Ch3 Pt4

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter three, Part four of a Portrait of the Artist
as a young man. This is a LibriVox recording. All
LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information
or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org. Recording by
Peter Bobby. A Portrait of the Artist as a young

(00:22):
man by James Joyce, Chapter three, Part four. He went
up to his room after dinner in order to be
alone with his soul, and at every step his soul
seemed to sigh. At every step, his soul mounted with
his feet, sighing in the ascent through a region of

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vicid gloom. He halted on the landing before the door,
and then, grasping the porcelain knob, opened the door quickly.
He waited in fear, his soul pining within him, praying
silently that death might not touch his brow as he
passed over the threshold, that the fiends that inhabit darkness
might not be given power over him. He waited still

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at the threshold, as at the entrance to some dark cave.
Faces were there, eyes, they waited and watched. We knew
perfectly well, of course, that although it was bound to
come to the light, he would find considerable difficulty in
endeavoring to try to induce himself, to try to endeavor
to ascertain the spiritual planipotentiary. And so we knew, of course,

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perfectly well. Murmuring faces waited and watched, Murmurous voices filled
the dark shell of the cave. He feared intensely in
spirit and in flesh, But raising his head bravely, he
strode into the room firmly. A doorway, a room, the
same room, same window. He told himself calmly that those

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words had absolutely no sense which had seemed to rise
murmurously from the dark. He told himself that it was
simply his room, with the door open. He closed the door, and,
walking swiftly to the bed, knelt beside it and covered
his face with his hands. His hands were cold and damp,
and his limbs ached with chill. Bodily unrest and chill

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and weariness beset him, routing his thoughts. Why was he
kneeling there like a child, saying his evening prayers, to
be alone with his soul, to examine his conscience, to
meet his sins face to face, to recall their times
and manners and circumstances, to weep over them. He could

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not weep, He could not summon them to his memory.
He felt only an ache of soul and body, his
whole being, memory, will, understanding, flesh be numbed and weary.
That was the work of devils, to scatter his thoughts
and overcloud his conscience. Assailing him at the gates of

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the cowardly and sin corrupted flesh. And praying God timidly
to give him his weakness, he crawled up on to
the bed, and, wrapping the blankets closely about him, covered
his face again with his hands. He had sinned, He
had sinned so deeply against heaven and before God, that

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he was not worthy to be called God's child. Could
it be that he, Stephen Dadalus, had done those things?
His conscience sighed in answer. Yes, he had done them secretly, filthily,
time after time, and hardened in sinful impenitence. He had

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dared to wear the mask of holiness before the tabernacle itself,
while his soul within was a living mass of corruption.
How came it that God had not struck him dead?
The leprous company of his sins closed about him, breathing
upon him, bending over him from all sides. He strove
to forget them in an act of prayer, huddling his

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limbs closer together and binding down his eyelids. But the
senses of his soul would not be bound. And though
his eyes were shut fast, he saw the places where
he had sinned, And though his ears were tightly covered,
he heard. He desired with all his will not to
hear or see. He desired till his frame shook under

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the strain of his desire, and until the senses of
his soul closed. They closed for an instant, and then opened.
He saw a field of stiff weeds and thistles, and
tufted nettle bunches thick. Among the tufts of rank, stiff
growth lay battered canisters and clots and coils of solid excrement.

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A faint, marsh light struggled upwards from all the ordear
through the bristling, gray green weeds, an evil smell, faint
and foul. As the light curled upwards sluggishly, out of
the canisters and from the stale, crusted dung, creatures were

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in the field. One three six creatures were moving in
the field hither and thither, goatish creatures with human faces
horny browed, lightly bearded, and gray as india rubber. The
malice of evil glittered in their hard eyes as they
moved hither and thither, trailing their long tails behind them.

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A rictus of cruel malignity lit up grayly their old
bony faces. One was clasping about his ribs a torn
flannel waistcoat. Another complained monotonously as his beard stuck in
the tufted weeds. Soft language issued from their spittless lips

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as they swished in slow circles round and round the field,
winding hither and thither through the weeds, dragging their long
tails amid the rattling canisters. They moved in slow circles,
circling closer and closer to enclose, to enclose, Soft language

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issuing from their lips. Their long swishing tails besmeared with
stale shite, thrusting upwards their terrific faces. Help. He flung
the blankets from him, madly to free his face and neck.
That was his hell. God had allowed him to see,
the hell reserved for his sins, stinking, bestial, malignant, a

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hell of leacherous goatish fiends for him, for him. He
sprang from the bed, the reeking odor pouring down his throat,
clogging and revolting his entrails. Air, the air of heaven.
He stumbled towards the window, groaning and almost fainting with sickness.

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At the washstand, a convulsion seized him within, and clasping
his cold forehead wildly, he vomited profusely in agony. When
the fit had spent itself, he walked weakly to the window, and,
lifting the sash, sat in a corner of the embrasure
and leaned his elbow upon the sill. The rain had

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drawn off, and amid the moving vapors from point to
point of light, the city was spinning about herself, a
soft cocoon of yellowish haze. Heaven was still and faintly luminous,
and the air sweet to breathe, as in a thicket
drenched with showers, and amid peace and shimmering lights and
quiet fragrance. He made a covenant with his heart. He prayed.

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He once had meant to come on earth in heavenly glory,
but we sinned, and then he could not safely visit us.
But with a shrouded majesty and a bedimmed radiance, For
he was God. So he came himself in weakness, not
in power, and he sent thee a creature in his stead,
with a creature's comeliness and luster suited to our state.

