelt a faint winy smell off the rector's breath after the wine of the mass. The word was beautiful: wine. It made you think of dark purple because the grapes were dark purple that grew in Greece outside houses like white temples. But the faint smell of the rector's breath had made him feel a sick feeling on the morning of his first communion. The day of your first communion was the happiest day of your life. And once a lot of generals had asked [49]


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 what was the happiest day of his life. They thought he would say the day he won some great battle or the day he was made an emperor. But he said:

—Gentlemen, the happiest day of my life was the day on which I made my first holy communion.

Father Arnall came in and the Latin lesson began and he remained still, leaning on the desk with his arms folded. Father Arnall gave out the theme-books and he said that they were scandalous and that they were all to be written out again with the corrections at once. But the worst of all was Fleming's theme because the pages were stuck together by a blot: and Father Arnall held it up by a corner and said it was an insult to any master to send him up such a theme. Then he asked Jack Lawton to decline the noun mare and Jack Lawton stopped at the ablative singular and could not go on with the plural.

—You should be ashamed of yourself, said Father Arnall sternly. You, the leader of the class!

Then he asked the next boy and the next and the next. Nobody knew. Father Arnall became very quiet, more and more quiet as each boy tried to answer it and could not. But his face was black-looking and his eyes were staring though his voice was so quiet. Then he asked Fleming and Fleming said that that word had no plural. Father Arnall suddenly shut the book and shouted at him:

—Kneel out there in the middle of the class. You are one of the idlest boys I ever met. Copy out your themes again the rest of you.

Fleming moved heavily out of his place and knelt between the two last benches. The other boys bent over their theme-books and began to write. A silence filled [50]

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 the classroom and Stephen, glancing timidly at Father Arnall's dark face, saw that it was a little red from the wax he was in.

Was that a sin for Father Arnall to be in a wax or was he allowed to get into a wax when the boys were idle because that made them study better or was he only letting on to be in a wax? It was because he was allowed, because a priest would know what a sin was and would not do it. But if he did it one time by mistake what would he do to go to confession? Perhaps he would go to confession to the minister. And if the minister did it he would go to the rector: and the rector to the provincial: and the provincial to the general of the jesuits. That was called the order: and he had heard his father say that they were all clever men. They could all have become high-up people in the world if they had not become jesuits. And he wondered what Father Arnall and Paddy Barrett would have become and what Mr McGlade and Mr Gleeson would have become if they had not become jesuits. It was hard to think what because you would have to think of them in a different way with different coloured coats and trousers and with beards and moustaches and different kinds of hats.

The door opened quietly and closed. A quick whisper ran through the class: the prefect of studies. There was an instant of dead silence and then the loud crack of a pandybat on the last desk. Stephen's heart leapt up in fear.

—Any boys want flogging here, Father Arnall? cried the prefect of studies. Any lazy idle loafers that want flogging in this class?

He came to the middle of the class and saw Fleming on his knees. [51]


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 —Hoho! he cried. Who is this boy? Why is he on his knees? What is your name, boy?

—Fleming, sir.

—Hoho, Fleming! An idler of course. I can see it in your eye. Why is he on his knees, Father Arnall?

—He wrote a bad Latin theme, Father Arnall said, and he missed all the questions in grammar.

—Of course he did! cried the prefect of studies, of course he did! A born idler! I can see it in the corner of his eye.

He banged his pandybat down on the desk and cried:

—Up, Fleming! Up, my boy!

Fleming stood up slowly.

—Hold out! cried the prefect of studies.

Fleming held out his hand. The pandybat came down on it with a loud smacking sound: one, two, three, four, five, six.

—Other hand!

The pandybat came down again in six loud quick smacks.

—Kneel down! cried the prefect of studies.

Fleming knelt down, squeezing his hands under his armpits, his face contorted with pain; but Stephen knew how hard his hands were because Fleming was always rubbing rosin into them. But perhaps he was in great pain for the noise of the pandybat was terrible. Stephen's heart was beating and fluttering.

—At your work, all of you! shouted the prefect of studies. We want no lazy idle loafers here, lazy idle little schemers. At your work, I tell you. Father Dolan will be in to see you every day. Father Dolan will be in tomorrow. [52]


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 He poked one of the boys in the side with his pandybat, saying:

—You, boy! When will Father Dolan be in again?

—Tomorrow, sir, said Tom Furlong's voice.

—Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, said the prefect of studies. Make up your minds for that. Every day Father Dolan. Write away. You, boy, who are you?

Stephen's heart jumped suddenly.

—Dedalus, sir.

—Why are you not writing like the others?

—I ... my ...

He could not speak with fright.

—Why is he not writing, Father Arnall?

—He broke his glasses, said Father Arnall, and I exempted him from work.

—Broke? What is this I hear? What is this? Your name is? said the prefect of studies.

—Dedalus, sir.

—Out here, Dedalus. Lazy little schemer. I see schemer in your face. Where did you break your glasses?

Stephen stumbled into the middle of the class, blinded by fear and haste.

—Where did you break your glasses? repeated the prefect of studies.

—The cinderpath, sir.

—Hoho! The cinderpath! cried the prefect of studies. I know that trick.

Stephen lifted his eyes in wonder and saw for a moment Father Dolan's whitegrey not young face, his baldy whitegrey head with fluff at the sides of it, the steel rims of his spectacles and his no-coloured eyes [53]


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 through the glasses. Why did he say he knew that trick?

—Lazy idle little loafer! cried the prefect of studies. Broke my glasses! An old schoolboy trick! Out with your hand this moment!

Stephen closed his eyes and held out in the air his trembling hand with the palm upwards. He felt the prefect of studies touch it for a moment at the fingers to straighten it and then the swish of the sleeve of the soutane as the pandybat was lifted to strike. A hot burning stinging tingling blow like the loud crack of a broken stick made his trembling hand crumple together like a leaf in the fire: and at the sound and the pain scalding tears were driven into his eyes. His whole body was shaking with fright, his arm was shaking and his crumpled burning livid hand shook like a loose leaf in the air. A cry sprang to his lips, a prayer to be let off. But though the tears scalded his eyes and his limbs quivered with pain and fright he held back the hot tears and the cry that scalded his throat.

—Other hand! shouted the prefect of studies.

Stephen drew back his maimed and quivering right arm and held out his left hand. The soutane sleeve swished again as the pandybat was lifted and a loud crashing sound and a fierce maddening tingling burning pain made his hand shrink together with the palms and fingers in a livid quivering mass. The scalding water burst forth from his eyes and, burning with shame and agony and fear, he drew back his shaking arm in terror and burst out into a whine of pain. His body shook with a palsy of fright and in shame and rage he felt the scalding cry come from his throat and the scalding tears falling out of his eyes and down his flaming cheeks. [54]


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 —Kneel down, cried the prefect of studies.

Stephen knelt down quickly pressing his beaten hands to his sides. To think of them beaten and swollen with pain all in a moment made him feel so sorry for them as if they were not his own but someone else's that he felt sorry for. And as he knelt, calming the last sobs in his throat and feeling the burning tingling pain pressed into his sides, he thought of the hands which he had held out in the air with the palms up and of the firm touch of the prefect of studies when he had steadied the shaking fingers and of the beaten swollen reddened mass of palm and fingers that shook helplessly in the air.

—Get at your work, all of you, cried the prefect of studies from the door. Father Dolan will be in every day to see if any boy, any lazy idle little loafer wants flogging. Every day. Every day.

The door closed behind him.

The hushed class continued to copy out the themes. Father Arnall rose from his seat and went among them, helping the boys with gentle words and telling them the mistakes they had made. His voice was very gentle and soft. Then he returned to his seat and said to Fleming and Stephen:

—You may return to your places, you two.

Fleming and Stephen rose and, walking to their seats, sat down. Stephen, scarlet with shame, opened a book quickly with one weak hand and bent down upon it, his face close to the page.

It was unfair and cruel because the doctor had told him not to read without glasses and he had written home to his father that morning to send him a new pair. And Father Arnall had said that he need not study till the new glasses came. Then to be called a schemer before [55]


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 the class and to be pandied when he always got the card for first or second and was the leader of the Yorkists! How could the prefect of studies know that it was a trick? He felt the touch of the prefect's fingers as they had steadied his hand and at first he had thought he was going to shake hands with him because the fingers were soft and firm: but then in an instant he had heard the swish of the soutane sleeve and the crash. It was cruel and unfair to make him kneel in the middle of the class then: and Father Arnall had told them both that they might return to their places without making any difference between them. He listened to Father Arnall's low and gentle voice as he corrected the themes. Perhaps he was sorry now and wanted to be decent. But it was unfair and cruel. The prefect of studies was a priest but that was cruel and unfair. And his white-grey face and the no-coloured eyes behind the steel-rimmed spectacles were cruel looking because he had steadied the hand first with his firm soft fingers and that was to hit it better and louder.

—It's a stinking mean thing, that's what it is, said Fleming in the corridor as the classes were passing out in file to the refectory, to pandy a fellow for what is not his fault.

—You really broke your glasses by accident, didn't you? Nasty Roche asked.

Stephen felt his heart filled by Fleming's words and did not answer.

—Of course he did! said Fleming. I wouldn't stand it. I'd go up and tell the rector on him.

—Yes, said Cecil Thunder eagerly, and I saw him lift the pandy-bat over his shoulder and he's not allowed to do that. [56]


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 —Did they hurt you much? Nasty Roche asked.

—Very much, Stephen said.

—I wouldn't stand it, Fleming repeated, from Baldyhead or any other Baldyhead. It's a stinking mean low trick, that's what it is. I'd go straight up to the rector and tell him about it after dinner.

—Yes, do. Yes, do, said Cecil Thunder.

—Yes, do. Yes, go up and tell the rector on him, Dedalus, said Nasty Roche, because he said that he'd come in tomorrow again and pandy you.

—Yes, yes. Tell the rector, all said.

