A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Джеймс Джойс

get your walking papers in the morning when the doctor comes.

      — Will I? the fellow said. I’m not well yet.

      Brother Michael repeated:

      — You’ll get your walking papers. I tell you.

      He bent down to rake the fire. He had a long back like the long back of a tramhorse. He shook the poker gravely and nodded his head at the fellow out of third of grammar.

      Then Brother Michael went away and after a while the fellow out of third of grammar turned in towards the wall and fell asleep.

      That was the infirmary. He was sick then. Had they written home to tell his mother and father? But it would be quicker for one of the priests to go himself to tell them. Or he would write a letter for the priest to bring.

      Dear Mother,

       I am sick. I want to go home. Please come and take me home. I am in the infirmary.

      Your fond son,

       Stephen

      How far away they were! There was cold sunlight outside the window. He wondered if he would die. You could die just the same on a sunny day. He might die before his mother came. Then he would have a dead mass in the chapel like the way the fellows had told him it was when Little had died. All the fellows would be at the mass, dressed in black, all with sad faces. Wells too would be there but no fellow would look at him. The rector would be there in a cope of black and gold and there would be tall yellow candles on the altar and round the catafalque. And they would carry the coffin out of the chapel slowly and he would be buried in the little graveyard of the community off the main avenue of limes. And Wells would be sorry then for what he had done. And the bell would toll slowly.

      He could hear the tolling. He said over to himself the song that Brigid had taught him.

      Dingdong! The castle bell!

      Farewell, my mother!

      Bury me in the old churchyard

      Beside my eldest brother.

      My coffin shall be black,

      Six angels at my back,

      Two to sing and two to pray

      And two to carry my soul away.

      How beautiful and sad that was! How beautiful the words were where they said Bury me in the old churchyard! A tremor passed over his body. How sad and how beautiful! He wanted to cry quietly but not for himself: for the words, so beautiful and sad, like music. The bell! The bell! Farewell! O farewell!

      The cold sunlight was weaker and Brother Michael was standing at his bedside with a bowl of beeftea. He was glad for his mouth was hot and dry. He could hear them playing on the playgrounds. And the day was going on in the college just as if he were there.

      Then Brother Michael was going away and the fellow out of the third of grammar told him to be sure and come back and tell him all the news in the paper. He told Stephen that his name was Athy and that his father kept a lot of racehorses that were spiffing jumpers and that his father would give a good tip to Brother Michael any time he wanted it because Brother Michael was very decent and always told him the news out of the paper they got every day up in the castle. There was every kind of news in the paper: accidents, shipwrecks, sports and politics.

      — Now it is all about politics in the papers, he said. Do your people talk about that too?

      — Yes, Stephen said.

      — Mine too, he said.

      Then he thought for a moment and said:

      — You have a queer name, Dedalus, and I have a queer name too, Athy. My name is the name of a town. Your name is like Latin.

      Then he asked:

      — Are you good at riddles?

      Stephen answered:

      — Not very good.

      Then he said:

      — Can you answer me this one? Why is the county of Kildare like the leg of a fellow’s breeches?

      Stephen thought what could be the answer and then said:

      — I give it up.

      — Because there is a thigh in it, he said. Do you see the joke? Athy is the town in the county Kildare and a thigh is the other thigh.

      — Oh, I see, Stephen said.

      — That’s an old riddle, he said.

      After a moment he said:

      — I say!

      — What? asked Stephen.

      — You know, he said, you can ask that riddle another way?

      — Can you? said Stephen.

      — The same riddle, he said. Do you know the other way to ask it?

      — No, said Stephen.

      — Can you not think of the other way? he said.

      He looked at Stephen over the bedclothes as he spoke. Then he lay back on the pillow and said:

      — There is another way but I won’t tell you what it is.

      Why did he not tell it? His father, who kept the racehorses, must be a magistrate too like Saurin’s father and Nasty Roche’s father. He thought of his own father, of how he sang songs while his mother played and of how he always gave him a shilling when he asked for sixpence and he felt sorry for him that he was not a magistrate like the other boys’ fathers. Then why was he sent to that place with them? But his father had told him that he would be no stranger there because his granduncle had presented an address to the liberator there fifty years before. You could know the people of that time by their old dress. It seemed to him a solemn time: and he wondered if that was the time when the fellows in Clongowes wore blue coats with brass buttons and yellow waistcoats and caps of rabbitskin and drank beer like grownup people and kept greyhounds of their own to course the hares with.

      He looked at the window and saw that the daylight had grown weaker. There would be cloudy grey light over the playgrounds. There was no noise on the playgrounds. The class must be doing the themes or perhaps Father Arnall was reading a legend out of the book.

      It was queer that they had not given him any medicine. Perhaps Brother Michael would bring it back when he came. They said you got stinking stuff to drink when you were in the infirmary. But he felt better now than before. It would be nice getting better slowly. You could get a book then. There was a book in the library about Holland. There were lovely foreign names in it and pictures of strangelooking cities and ships. It made you feel so happy.

      How pale the light was at the window! But that was nice. The fire rose and fell on the wall. It was like waves. Someone had put coal on and he heard voices. They were talking. It was the noise of the waves. Or the waves were talking among themselves as they rose and fell.

      He saw the sea of waves, long dark waves rising and falling, dark under the moonless night. A tiny light twinkled at the pierhead where the ship was entering: and he saw a multitude of people gathered by the waters’ edge to see the ship that was entering their harbour. A tall man stood on the deck, looking out towards the flat dark land: and by the light at the pierhead he saw his face, the sorrowful face of Brother Michael.

      He saw him lift his hand towards the people and heard him say in a loud voice of sorrow over the waters:

      — He is dead. We saw him lying upon the catafalque.

      A wail of sorrow went up from the people.

      — Parnell! Parnell! He is dead!

      They fell upon their knees, moaning in sorrow.

      And he saw Dante in a maroon velvet dress and with a green velvet mantle hanging from her shoulders walking proudly and silently past the people who knelt by the waters’ edge.

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