And there were some fellows out of second of grammar listening and one of them said:

—The senate and the Roman people declared that Dedalus had been wrongly punished.

It was wrong; it was unfair and cruel: and, as he sat in the refectory, he suffered time after time in memory the same humiliation until he began to wonder whether it might not really be that there was something in his face which made him look like a schemer and he wished he had a little mirror to see. But there could not be; and it was unjust and cruel and unfair.

He could not eat the blackish fish fritters they got on Wednesdays in Lent and one of his potatoes had the mark of the spade in it. Yes, he would do what the fellows had told him. He would go up and tell the rector that he had been wrongly punished. A thing like that had been done before by somebody in history, by some great person whose head was in the books of history. And the rector would declare that he had been wrongly punished because the senate and the Roman people always declared that the men who did that had been wrongly punished. Those were the great men [57]


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 whose names were in Richmal Magnall's Questions. History was all about those men and what they did and that was what Peter Parley's Tales about Greece and Rome were all about. Peter Parley himself was on the first page in a picture. There was a road over a heath with grass at the side and little bushes: and Peter Parley had a broad hat like a protestant minister and a big stick and he was walking fast along the road to Greece and Rome.

It was easy what he had to do. All he had to do was when the dinner was over and he came out in his turn to go on walking but not out to the corridor but up the staircase on the right that led to the castle. He had nothing to do but that; to turn to the right and walk fast up the staircase and in half a minute he would be in the low dark narrow corridor that led through the castle to the rector's room. And every fellow had said that it was unfair, even the fellow out of second of grammar who had said that about the senate and the Roman people.

What would happen? He heard the fellows of the higher line stand up at the top of the refectory and heard their steps as they came down the matting: Paddy Rath and Jimmy Magee and the Spaniard and the Portuguese and the fifth was big Corrigan who was going to be flogged by Mr Gleeson. That was why the prefect of studies had called him a schemer and pandied him for nothing: and, straining his weak eyes, tired with the tears, he watched big Corrigan's broad shoulders and big hanging black head passing in the file. But he had done something and besides Mr Gleeson would not flog him hard: and he remembered how big Corrigan looked in the bath. He had skin the same colour as the [58]


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 bogwater in the shallow end of the bath and when he walked along the side his feet slapped loudly on the wet tiles and at every step his thighs shook a little because he was fat.

The refectory was half empty and the fellows were still passing out in file. He could go up the staircase because there was never a priest or a prefect outside the refectory door. But he could not go. The rector would side with the prefect of studies and think it was a schoolboy trick and then the prefect of studies would come in every day the same, only it would be worse because he would be dreadfully waxy at any fellow going up to the rector about him. The fellows had told him to go but they would not go themselves. They had forgotten all about it. No, it was best to forget all about it and perhaps the prefect of studies had only said he would come in. No, it was best to hide out of the way because when you were small and young you could often escape that way.

The fellows at his table stood up. He stood up and passed out among them in the file. He had to decide. He was coming near the door. If he went on with the fellows he could never go up to the rector because he could not leave the playground for that. And if he went and was pandied all the same all the fellows would make fun and talk about young Dedalus going up to the rector to tell on the prefect of studies.

He was walking down along the matting and he saw the door before him. It was impossible: he could not. He thought of the baldy head of the prefect of studies with the cruel no-coloured eyes looking at him and he heard the voice of the prefect of studies asking him twice what his name was. Why could he not remember [59]


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 the name when he was told the first time? Was he not listening the first time or was it to make fun out of the name? The great men in the history had names like that and nobody made fun of them. It was his own name that he should have made fun of if he wanted to make fun. Dolan: it was like the name of a woman who washed clothes.

He had reached the door and, turning quickly up to the right, walked up the stairs; and, before he could make up his mind to come back, he had entered the low dark narrow corridor that led to the castle. And as he crossed the threshold of the door of the corridor he saw, without turning his head to look, that all the fellows were looking after him as they went filing by.

He passed along the narrow dark corridor, passing little doors that were the doors of the rooms of the community. He peered in front of him and right and left through the gloom and thought that those must be portraits. It was dark and silent and his eyes were weak and tired with tears so that he could not see. But he thought they were the portraits of the saints and great men of the order who were looking down on him silently as he passed: Saint Ignatius Loyola holding an open book and pointing to the words Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam in it, saint Francis Xavier pointing to his chest, Lorenzo Ricci with his berretta on his head like one of the prefects of the lines, the three patrons of holy youth, saint Stanislaus Kostka, saint Aloysius Gonzaga and Blessed John Berchmans, all with young faces because they died when they were young, and Father Peter Kenny sitting in a chair wrapped in a big cloak.

He came out on the landing above the entrance hall and looked about him. That was where Hamilton [60]


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 Rowan had passed and the marks of the soldiers' slugs were there. And it was there that the old servants had seen the ghost in the white cloak of a marshal.

An old servant was sweeping at the end of the landing. He asked him where was the rector's room and the old servant pointed to the door at the far end and looked after him as he went on to it and knocked.

There was no answer. He knocked again more loudly and his heart jumped when he heard a muffled voice say:

—Come in!

He turned the handle and opened the door and fumbled for the handle of the green baize door inside. He found it and pushed it open and went in.

He saw the rector sitting at a desk writing. There was a skull on the desk and a strange solemn smell in the room like the old leather of chairs.

His heart was beating fast on account of the solemn place he was in and the silence of the room: and he looked at the skull and at the rector's kind-looking face.

—Well, my little man, said the rector, what is it?

Stephen swallowed down the thing in his throat and said:

—I broke my glasses, sir.

The rector opened his mouth and said:

—O!

Then he smiled and said:

—Well, if we broke our glasses we must write home for a new pair.

—I wrote home, sir, said Stephen, and Father Arnall said I am not to study till they come.

—Quite right! said the rector.

Stephen swallowed down the thing again and tried to keep his legs and his voice from shaking. [61]


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 —But, sir ...

—Yes?

—Father Dolan came in today and pandied me because I was not writing my theme.

The rector looked at him in silence and he could feel the blood rising to his face and the tears about to rise to his eyes.

The rector said:

—Your name is Dedalus, isn't it?

—Yes, sir.

—And where did you break your glasses?

—On the cinderpath, sir. A fellow was coming out of the bicycle house and I fell and they got broken. I don't know the fellow's name.

The rector looked at him again in silence. Then he smiled and said:

—O, well, it was a mistake, I am sure Father Dolan did not know.

—But I told him I broke them, sir, and he pandied me.

—Did you tell him that you had written home for a new pair? the rector asked.

—No, sir.

—O well then, said the rector, Father Dolan did not understand. You can say that I excuse you from your lessons for a few days.

Stephen said quickly for fear his trembling would prevent him:

—Yes, sir, but Father Dolan said he will come in tomorrow to pandy me again for it.

—Very well, the rector said, it is a mistake and I shall speak to Father Dolan myself. Will that do now? [62]


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 Stephen felt the tears wetting his eyes and murmured:

—O yes sir, thanks.

The rector held his hand across the side of the desk where the skull was and Stephen, placing his hand in it for a moment, felt a cool moist palm.

—Good day now, said the rector, withdrawing his hand and bowing.

—Good day, sir, said Stephen.

He bowed and walked quietly out of the room, closing the doors carefully and slowly.

But when he had passed the old servant on the landing and was again in the low narrow dark corridor he began to walk faster and faster. Faster and faster he hurried on through the gloom excitedly. He bumped his elbow against the door at the end and, hurrying down the staircase, walked quickly through the two corridors and out into the air.

He could hear the cries of the fellows on the playgrounds. He broke into a run and, running quicker and quicker, ran across the cinderpath and reached the third line playground, panting.

The fellows had seen him running. They closed round him in a ring, pushing one against another to hear.

—Tell us! Tell us!

—What did he say?

—Did you go in?

—What did he say?

—Tell us! Tell us!

He told them what he had said and what the rector had said and, when he had told them, all the fellows flung their caps spinning up into the air and cried:

—Hurroo! [63]


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 They caught their caps and sent them up again spinning skyhigh and cried again:

—Hurroo! Hurroo!

They made a cradle of their locked hands and hoisted him up among them and carried him along till he struggled to get free. And when he had escaped from them they broke away in all directions, flinging their caps again into the air and whistling as they went spinning up and crying:

—Hurroo!

And they gave three groans for Baldyhead Dolan and three cheers for Conmee and they said he was the decentest rector that was ever in Clongowes.

The cheers died away in the soft grey air. He was alone. He was happy and free: but he would not be anyway proud with Father Dolan. He would be very quiet and obedient: and he wished that he could do something kind for him to show him that he was not proud.

The air was soft and grey and mild and evening was coming. There was the smell of evening in the air, the smell of the fields in the country where they digged up turnips to peel them and eat them when they went out for a walk to Major Barton's, the smell there was in the little wood beyond the pavilion where the gallnuts were.

The fellows were practising long shies and bowling lobs and slow twisters. In the soft grey silence he could hear the bump of the balls: and from here and from there through the quiet air the sound of the cricket bats: pick, pack, pock, puck: like drops of water in a fountain falling softly in the brimming bowl. [64]


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 face to be printed ‘from the author's original manuscript by a faithful friend to whom they were entrusted.’ The Memoires were written between 1675 and 1677, ‘from a frail memory and some ill-digested notes’ (Memoires, pp. 37, 207, 403). They throw little light on the military or political history of the times, but contain carefully drawn characters of Charles I, Strafford, Laud, Juxon, and other royalists of importance. There are also interesting sketches of Cromwell and Hampden. Warwick writes with great moderation and fairness. ‘Willingly,’ he says, ‘I would sully no man's fame, for to write invectives is more criminal than to err in eulogies’ (ib. p. 103). His great merit is that he records a number of characteristic details and anecdotes of real value. Burnet says of Warwick that ‘though he pretended to wit and politics, he was not cut out for that, and least of all for writing history.’ Guizot thought the memoirs of sufficient value to include a translation of them in his ‘Collection des Mémoires relatifs à la Révolution d'Angleterre,’ but concludes that as an historian the author is cold and diffuse, and that the only valuable portion of the book is the account of the king's captivity and execution (Portraits Politiques, p. 142). 2. ‘A Discourse of Government as examined by Reason, Scripture, and the Law of the Land,’ 1694, 12mo. This was published by Dr. Thomas Smith [see, (1638–1710)], with a preface which, being displeasing to the government of the time, was only suffered to remain in a few copies (, iv. 66; Hatton Correspondence, ii. 204). Guizot criticises it as more favourable to absolute power than to liberty, and proving nevertheless that Warwick was unwilling to adopt either the first principles or the last consequences of his own ideas (Portraits Politiques, p. 141). The original manuscripts of both these works are in the British Museum (Addit. MS. 34714). Wood also attributes to Warwick a tract called ‘A Letter to Mr. Lenthall, shewing that Peace is better than War,’ 1642, 4to.

Warwick married twice: first, about 1638, Dorothy, daughter of Thomas Hutton of Marsk, Yorkshire, by whom he had his only son, Philip; secondly, about 1647, Joan, daughter of Sir Henry Fanshawe of Ware Park, and widow of Sir William Boteler, bart., killed in the battle of Cropredy Bridge.

the younger (d. 1683) married Elizabeth, second daughter and coheiress of John, lord Fretchville of Stavely, Derbyshire, by whom he had no issue. In 1680 he was envoy to Sweden (his instructions and commission are in the Rawlinson MSS. in the Bodleian Library (Rawlinson, A. 256, A. 292). He died at Newmarket on 12 March 1682–3 (, Life, ed. Clark, iii. 38).

[Wood's Athenæ Oxon. ed. Bliss, and Fasti; Gent. Mag. September 1790; Guizot's Portraits Politiques des hommes des differénts partis, ed. 1874, p. 127. Other authorities mentioned in the article.]  WARWICK, SIMEON (d. 1296), historian. [See .]

WASE, CHRISTOPHER (1625?–1690), scholar, son of John Wase of London, was born at Hackney about 1625. He was educated at Eton, and in 1645 was admitted scholar of King's College, Cambridge (, Alumni Eton. p. 24). In 1647 the headmaster of Eton published Wase's Greek version of Grotius's ‘Baptizatorum Puerorum Institutio’ (other editions 1650, 1665, 1668, and 1682). Wase became fellow of King's, and graduated B.A. in 1648. In 1649 he published a translation of Sophocles's ‘Electra,’ dedicated to Princess Elizabeth, with an appendix designed to show his devotion to the Stuart house. Walker (Sufferings of the Clergy, ii. 150) says that Wase also delivered a feigned letter from the king to the provost of King's. He was deprived of his fellowship and left England. Being captured at sea, he was imprisoned at Gravesend, but escaped, and served in the Spanish army against the French. He was taken prisoner, but was released, and returned to England and became tutor to the eldest son of Philip Herbert, first earl of Montgomery [q. v.] In 1654 he dedicated to his pupil a translation of the ‘Cynegeticon’ of Faliscus Gratius. Waller addressed a copy of verses to Wase on this performance.

In 1655 Wase proceeded M.A. and was appointed headmaster of Dedham royal free school. From 1662 to 1668 he was headmaster of Tonbridge school, the register of which states that he was B.D., and educated at the school Thomas Herbert, eighth earl of Pembroke [q. v.] In 1671 he became superior beadle at law and printer to the university of Oxford. He died on 29 Aug. 1690.

Thomas Hearne, in his preface to Leland's ‘Itinerary,’ refers to him as an ‘eminent philologer.’ His manuscripts are preserved in the library of Corpus Christi College, Oxford (, Hist. Corpus Christi College, Oxford, pp. 401–2). A small oval portrait is mentioned by Granger (Biogr. Hist. iii. 95).

Besides the works mentioned, Wase published: 1. ‘In Mirabilem Caroli II …


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 BY

NEW YORK

B. W. HUBESCH

MCMXVI


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 COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY

B. W. HUEBSCH


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CHAPTER I

upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo. . ..

His father told him that story: his father looked at him through a glass: he had a hairy face.

He was baby tuckoo. The moocow came down the road where Betty Byrne lived: she sold lemon platt.

He sang that song. That was his song.

When you wet the bed, first it is warm then it gets cold. His mother put on the oilsheet. That had the queer smell.

His mother had a nicer smell than his father. She [1]


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The New International Encyclopædia/Vulpius, Christian August

VULPIUS, , (1762-1827). A German novelist and dramatist, born at Weimar. He studied at Jena and Erlangen, and, possibly through Goethe's influence, obtained a post in the Weimar Library in 1797. In Weimar he published the typical “penny dreadful” of the period, Rinaldo Rinaldini, the robber Captain, often translated and imitated, but still unrivaled on its bad eminence. He published a large number of romantic operas, dramas, and tales, and was active also as editor. He died at Weimar. His sister, (1765-1816) became the wife of Goethe. See .


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Ryves, Lavinia, Janetta Horton de Serres


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The New International Encyclopædia/Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von

GOETHE, (1749-1832). The greatest German writer and one of the greatest of the world, excelling in every literary genre, distinguished in many branches of science and in literary and artistic criticism. He was born in Frankfort-on-the-Main, August 28, 1749. Both his parentage and the place of his birth were significant for his future development. He was among the first of German literary men since the Meistersinger days to spring from a commercial environment and parents closely affiliated with political life in what remained of the old free cities. His father's father was a tailor and inn-keeper. His father received a good education, traveled in Italy, attained the distinction of Imperial Councilor, and, though never wealthy, was always in easy circumstances. He married (1748) Katherine Elisabeth Textor (or Weber), and Goethe was the first of their four children, of whom only himself and a sister, Cornelia, survived childhood.

In the pages of Goethe's brilliant autobiographical Dichtung und Wahrheit, we seldom see the councilor unbend from his philistine self-satisfaction. But the mother must have been a very remarkable woman, simple, hearty, joyous, affectionate, not highly educated, but with a faculty of rapid assimilation that made her no unworthy companion or correspondent of persons of deeper culture or higher station. The relation of mother and child was ideal. His childhood and youth owed more to her direct influence than to all else besides. She died in 1808. Her Letters are published by the Goethe Society (1894). Consult Heinemann, Goethe's Mutter (6th ed., Leipzig, 1900).

But Frankfort, too, had a molding influence on him. It was a commercial city, then even more than now the centre of German financial life, of industrialism grafted on an old feudal stock. Old and new in turn and together left their impress on the brilliant and receptive boy. He was precocious, knew something at eight of Greek, Latin, French, and Italian, had acquired from his mother a knack of story-telling and from a toy puppet-show in his nursery a taste for the stage and a stimulus to imagination on which his autobiography lays much stress. He never went regularly to school, and as a child showed consciousness of superiority. The French occupation of Frankfort in 1759 served to polish his French, and still further to cultivate his interest in the stage. He continued to study books and men at Frankfort till he was sixteen, and had had one love affair, from which he recovered with the facile mobility of youth before he went to Leipzig to study law and be fascinated by his host's daughter, Kätchen Schönkopf.

Leipzig in 1765 was a ‘little Paris’ in its social and literary ideals. Goethe's letters show that he quickly caught a spirit that accorded well with his nature. He studied little, wrote love songs, interested himself critically in art, learned far more about life than about law, lost his health, and by 1768 had come to look at life on its seamy side, and showed his disillusionment in a drama, Die Mitschuldigen, where vice and meanness in manifold variety find it convenient to forgive and forget. This was completed later in Frankfort. Another drama, Die Laune des Verliebten, begun in Leipzig, is an embellished version of his relation to Kätchen. It was his author's instinct to put into literary form every experience. All his works, he says, are confessions of his life. These two youthful dramatic essays, both in their matter and their form, show Goethe as a realist. He idealized neither the world nor individual characters.

Goethe returned ill to Frankfort in the autumn of 1768. He remained there sick or convalescent till April, 1770, gaining the while from the works of Lessing a sharpened æsthetic sense and a more balanced judgment. Here, too, he began the scientific studies that were later to round out his fame, and from an amiable acquaintance, Fräulein von Klettenberg, the Beautiful Soul of his Wilhelm Meister, he gained some insight into the phenomena of pietistic religious experience and became interested in alchemy and kindred lore, all of which proved useful for Faust.

GOETHE

FROM THE PORTRAIT BY CARL STIELER IN THE NEW PINAKOTHEK AT MUNICH

With health restored Goethe went to Strassburg to continue his legal studies. This city, French in government and institutions, German in people and spirit, was a good place in which to complete a cosmopolitan training. Goethe set himself earnestly to work to learn dancing and to

pass his preliminary examinations. He studied also music, art, anatomy, and chemistry. He had begun to work on his dissertation when, in September (1770) he met Herder (q.v.), and in October made the fateful acquaintance of Friederike Brion, the winning daughter of a pastor of Sesenheim. He loved her, and let her love him till her visit to Strassburg broke the idyllic illusion. He would not, perhaps he felt he ought not, to fetter his fortunes and his genius to a yoke so unequal. He left Strassburg (August, 1771), carrying with him a sense of wrong to be atoned. Similar situations haunt his literary work of the next years. The Marie of Götz, the Marie of Clavigo, the Clärchen of Egmont, the Gretchen of Faust, spring from this experience, of which he has left a charming and wholly objective account in his autobiographic Dichtung und Wahrheit. Friederike died unmarried in 1813. They saw one another without strong emotion on either side in 1779.

Meantime Goethe had formed a close intimacy with Herder, who was confined for months to his room through an operation on the eyes. This was hardly less important to Goethe's literary development than the psychic trial at Sesenheim. They read literary masterpieces and talked of them. Goethe learned through Herder to distrust French classical canons, to appreciate Shakespeare, and to realize that all poetic development must be based on national character if it is to be enduring or beneficent. It was Herder, too, who brought Goethe under the influence of Rousseau, as appears in Götz, and especially in Die Leiden des jungen Werther. Herder's influence was furthering, even when it was merely restraining, for Goethe was already meditating his Götz and even his Faust, and both profited by a maturing delay. But Herder finished his work for Goethe at Strassburg. When they met again (1776) Goethe felt he had nothing to gain, and presently it was he who repaid the old debt.

Goethe with his licentiate's degree went back to Frankfort (1771),and began the nominal practice of law, contributing critical notices to the press, and working on Götz, which he intended for a more daring proclamation of the newly claimed liberties of the German stage than Lessing, who had won them, would have ventured or approved. It was the trumpet call of the decade of ../Storm and Stress/ (q.v.), in which German young blood held high carnival, and in a blind following of Shakespeare naturally showed more of his faults than of his spirit. Götz was a dramatic adaptation of the autobiography of a robber knight of the sixteenth century, striking in its local color and naïveté. In his sturdy independence Goethe saw foreshadowed the reassertion of individualism in the eighteenth century, and he made Götz, far more than that knight had made himself, typical of the national revolt against the Roman law and Church. For to Goethe at this time the only progress practicable for Germany lay in the stressing of individuality. But the play as written in 1771 proved too lawless even for his youthful taste. It was first printed in 1840, and remains a curious monument of a period of ferment. It appeared much modified in 1773, struck an answering chord in every heart, and made its as yet unnamed author the literary leader of his time. It gave an immense stimulus to dramatic production, though in casting all thought of the unities to the winds Lessing

thought the ‘captivating monstrosity’ retarded the development of dramatic art. Goethe may have thought so, too; for he subjected it to a radical revision many years later (1804) for the Weimar stage.

This was a period of manifold activity. To it belong some fine songs, among them the “Wanderer's Sturmlied,” orations, essays, reviews, and minor work in much bulk, to which he was stimulated by the shrewd and cautious criticism of Merck, some of whose traits Goethe used for Mephistopheles. This production was interrupted by a new psychic experience. In 1772 Goethe went to Wetzlar to practice law, and fell in love with Charlotte Buff (Lotte), the betrothed of his friend Kestner. From the rather delicate situation thus created Goethe ran away (September 11, 1772), and on his way back to Frankfort managed to find heart for a flirtation with Maximiliane von Laroehe, who was to be the mother of one of his last adorers, Bettina von Arnim-Brentano, and from home he writes to Charlotte that he ‘found a new maiden,’ Antoinette Gerock, presently to be succeeded in his facile heart by Anna Mönch, for whom he wrote Clavigo, giving literary expression the while to his Wetzlar experiences in Die Leiden des jungen Werther, which revealed powers in the German tongue till then unimagined and still unsurpassed. The story, which has been often translated into many languages, is sentimentally morbid and typical of its generation. It was suggested by the suicide of Jerusalem, a student who had formed an attachment for a friend's wife, similar to Goethe's for Lotte. But Goethe, having expressed the mood of his time and age, quickly recovered from it to enter on a period of great creative fecundity, the fruits of which were to appear later in Faust, Prometheus, Egmont, and Stella, as well as in many lyrics. Then came his passing betrothal to Lili Schönemann (died 1817), a banker's daughter, the nearest that he was ever to come to a love match. For her he wrote some very beautiful songs, and he cherished her memory till death. But for the time they drew apart (September, 1775), and soon after Goethe was invited by Karl August to be one of his Court at Weimar. Meantime Goethe had written Clavigo (1774) and many slighter pieces, among them Götter, Helden und Wieland, and had found in Merck, an army paymaster at Darmstadt, a friend and a caustically discriminating critic, of much value to him in the discipline of genius. His relations to Lili found expression a little later in Stella (1776). In May, 1775, he had made a journey to Switzerland with his friends the Counts Stolberg, and there became intimate with Lavater, whom he had already met.

The coming of Goethe to Weimar is a turning-point in the literary life of Germany. From 1776 Goethe's influence begins to be paramount wherever German is spoken. Weimar was already what it has remained till now. a pleasant residence for the cultured. Goethe made it the Athens of Germany, aided by Karl August and his mother, Amalie, hindered at first by Karl's prim wife, Luise, and by a jealous group of courtiers. Goethe was received in Weimar with an effervescence of enthusiastic appreciation. For a time he led the Court a frolic dance, but presently settled down to be a prudent and blameless man of affairs, and found in this courtly life and the intimate contact with aristocratic society

much to widen his mind and give his judgment a balanced calm. For the next ten years (1776-86) he wrote little save occasional verses and dramatic trifles, of which the chief is Die Geschwister. He began work on Wilhelm Meister in 1777. Study of natural science, mineralogy, geology, osteology, intercourse with Herder, Wieland, and others, and his interest in the mines at Ilmenau claimed his time, and he made a journey to the mining district of the Harz on their account, bringing back impressions that were of use, not only at Ilmenau, but for his Faust. He managed the Court Theatre (with some intermissions, till 1817) and the War Department, superintended the roads and bridges, accompanied Karl August on a journey to Switzerland, from which he gathered literary impressions and above all he maintained a platonic correspondence and intercourse with Charlotte von Stein, a lady of thirty-three, and mother of seven children, who, in making his life ‘an enduring resignation,’ gave his nature more refinement and self-control for the days of his emancipation. For when he had learned from her what she had to teach, he began to chafe both at this relation and at his Court life, until in 1786 he asked of Karl August unlimited leave of absence, that he might visit Italy. The literary precipitate of this decade is almost wholly lyric or epigrammatic; but he carried across the Alps the uncompleted Iphigenie (which in a prose form had been acted in 1779), Egmont, Tasso, and Faust — works not to be finished in the spirit of their inception.

For the Italian journey marks the most important epoch of Goethe's literary and moral development. All the work that follows is radically distinguished from all that went before. Here Goethe found at last his moral balance. From 1788 till his death he went his way among men with the serenity of perfect self-possession. He went first to Verona, then to Padua and Venice, where he stayed two weeks, and then turned southward to Ferrara and across the Apennines to Florence, where he lingered but three hours, so eager was the impetuous traveler to see Rome (October 29, 1786). Here the poetic stream that had long flowed so scantily was unsealed. By mid-January, 1787, he had turned Iphigenie into classic iambics, as a first fruit of the new influences, and was so sure that he was on the right track that he determined to do the same service for Tasso on a journey to Naples and Sicily, from which he returned in June.

In Rome he now remained nearly a year, perfecting Iphigenie, finishing Egmont, working on Tasso and Faust, and presenting zealously artistic and botanical studies. He also lived connubially with a Roman girl, and the connection seems to have revealed to him a joy of life dissociated from the sentimentality that had characterized his previous relations, especially that with Charlotte von Stein. This new moral attitude is reflected in the Römische Elegien (1788), an epithalamium addressed to Christiane Vulpius, a young woman of Weimar, with whom he lived quasi-maritally from 1788 till their marriage in 1806, and afterwards till her death (1816), to his own satisfaction, but to the scandal of the ladies of Weimar and the vexation of Bettina von Arnim-Brentano. According to Goethe's correspondence with Christiane, but recently published (Goethe-Gesellschaft, Weimar), she was the true and faithful companion of his

after life, loving and beloved. His mother treated her from the first, as her daughter, and she earned, after the battle of Jena, the honor of a public recognition of her place by preserving, at the risk of her life, Goethe's house from French marauders.

Goethe brought to Weimar (June 18, 1788) Iphigenie and Egmont, with Tasso almost in its present form, and an essentially altered conception of Faust. Iphigenie was planned in 1776, and written in prose in 1779. It was a literary projection of his relation to Charlotte von Stein. Orestes recovers a clear mind in the angelic presence of his sister, as Goethe imagined he would do if Charlotte would ‘be a sister’ to him. Such ethics were unripe and unnatural, and the play lacks action. It was old work made over, and its exquisite versification did not suffice to make it harmonize with his new spirit. There is the same discord of old and new in the prose drama Egmont, ‘the weak, aristocratic twin brother of Götz’ (Hermann Grimm). Tasso has more unity of conception and execution, though it is sadly deficient in dramatic action, and, indeed, was not put on the stage for eighteen years after its publication (1790). It, too, in its pre-Italian prose form (1780-81) reflected Goethe ‘caught in the snare’ of Charlotte von Stein, a situation that in 1786 had ceased to have living interest for him. He concentrated his thought on its form, and made the iambics of Tasso so perfect that Schlegel said their very beauty made them unsuited to dramatic dialogue. He also changed the close to conform to his new ethical position.

Goethe's first homogeneous work after his return from Italy was the Römische Elegien, in the spirit, he said, of Tibullus, Catullus, and Propertius, the most antique in thought of modern German verse. The frankly naïve sensualism that they exhibit, borne out by his conduct, caused Goethe a temporary loss of social popularity in the ‘imperfectly monogamous’ society of Weimar, as well as a breach with Frau von Stein. He had outgrown her and the Weimar circle. Even his literary preëminence seemed threatened. In Götz and Werther he had led his countrymen. Now he had passed beyond them in his deepened æsthetic insight. For a time and until rejuvenated by the friendship of Schiller, he gave his time largely to scientific studies, to which he brought not only an original mind, but almost a seer's vision. In 1784 he had discovered the intermaxillary bone by a method that foreshadowed the science of comparative anatomy. In his essay Die Metamorphose der Pflanzen, he became, says Esenbeck, ‘the tender father’ of a just-born science; his experiments in optics were ingenious and valuable, though his theory of colors was false, and he was first to perceive the vertebrate character of the human skull. Thus, while his contemporary botanists and anatomists were wandering aimlessly or making dry registration of facts, he gave them ideas whose fruitfulness is not yet exhausted. From these studies Goethe was won back to literature by the friendship of Schiller.

Schiller had been living in or near Weimar since 1787, but a strange irony of destiny kept the poets estranged till 1794. though Schiller was drawing, unperceived, into closer sympathy with Goethe's classic ideals. Meantime Goethe's son August was born (December 25, 1789), the only one of several children to reach maturity. This and the storm clouds of the French Revolution led him to defer a visit to Italy, though in 1790 he

went to Venice to meet the Duchess Amalie there, and wrote a group of Venetianische Epigramme, that show how his quasi-marriage had helped him to a calmer judgment of Italian culture than that of the Elegies. Work in lighter vein now attracted him, Wilhelm Meister and the Court Theatre (the management of which he undertook in 1791), till in the summer of 1792 he was summoned by Karl August to join him in the invasion of France that was to culminate in the defeat of the Duke of Brunswick at Valmy. Goethe recorded his six weeks' impressions in his Kampagne in Frankreich, and returned to Weimar to find almost ready for his occupancy a mansion presented to him by the Duke, and now, as the home of the Goethe Society and its museum, inseparably connected with his name. The pleasure of this enlarged domesticity is reflected in Reineke Fuchs, written in 1793 and published in 1794, the adaptation to social satire of an animal fable that can be traced back to Æsop and to India, though Goethe's immediate model was a German rendering of the mediæval Flemish version of the fable by a certain Willem (about 1250). Out of this comic epic he made, without local or personal allusions, a social and political satire full of ease and vigor, a humorous apotheosis of impudence that has become and is likely to remain one of his most popular poems, though at the time it passed almost unnoticed.

Goethe had met Schiller on several occasions since 1779, and had secured for him a professorship at Jena, though it had seemed to him that the author of Die Räuber stood in the way of development of classical taste which, since his return from Italy, Goethe had been anxious to foster. But Schiller was himself developing along these lines, and when they came to understand one another, in 1794, Goethe may well have felt that Schiller, more than any other in Germany, was fitted to appreciate and aid him. He was first to speak of friendship, first to visit his new-found friend. Their intercourse grew constant, especially after Schiller came to Weimar (1799), and was interrupted only by Schiller's death (1805). To Goethe the relation was of stimulating rather than of directing force. He contributed to Schiller's periodical Die Horen (1795-97) the Unterhaltungen deutscher Ausgewanderten and the Römische Elegien, and to the Musenalmanach (1796-1800) his share of the Xenien — couplets of stinging literary criticism that aroused great excitement and lifelong enmities.

Under this new influence Wilhelm Meister's Lehrjahre (1795) was completed, a novel with no definite plot, its purpose being the unfolding of characters drawn from varied social spheres, wonderfully realistic studies involving much ripened worldly wisdom and philosophy. Mignon and Philine are enduring creations, the songs interspersed in the novel are among the most exquisite in any literature, and the analysis of Hamlet is a very acute criticism. Some fine ballads and elegies belong to this period also, and it closes with that hymn to the family and masterpiece of classic realism, Hermann und Dorothea (1797). Here all is studied from life; there is no idealization, no sentimentality. It was an old story, but instinct with a conservative patriotism in these years of revolution and social upheaval. Other less important works of this period are a realistic drama, Die natäöürliche Tochter, and Achilleïs, an attempt to continue the Iliad.

Some work was done on Faust also; but sickness and public cares interrupted it, and the first part was not published till it was included in the first edition of Goethe's Works (13 vols., 1808).

Meantime Goethe had lost many friends — Gleim, Klopstock, and Herder in 1803, Schiller in 1805, his mother in 1808. In that year Goethe came in frequent contact with Napoleon at Erfurt. It was about this time, too, that Bettina von Arnim-Brentano conceived that violent attachment for him that appears in her Goethe's Briefwechsel mit einem Kinde, which, however, does not represent an actual correspondence; but Bettina could not endure Christiane, and the acquaintance ceased after 1811. In 1809 Goethe published his second novel, Die Wahlverwandtschaften, a story of the conflict of love and conjugal duty, with a tragic close. Though now little read, its influence has been great, for it is the starting-point of German psychologic fiction. It has also an autobiographical value. Charlotte is Frau von Stein, and Edward is what Goethe felt he might have become. Ottilie has been thought by some, probably wrongly, to be studied from a young Jena girl, Minna Herzlieb.

From 1811 to 1814 appeared the first three parts of Dichtung und Wahrheit, one of the most fascinating autobiographies in any language. It is early memories seen through a long vista of years and under the transforming influence of an artist's eye, beginning with infancy and closing with his coming to Weimar. Meantime the War of Liberation had restored national independence to Germany; but while the fate of his country was changing before his eyes Goethe was studying the Oriental poets and checking the effect of their exuberance by renewed reading of Homer. It was in these years that he wrote in great part the West-östlicher Divan (1819), foreign in externals, mysterious and oracular in parts, but aiming to cultivate international sympathies, social and literary, in years of intense Chauvinism. The Zuleika poems in the Divan have been thought to be addressed in gracefully platonic affection to Marianne Willemer, wife of his congenial host on a journey to the Rhine in 1815, but this is very doubtful. He also undertook at this time some antiquarian studies, standing intentionally aloof from the temporal aspirations of the German people that he might labor more effectively for their intellectual uplifting.

The West-östlicher Divan is the last work of Goethe's long connubial life. Christiane had died in 1816. He felt the blow severely, and said that what remained of life to him was but time granted “that he might mourn her loss.” His directorship of the Weimar Theatre he gave up in 1817. But the years that remained to him, “testamentary years,” he called them, were to yield much of interest. Wilhelm Meister's Wanderjahre may indeed seem dreary reading, though it contains many wise pedagogical observations and some episodes that recall the narrative power of Goethe's prime. To these years, also, we owe the Second Part of Faust, the necessary complement of the former, with its teaching that men rise by unselfish altruistic effort. Here, as Scherer noticed, Faust chooses, not wealth, but work, and finds in that choice his salvation. Mediately Gretchen brings him to the choice; immediately, Helena, the incarnation of Greek ideals, as though to suggest that beauty is positive, creative, revealing the worth of life, and

freeing Faust at last from the Mephistophelean spirit of negation. So the teaching is the same as that of Wilhelm Meister. The scholar, as the poet, passes, in Goethe's conception, from a groping, contemplative, searching æsthetic existence under the spur of negative spirits and ideal models, to active, useful labor. Here is to be found Goethe's philosophy of life, which aims to realize the ideal by the idealization of the real, to correlate action with thought. “The rest of my life may be regarded as a free gift,” he said as he sealed the manuscript of this Second Part of Faust. “It is now really indifferent what I do, or if I do anything at all.” It was his philosophic testament to Germany.

It is to this last period, too, that we owe the Conversations (Gespräche) with Eckermann, which have preserved to us much keen criticism of men and things, for during these declining years he continued to be in closest touch with the intellectual movement of his own country and of others. Weimar became a goal of pilgrimage to men of many minds and nations. He seemed to Germans the survivor, almost the last, of a heroic age. Some of these visitors give us glimpses of the old man's life, among them Heine, Thackeray, and his old friend Lottie Kestner. After his wife's death he traveled but little, seldom farther than Jena, lingering especially over places associated with his prime, and toward the last working intermittently, as health permitted, on the annals of his Weimar life. In 1828 Karl August died, followed two years later by Goethe's son August, whose widow, Ottilie, cared for her father-in-law to the end. In the same year (1830) Grand Duchess Luise passed away. So Goethe was left, almost the last of his generation. He died in Weimar March 22, 1832, in his chair, so peacefully that men did not know the hour. Eckermann, who saw his body as it was prepared for burial, noted the deep peace and firmness of the features, the magnificence of the limbs, the broad, strong, and arched chest. Nowhere on the body, he says, was there a trace of wasting. “A perfect man lay in great beauty before me.” This body lies now, with that of Schiller, in the ducal mausoleum of Weimar in front of the bronze coffins of the two princely patrons of both, Luise and Karl August.

This is the most completely rounded literary life in history — a life of monumental proportion and yet of perfect symmetry, responsive to all intellectual impulses of art, philosophy, and science, open to every light, yet self-poised and self-controlled till its calm seems Olympian. Goethe is at once the representative and the prophet of the modern spirit, reconciling the antinomies of the ideal and the real in the world-wisdom of his Faust.

The literature that has gathered around Goethe would fill a library — indeed, it does so in the Goethe archives at Weimar, whence issue the Goethe Annual and the great edition of his works, embracing, also, the Tagebücher and Briefe, which is now drawing to completeness. Besides this edition may be named Heinemann's annotated edition of the Werke which began to appear in 1901 (Leipzig). Of the Briefe, there are annotated selections by E. von der Hellen (Stuttgart, 1901 et seq.) and Stein (Berlin, 1902 et seq.), who has edited also the correspondence with Schiller (Leipzig, no date). The correspondence with Fran von Stein is best edited by Schöll (3d ed., Frankfort, 1889-1900). Eckermann's Gespräche are edited with an introduction and notes by Moldenhauer, and, better, by Bartels (Leipzig, 1902). Von Biedermann has also edited Goethe's Gespräche (10 vols., Leipzig, 1889-1896).

Of the lives of Goethe, Düntzer's (Leipzig, 1883) is the most complete; Schäfer's, though old (Bremen, 1851, often reëdited), not antiquated; Goedeke's Goethes Leben und Schriften (Stuttgart, 1877) is shorter. Popular biographies are those by Heinemann (Leipzig, 1899), Prem (ib., 1900), Witkowski (ib., 1900), and Bielschowsky (Munich, 1902 et seq.).

Among recent studies of Goethe the more significant are: Von Biedermann, Goethe-Forschungen (1st series, Frankfort, 1879; 2d and 3d series, Leipzig, 1886, 1899); Richard M. Meyer, “Goethe,” in Bettelheim, Geisteshelden (Berlin, 1898); Hermann Grimm, Goethe-Vorlesungen (6th ed., Berlin, 1899); Düntzer, Zur Goethe-Forschung (1891); Zarncke, Goetheschriften (Leipzig, 1897); Bernays, Der junge Goethe (Leipzig, 1875); Weissenfels, Der junge Goethe (Tübingen, 1899); Menzel, Der Frankfurter Goethe (Frankfurt, 1900); Diezmann, Goethe und die lustige Zeit in Weimar (2d ed., Weimar, 1901); Burkhardt, Goethes Unterhaltungen mit dem Kanzler Müller (1879); Fischer, Goethe und Napoleon (Frauenfeld, 1901); Funk, Goethe und Lavater (Weimar, 1901); Virchow, Goethe als Naturforscher (1861); Sell, Goethes Stellung zu Religion und Christenthum (Freiburg, 1899); Vogel, Goethes Selbstzeugnisse über seine Stellung zur Religion (Leipzig, 1899); Scherer, Aufsätze über Goethe (Berlin, 1900); Bode, Goethes Aesthetik (Berlin, 1901). To celebrate the one hundred and fiftieth anniversary of Goethe's birth there was issued Goethe, eine Biographie in Bildnissen (Leipzig, 1899), a folio with 166 portraits. See, also, for Goethe's descendants, Von Gerstenbergk, Ottilie von Goethe und ihre Söhne (Stuttgart, 1891). Lewes's Life (London, 1855) is the best in English. Wilhelm Meister has been admirably translated by Carlyle, Faust by Bayard Taylor and many others. Some of the lyrics have been rendered masterfully by Longfellow and others, but there is no worthy rendering of the poems or dramas as a whole.


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 impressions in a series of letters to the 'Daily Graphic' newspaper. These were subsequently republished in a book with the title 'Men, Mines, and Animals in South Africa' (London, 1892).

The journey appeared to have a highly beneficial effect. He returned to politics with his old vigour. In the general election of 1892 he was re-elected for South Paddington without a contest. In the new parliament he abandoned his position of semi-isolation, took his seat on the front opposition bench, and was again accepted as one of the regular leaders of the conservatives. He bore a conspicuous share in the debates on Gladstone's second home-rule bill, which he attacked with effect. He also opposed Mr. Asquith's Welsh church bill in the 1893 session in a speech of considerable power. Always a favourite on the platform, he was welcomed back with effusion by the conservatives of the north and midlands, to whom he delivered a large number of speeches during the recess. But in spite of this access of brilliant energy, he was a doomed man. He had been suffering for some time from the incipient stages of general paralysis, and the malady made rapid progress. In the session of 1894 his few attempts to speak in the House of Commons were failures. The painful change in his voice and manner, and his frequent lapses of memory, moved the sympathy of friends and foes. His last speech was on the Uganda railway vote in June 1894, and it was a tragic exhibition of physical and mental decay. A long sea-voyage was determined on as a final chance of arresting the disease from which he suffered. He left England in the summer, accompanied by Lady Randolph Churchill, on a trip round the world. But he grew rapidly worse after reaching Japan in September. From Madras the party returned with all possible speed to England, and arrived two days before Christmas 1894 at 50 Grosvenor Square, the residence of Lord Randolph's mother.the Duchess of Marlborough. The sick man lingered for a month, mostly in an unconscious condition, dying in the morning of 24 Jan. 1895. He was buried on 28 Jan. in the churchyard of Bladon near Blenheim.

Randolph Churchill's private character exhibited some of the contradictions of his public career. His personality, which fascinated men in masses, and attracted those whom he admitted to his intimacy, was often found repellent by casual acquaintances and by his political associates. The insolence of bearing, which excited so much resentment, particularly when displayed towards dignified and elderly colleagues, was sometimes said to be deliberately studied; but it was probably the natural expression of a temper which was at once frank, egotistical, and unaccustomed to mental discipline. Yet Churchill, in spite of his quivering nerves and impatient temperament, could control himself when occasion demanded, as he showed during his brief tenure of the leadership of the House of Commons. Though he was constantly charged, especially by his conservative critics, with a taste for discreditable intrigue, he was one of the most indiscreetly outspoken of politicians, and he expressed his opinions and intentions with the utmost candour. An overpowering ambition, fed by the consciousness of great abilities, and hampered by an unstable nervous system, would go far to explain both his qualities and his defects. His lack of culture was often exaggerated. His scholarship was scanty and superficial, and his speeches seldom contain literary allusions. But he had read more widely in English and French literature than was commonly believed, and his retentive memory and mastery of detail enabled him to make the most of such knowledge as he possessed. The acuteness of his political insight struck most persons who were brought into contact with him. It is only necessary to turn to the volumes of his speeches to recognise how often subsequent events have vindicated his foresight and penetrating judgment. Lord Iddesleigh, who had no reason to love him, called him the shrewdest member of the cabinet of 1880.

Lord Randolph Churchill left two sons. The elder, Mr. Winston Spencer Churchill, after serving in the Malakand, Tirah, and Soudan campaigns as an officer in the 4th hussars, and acting as war correspondent in South Africa in 1899 and 1900 with the armies of General Buller and Lord Roberts, was elected member of parliament for Oldham in October 1900. Lady Randolph Churchill survived her first husband, and married Mr. George Cornwallis West in July 1900.

A portrait of Lord Randolph Churchill, by Edwin Long, R.A., is in the Constitutional Club, London. Another portrait, painted by Alfred Hartley in 1893, is in the possession of the Earl of Rosebery. A third portrait, a small one, painted by Edwin Ward in 1886, belongs to Lord Tweedmouth. A marble bust is in the members' corridor of the House of Commons.

[Hansard's Debates; Annual Register, 1880-1894; Times, 25 Jan. 1900; L. J. Jennings's Speeches of the Right Honourable Lord


text: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Zaleucus

title: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Zaleucus


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 CHAPTER II

smoked such black twist that at last his nephew suggested to him to enjoy his morning smoke in a little outhouse at the end of the garden.

—Very good, Simon. All serene, Simon, said the old man tranquilly. Anywhere you like. The outhouse will do me nicely: it will be more salubrious.

—Damn me, said Mr Dedalus frankly, if I know how you can smoke such villainous awful tobacco. It's like gunpowder, by God.

—It's very nice, Simon, replied the old man. Very cool and mollifying.

Every morning, therefore, uncle Charles repaired to his outhouse but not before he had greased and brushed scrupulously his back hair and brushed and put on his tall hat. While he smoked the brim of his tall hat and the bowl of his pipe were just visible beyond the jambs of the outhouse door. His arbour, as he called the reeking outhouse which he shared with the cat and the garden tools, served him also as a sounding-box: and every morning he hummed contentedly one of his favourite songs: O, twine me a bower or Blue eyes and golden hair or The Groves of Blarney while the grey and blue coils of smoke rose slowly from his pipe and vanished in the pure air.

During the first part of the summer in Blackrock uncle Charles was Stephen's constant companion. Uncle [65]


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 Charles was a hale old man with a well tanned skin, rugged features and white side whiskers. On week days he did messages between the house in Carysfort Avenue and those shops in the main street of the town with which the family dealt. Stephen was glad to go with him on these errands for uncle Charles helped him very liberally to handfuls of whatever was exposed in open boxes and barrels outside the counter. He would seize a handful of grapes and sawdust or three or four American apples and thrust them generously into his grandnephew's hand while the shopman smiled uneasily; and, on Stephen's feigning reluctance to take them, he would frown and say:

—Take them, sir. Do you hear me, sir? They're good for your bowels.

When the order list had been booked the two would go on to the park where an old friend of Stephen's father, Mike Flynn, would be found seated on a bench, waiting for them. Then would begin Stephen's run round the park. Mike Flynn would stand at the gate near the railway station, watch in hand, while Stephen ran round the track in the style Mike Flynn favoured, his head high lifted, his knees well lifted and his hands held straight down by his sides. When the morning practice was over the trainer would make his comments and sometimes illustrate them by shuffling along for a yard or so comically in an old pair of blue canvas shoes. A small ring of wonderstruck children and nursemaids would gather to watch him and linger even when he and uncle Charles had sat down again and were talking athletics and politics. Though he had heard his father say that Mike Flynn had put some of the best runners of modern times through his hands Stephen often glanced [66]


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 at his trainer's flabby stubble-covered face, as it bent over the long stained fingers through which he rolled his cigarette, and with pity at the mild lustreless blue eyes which would look up suddenly from the task and gaze vaguely into the blue distance while the long swollen fingers ceased their rolling and grains and fibres of tobacco fell back into the pouch.

On the way home uncle Charles would often pay a visit to the chapel and, as the font was above Stephen's reach, the old man would dip his hand and then sprinkle the water briskly about Stephen's clothes and on the floor of the porch. While he prayed he knelt on his red handkerchief and read above his breath from a thumb blackened prayer book wherein catchwords were printed at the foot of every page. Stephen knelt at his side respecting, though he did not share, his piety. He often wondered what his grand-uncle prayed for so seriously. Perhaps he prayed for the souls in purgatory or for the grace of a happy death or perhaps he prayed that God might send him back a part of the big fortune he had squandered in Cork.

On Sundays Stephen with his father and his grand-uncle took their constitutional. The old man was a nimble walker in spite of his corns and often ten or twelve miles of the road were covered. The little village of Stillorgan was the parting of the ways. Either they went to the left towards the Dublin mountains or along the Goatstown road and thence into Dundrum, coming home by Sandyford. Trudging along the road or standing in some grimy wayside public house his elders spoke constantly of the subjects nearer their hearts, of Irish politics, of Munster and of the legends of their own family, to all of which Stephen lent an avid ear. Words [67]


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 which he did not understand he said over and over to himself till he had learnt them by heart: and through them he had glimpses of the real world about them. The hour when he too would take part in the life of that world seemed drawing near and in secret he began to make ready for the great part which he felt awaited him the nature of which he only dimly apprehended.

His evenings were his own; and he pored over a ragged translation of The Count of Monte Cristo. The figure of that dark avenger stood forth in his mind for whatever he had heard or divined in childhood of the strange and terrible. At night he built up on the parlour table an image of the wonderful island cave out of transfers and paper flowers and coloured tissue paper and strips of the silver and golden paper in which chocolate is wrapped. When he had broken up this scenery, weary of its tinsel, there would come to his mind the bright picture of Marseille, of sunny trellises, and of Mercedes.

Outside Blackrock, on the road that led to the mountains, stood a small whitewashed house in the garden of which grew many rosebushes: and in this house, he told himself, another Mercedes lived. Both on the outward and on the homeward journey he measured distance by this landmark: and in his imagination he lived through a long train of adventures, marvellous as those in the book itself, towards the close of which there appeared an image of himself, grown older and sadder, standing in a moonlit garden with Mercedes who had so many years before slighted his love, and with a sadly proud gesture of refusal, saying:

—Madam, I never eat muscatel grapes.

He became the ally of a boy named Aubrey Mills and founded with him a gang of adventurers in the avenue. [68]


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 Aubrey carried a whistle dangling from his buttonhole and a bicycle lamp attached to his belt while the others had short sticks thrust daggerwise through theirs. Stephen, who had read of Napoleon's plain style of dress, chose to remain unadorned and thereby heightened for himself the pleasure of taking counsel with his lieutenant before giving orders. The gang made forays into the gardens of old maids or went down to the castle and fought a battle on the shaggy weedgrown rocks, coming home after it weary stragglers with the stale odours of the foreshore in their nostrils and the rank oils of the seawrack upon their hands and in their hair.

Aubrey and Stephen had a common milkman and often they drove out in the milkcar to Carrickmines where the cows were at grass. While the men were milking the boys would take turns in riding the tractable mare round the field. But when autumn came the cows were driven home from the grass: and the first sight of the filthy cowyard at Stradbrook with its foul green puddles and clots of liquid dung and steaming bran troughs, sickened Stephen's heart. The cattle which had seemed so beautiful in the country on sunny days revolted him and he could not even look at the milk they yielded.

The coming of September did not trouble him this year for he was not to be sent back to Clongowes. The practice in the park came to an end when Mike Flynn went into hospital. Aubrey was at school and had only an hour or two free in the evening. The gang fell asunder and there were no more nightly forays or battles on the rocks. Stephen sometimes went round with the car which delivered the evening milk: and these chilly drives blew away his memory of the filth of the [69]


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 and he felt no repugnance at seeing the cow hairs and hayseeds on the milkman's coat. Whenever the car drew up before a house he waited to catch a glimpse of a well scrubbed kitchen or of a softly lighted hall and to see how the servant would hold the jug and how she would close the door. He thought it should be a pleasant life enough, driving along the roads every evening to deliver milk, if he had warm gloves and a fat bag of gingernuts in his pocket to eat from. But the same foreknowledge which had sickened his heart and made his legs sag suddenly as he raced round the park, the same intuition which had made him glance with mistrust at his trainer's flabby stubblecovered face as it bent heavily over his long stained fingers, dissipated any vision of the future. In a vague way he understood that his father was in trouble and that this was the reason why he himself had not been sent back to Clongowes. For some time he had felt the slight change in his house; and those changes in what he had deemed unchangeable were so many slight shocks to his boyish conception of the world. The ambition which he felt astir at times in the darkness of his soul sought no outlet. A dusk like that of the outer world obscured his mind as he heard the mare's hoofs clattering along the tram-track on the Rock Road and the great can swaying and rattling behind him.

He returned to Mercedes and, as he brooded upon her image, a strange unrest crept into his blood. Sometimes a fever gathered within him and led him to rove alone in the evening along the quiet avenue. The peace of the gardens and the kindly lights in the windows poured a tender influence into his restless heart. The noise of children at play annoyed him and their silly voices made [70]


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 him feel, even more keenly than he had felt at Clongowes, that he was different from others. He did not want to play. He wanted to meet in the real world the unsubstantial image which his soul so constantly beheld. He did not know where to seek it or how, but a premonition which led him on told him that this image would, without any overt act of his, encounter him. They would meet quietly as if they had known each other and had made their tryst, perhaps at one of the gates or in some more secret place. They would be alone, surrounded by darkness and silence: and in that moment of supreme tenderness he would be transfigured. He would fade into something impalpable under her eyes and then in a moment he would be transfigured. Weakness and timidity and inexperience would fall from him in that magic moment.

Two great yellow caravans had halted one morning before the door and men had come tramping into the house to dismantle it. The furniture had been hustled out through the front garden which was strewn with wisps of straw and rope ends and into the huge vans at the gate. When all had been safely stowed the vans had set off noisily down the avenue: and from the window of the railway carriage, in which he had sat with his red-eyed mother, Stephen had seen them lumbering along the Merrion Road.

The parlour fire would not draw that evening and Mr Dedalus rested the poker against the bars of the grate to attract the flame. Uncle Charles dozed in a corner of the half furnished uncarpeted room and near him the family portraits leaned against the wall. The lamp on the table shed a weak light over the boarded floor, [71]


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 by the feet of the vanmen. Stephen sat on a footstool beside his father listening to a long and incoherent monologue. He understood little or nothing of it at first but he became slowly aware that his father had enemies and that some fight was going to take place. He felt, too, that he was being enlisted for the fight, that some duty was being laid upon his shoulders. The sudden flight from the comfort and revery of Blackrock, the passage through the gloomy foggy city, the thought of the bare cheerless house in which they were now to live made his heart heavy, and again an intuition, a foreknowledge of the future came to him. He understood also why the servants had often whispered together in the hall and why his father had often stood on the hearthrug, with his back to the fire, talking loudly to uncle Charles who urged him to sit down and eat his dinner.

—There's a crack of the whip left in me yet, Stephen, old chap, said Mr Dedalus, poking at the dull fire with fierce energy. We're not dead yet, sonny. No, by the Lord Jesus (God forgive me) nor half dead.

Dublin was a new and complex sensation. Uncle Charles had grown so witless that he could no longer be sent out on errands and the disorder in settling in the new house left Stephen freer than he had been in Blackrock. In the beginning he contented himself with circling timidly round the neighbouring square or, at most, going half way down one of the side streets: but when he had made a skeleton map of the city in his mind he followed boldly one of its central lines until he reached the Custom House. He passed unchallenged among the docks and along the quays wondering at the multitude of corks that lay bobbing on the surface of the water in a thick yellow scum, at the crowds of quay [72]


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 porters and the rumbling carts and the ill dressed bearded policeman. The vastness and strangeness of the life suggested to him by the bales of merchandise stocked along the walls or swung aloft out of the holds of steamers wakened again in him the unrest which had sent him wandering in the evening from garden to garden in search of Mercedes. And amid this new bustling life he might have fancied himself in another Marseilles but that he missed the bright sky and the sun-warmed trellises of the wineshops. A vague dissatisfaction grew up within him as he looked on the quays and on the river and on the lowering skies and yet he continued to wander up and down day after day as if he really sought someone that eluded him.

He went once or twice with his mother to visit their relatives: and though they passed a jovial array of shops lit up and adorned for Christmas his mood of embittered silence did not leave him. The causes of his embitterment were many, remote and near. He was angry with himself for being young and the prey of restless foolish impulses, angry also with the change of fortune which was reshaping the world about him into a vision of squalor and insincerity. Yet his anger lent nothing to the vision. He chronicled with patience what he saw, detaching himself from it and testing its mortifying flavour in secret.

He was sitting on the backless chair in his aunt's kitchen. A lamp with a reflector hung on the japanned wall of the fireplace and by its light his aunt was reading the evening paper that lay on her knees. She looked a long time at a smiling picture that was set in it and said musingly:

—The beautiful Mabel Hunter! [73]


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 A ringletted girl stood on tiptoe to peer at the picture and said softly:

—What is she in, mud?

—In a pantomime, love.

The child leaned her ringletted head against her mother's sleeve, gazing on the picture, and murmured as if fascinated:

—The beautiful Mabel Hunter!

As if fascinated, her eyes rested long upon those demurely taunting eyes and she murmured devotedly:

—Isn't she an exquisite creature?

And the boy who came in from the street, stamping crookedly under his stone of coal, heard her words. He dropped his load promptly on the floor and hurried to her side to see. He mauled the edges of the paper with his reddened and blackened hands, shouldering her aside and complaining that he could not see.

He was sitting in the narrow breakfast room high up in the old dark-windowed house. The firelight flickered on the wall and beyond the window a spectral dusk was gathering upon the river. Before the fire an old woman was busy making tea and, as she bustled at the task, she told in a low voice of what the priest and the doctor had said. She told too of certain changes they had seen in her of late and of her odd ways and sayings. He sat listening to the words and following the ways of adventure that lay open in the coals, arches and vaults and winding galleries and jagged caverns.

Suddenly he became aware of something in the doorway. A skull appeared suspended in the gloom of the doorway. A feeble creature like a monkey was there, drawn thither by the sound of voices at the fire. A whining voice came from the door asking: [74]


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 —Is that Josephine?

The old bustling woman answered cheerily from the fireplace:

—No, Ellen, it's Stephen.

—O... O, good evening, Stephen.

He answered the greeting and saw a silly smile break over the face in the doorway.

—Do you want anything, Ellen? asked the old woman at the fire.

But she did not answer the question and said:

—I thought it was Josephine. I thought you were Josephine, Stephen.

And, repeating this several times, she fell to laughing feebly.

He was sitting in the midst of a children's party at Harold's Cross. His silent watchful manner had grown upon him and he took little part in the games. The children, wearing the spoils of their crackers, danced and romped noisily and, though he tried to share their merriment, he felt himself a gloomy figure amid the gay cocked hats and sunbonnets.

But when he had sung his song and withdrawn into a snug corner of the room he began to taste the joy of his loneliness. The mirth, which in the beginning of the evening had seemed to him false and trivial, was like a soothing air to him, passing gaily by his senses, hiding from other eyes the feverish agitation of his blood while through the circling of the dancers and amid the music and laughter her glance travelled to his corner, flattering, taunting, searching, exciting his heart.

In the hall the children who had stayed latest were putting on their things: the party was over. She had thrown a shawl about her and, as they went together [75]


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 towards the tram, sprays of her fresh warm breath flew gaily above her cowled head and her shoes tapped blithely on 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. On the empty seats of the tram were scattered a few coloured tickets. No sound of footsteps came up or down the road. No sound broke the peace of the night save when the lank brown horses rubbed their noses together and shook their bells.

They seemed to listen, he on the upper step and she on the lower. She came up to his step many times and went down to hers again between their phrases and once or twice stood close beside him for some moments on the upper step, forgetting to go down, and then went down. His heart danced upon her movements like a cork upon a tide. He heard what her eyes said to him from beneath their cowl and knew that in some dim past, whether in life or revery, he had heard their tale before. He saw her urge her vanities, her fine dress and sash and long black stockings, and knew that he had yielded to them a thousand times. Yet a voice within him spoke above the noise of his dancing heart, asking him would he take her gift to which he had only to stretch out his hand. And he remembered the day when he and Eileen had stood looking into the Hotel Grounds, watching the waiters running up a trail of bunting on the flagstaff and the fox terrier scampering to and fro on the sunny lawn and how, all of a sudden, she had broken out into a peal of laughter and had run down the sloping curve of the path. Now, as then, he stood listlessly in his place, seemingly a tranquil watcher of the scene before him. [76]


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 —She too wants me to catch hold of her, he thought. That's why she came with me to the tram. I could easily catch hold of her when she comes up to my step: nobody is looking. I could hold her and kiss her.

But he did neither: and, when he was sitting alone in the deserted tram, he tore his ticket into shreds and stared gloomily at the corrugated footboard.

The next day he sat at his table in the bare upper room for many hours. Before him lay a new pen, a new bottle of ink and a new emerald exercise. From force of habit he had written at the top of the first page the initial letters of the jesuit motto: A.M.D.G. On the first line of the page appeared the title of the verses he was trying to write: To E——— C———. He knew it was right to begin so for he had seen similar titles in the collected poems of Lord Byron. When he had written this title and drawn an ornamental line underneath he fell into a daydream and began to draw diagrams on the cover of the book. He saw himself sitting at his table in Bray the morning after the discussion at the Christmas dinner table, trying to write a poem about Parnell on the back of one of his father's second moiety notices. But his brain had then refused to grapple with the theme and, desisting, he had covered the page with the names and addresses of certain of his classmates:

Now it seemed as if he would fail again but, by dint of brooding on the incident, he thought himself into [77]


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. During this process all those elements which he deemed common and insignificant fell out of the scene. There remained no trace of the tram itself nor of the trammen nor of the horses: nor did he and she appear vividly. The verses told only of the night and the balmy breeze and the maiden lustre of the moon. Some undefined sorrow was hidden in the hearts of the protagonists as they stood in silence beneath the leafless trees and when the moment of farewell had come the kiss, which had been withheld by one, was given by both. After this the letters L. D. S. were written at the foot of the page, and, having hidden the book, he went into his mother's bedroom and gazed at his face for a long time in the mirror of her dressing table.

But his long spell of leisure and liberty was drawing to its end. One evening his father came home full of news which kept his tongue busy all through dinner. Stephen had been awaiting his father's return for there had been mutton hash that day and he knew that his father would make him dip his bread in the gravy. But he did not relish the hash for the mention of Clongowes had coated his palate with a scum of disgust.

—I walked bang into him, said Mr Dedalus for the fourth time, just at the corner of the square.

—Then I suppose, said Mrs Dedalus, he will be able to arrange it. I mean about Belvedere.

—Of course he will, said Mr Dedalus. Don't I tell you he's provincial of the order now?

—I never liked the idea of sending him to the christian brothers myself, said Mrs Dedalus.

—Christian brothers be damned! said Mr Dedalus. Is it with Paddy Stink and Micky Mud? No, let him stick to the jesuits in God's name since he began with [78]


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 them. They'll be of service to him in after years. Those are the fellows that can get you a position.

—And they're a very rich order, aren't they, Simon?

—Rather. They live well, I tell you. You saw their table at Clongowes. Fed up, by God, like gamecocks.

Mr Dedalus pushed his plate over to Stephen and bade him finish what was on it.

—Now then, Stephen, he said, you must put your shoulder to the wheel, old chap. You've had a fine long holiday.

—O, I'm sure he'll work very hard now, said Mrs Dedalus, especially when he has Maurice with him.

—O, Holy Paul, I forgot about Maurice, said Mr Dedalus. Here, Maurice! Come here, you thick-headed ruffian! Do you know I'm going to send you to a college where they'll teach you to spell c.a.t. cat. And I'll buy you a nice little penny handkerchief to keep your nose dry. Won't that be grand fun?

Maurice grinned at his father and then at his brother. Mr Dedalus screwed his glass into his eye and stared hard at both his sons. Stephen mumbled his bread without answering his father's gaze.

—By the bye, said Mr Dedalus at length, the rector, or provincial rather, was telling me that story about you and Father Dolan. You're an impudent thief, he said.

—O, he didn't, Simon!

—Not he! said Mr Dedalus. But he gave me a great account of the whole affair. We were chatting, you know, and one word borrowed another. And, by the way, who do you think he told me will get that job in the corporation? But I'll tell you that after. Well, as I was saying, we were chatting away quite friendly and [79]


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 he asked me did our friend here wear glasses still, and then he told me the whole story.

—And was he annoyed, Simon?

—Annoyed? Not he! Manly little chap! he said.

Mr Dedalus imitated the mincing nasal tone of the provincial.

—Father Dolan and I, when I told them all at dinner about it, Father Dolan and I had a great laugh over it. You better mind yourself Father Dolan, said I, or young Dedalus will send you up for twice nine. We had a famous laugh together over it. Ha! Ha! Ha!

Mr Dedalus turned to his wife and interjected in his natural voice:

—Shows you the spirit in which they take the boys there. O, a jesuit for your life, for diplomacy!

He reassumed the provincial's voice and repeated:

—I told them all at dinner about it and Father Dolan and I and all of us we had a hearty laugh together over it. Ha! Ha! Ha!

The night of the Whitsuntide play had come and Stephen from the window of the dressing-room looked out on the small grass-plot across which lines of Chinese lanterns were stretched. He watched the visitors come down the steps from the house and pass into the theatre. Stewards in evening dress, old Belvedereans, loitered in groups about the entrance to the theatre and ushered in the visitors with ceremony. Under the sudden glow of a lantern he could recognize the smiling face of a priest.

The Blessed Sacrament had been removed from the tabernacle and the first benches had been driven back so as to leave the daïs of the altar and the space before it free. Against the walls stood companies of barbells and Indian clubs; the dumbbells were piled in one [80]


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 : in the midst of countless hillocks of gymnasium shoes and sweaters and singlets in untidy brown parcels there stood the stout leatherjacketed vaulting horse waiting its turn to be carried up on the stage and set in the middle of the winning team at the end of the gymnastic display.

Stephen, though in deference to his reputation for essay writing he had been elected secretary to the gymnasium, had had no part in the first section of the programme but in the play which formed the second section he had the chief part, that of a farcical pedagogue. He had been cast for it on account of his stature and grave manners for he was now at the end of his second year at Belvedere and in number two.

A score of the younger boys in white knickers and singlets came pattering down from the stage, through the vestry and to the chapel. The vestry and chapel were peopled with eager masters and boys. The plump bald sergeant major was testing with his foot the springboard of the vaulting horse. The lean young man in a long overcoat, who was to give a special display of intricate club swinging, stood near watching with interest, his silver-coated clubs peeping out of his deep side-pockets. The hollow rattle of the wooden dumb bells was heard as another team made ready to go up on the stage: and in another moment the excited prefect was hustling the boys through the vestry like a flock of geese, flapping the wings of his soutane nervously and crying to the laggards to make haste. A little troop of Neapolitan peasants were practising their steps at the end of the chapel, some circling their arms above their heads, some swaying their baskets of paper violets and curtseying. In a dark corner of the chapel at the gospel side of the altar a stout [81]


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 old lady knelt amid her copious black skirts. When she stood up a pink dressed figure, wearing a curly golden wig and an old-fashioned straw sunbonnet, with black pencilled eyebrows and cheeks delicately rouged and powdered, was discovered. A low murmur of curiosity ran round the chapel at the discovery of this girlish figure. One of the prefects, smiling and nodding his head, approached the dark corner and, having bowed to the stout old lady, said pleasantly:

—Is this a beautiful young lady or a doll that you have here, Mrs Tallon?

Then, bending down to peer at the smiling painted face under the leaf of the bonnet, he exclaimed:

—No! Upon my word I believe it's little Bertie Tallon after all!

Stephen at his post by the window heard the old lady and the priest laugh together and heard the boys' murmurs of admiration behind him as they passed forward to see the little boy who had to dance the sunbonnet dance by himself. A movement of impatience escaped him. He let the edge of the blind fall and, stepping down from the bench on which he had been standing, walked out of the chapel.

He passed out of the schoolhouse and halted under the shed that flanked the garden. From the theatre opposite came the muffled noise of the audience and sudden brazen clashes of the soldiers' band. The light spread upwards from the glass roof making the theatre seem a festive ark, anchored among the hulks of houses, her frail cables of lanterns looping her to her moorings. A side door of the theatre opened suddenly and a shaft of light flew across the grassplots. A sudden burst of music issued from the ark, the prelude of a waltz: and when [82]