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And now thy very face and form, Dear Mother, speak
to us of the eternal, not like earthly beauty, dangerous
to look upon, but like the morning star, which is
thy emblem, bright and musical, breathing purity, telling of heaven
and infusing peace. O, harbinger of day, O light of

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the pilgrim. Lead us still as thou hast led in
the dark night across the bleak wilderness. Guide us on
to our Lord Jesus, Guide us home. His eyes were
dimmed with tears, and looking humbly up to Heaven, he
wept for the innocence he had lost. When evening had fallen,

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he left the house, and the first touch of the damp,
dark air and the noise of the door as it
closed behind him made ache again. His conscience lulled by
prayer and tears, Confess, confess. It was not enough to
lull the conscience with a tear and a prayer. He
had to kneel before the Minister of the Holy ghost

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and tell over his hidden sins, truly and repentantly. Before
he heard again the foot board of the house door
trail over the threshold as it opened to let him in,
before he saw again the table in the kitchen set
for supper, he would have knelt and confessed it was
quite simple. The ache of conscience ceased, and he walked

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onward swiftly through the dark streets. There were so many
flagstones on the footpath of that street, and so many
streets in that city, and so many cities in the world.
Yet eternity had no end. He was in mortal sin.
Even once was a mortal sin. It could happen in
an instant, But how so quickly by seeing or by

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thinking of seeing. The eyes see the thing without having
wished first to see. Then in an instant it happens.
But does that part of the body understand or what
the serpent, the most subtle beast of the field, it
must understand when it desires in one instant, and then

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prolongs its own desire instant after instant, Sinfully it feels
and understands and desires what a horrible thing? Who made
it to be like that? A bestial part of the
body able to understand bestually and desire bestially? Was that
then he or an inhuman thing moved by a lower

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soul than his soul? His soul sickened at the thought
of a torpid, snaky life feeding itself out of the
tender marrow of his life and fattening upon the slime
of lust. Oh why was that so? Oh? Why he
cowered in the shadow of the thought, abasing himself in

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the awe of God, who had made all things and
all men madness, who could think such a thought? And
cowering in darkness and abject he prayed mutely to his
angel Guardian to drive away with his sword the damon
that was whispering to his brain. The whisper ceased, And

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he knew then clearly that his own soul had sinned
in thought and word and deed wilfully through his own body.
Confess he had to confess every sin. How could he
utter in words to the priest what he had done?
Must must or how could he explain without dying of shame?

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Or how could he have done such things without shame?
A madman, a loathsome madman? Confess? Oh, he would indeed
to be free and sinless again, Perhaps the priest beast
would know, Oh, Dear God. He walked on and on
through ill lit streets, fearing to stand still for a

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moment lest it might seem that he held back from
what awaited him, fearing to arrive at that towards which
he still turned with longing. How beautiful must be a
soul in the state of grace when God looked upon
it with love. Frowsy girls sat along the curbstones before
their baskets, their dank hair hung trailed over their brows.

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They were not beautiful to see as they crouched in
the mire, but their souls were seen by God, and
if their souls were in a state of grace, they
were radiant to see, and God loved them seeing them.
A wasting breath of humiliation blew bleakly over his soul
to think of how he had fallen, to feel that

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those souls were dearer to God than his. The wind
blew over him and passed on to the myriads and
myriads of other souls on whom God's favor shone, now
more and now less, stars now brighter and now dimmer,
sustained and failing, and the glimmering souls passed away, sustained

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and failing, merged in a moving breath. One soul was lost,
a tiny soul. His it flickered once and went out, forgotten, lost.
The end, black, cold, void, waste, consciousness of place came
ebbing back to him, slowly, over a vast tract of time, unlit, unfelt, unlived.

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The squalid scene composed itself around him, the common accents,
the burning gas jets in the shops, odors of fish
and spirits, and wet sawdust, moving men and women. An
old woman was about to cross the street, an oil
can in her hand. He bent down and asked her,
was there a chapel near a chapel, Sir, Yes, Sir,

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Church Street, Chapel Church. She shifted the cant to her
other hand and directed him. And as she held out
her reeking withered right hand under its fringe of shawl,
he bent lower towards her, saddened and soothed by her voice.
Thank you, you are quite welcome, sir. The candles on

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the high altar had been extinguished, but the fragrance of
incense still floated down the dim knave. Bearded workmen with
pious faces were guiding a canopy out through a side door,
the sacristan aiding them with quiet gestures and words. A
few of the faithful still lingered, praying before one of
the side altars, or kneeling in the benches near the confessionals.

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He approached timidly and knelt at the last bench in
the body, thankful for the peace and silence and fragrant
shadow of the church. The board on which she knelt
was narrow and worn, and those who knelt near him
were humble followers of Jesus. Jesus too had been born
in poverty, and had worked in the shop of a carpenter,

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cutting boards and plaining them, and had first spoken of
the Kingdom of God to poor fishermen, teaching all men
to be meek and humble of heart. He bowed his
head upon his hands, bidding his heart be meek and humble,
that he might be like those who knelt beside him,
and his prayer as acceptable as theirs. He prayed beside them,

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but it was hard. His soul was foul with sin,
and he dared not ask forgiveness with the simple trust
of those whom Jesus in the mysterious ways of God
had called first to his side, the carpenters, the fishermen,
poor and simple people, following a lowly trade, handling and
shaping the wood of trees, mending their nets with patience.

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A tall figure came down the aisle, and the penitent stirred,
and at the last moment, glancing up swiftly, he saw
a long gray beard and the brown habit of a capuchin.
The priest entered the box and was hidden. Two penitents
rose and entered the confessional at either side. The wooden

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slide was drawn back, and the faint murmur of a
voice troubled the silence. His blood began to murmur in
his veins, murmuring like a sinful city summoned from its
sleep to hear its doom. Little flakes of fire fell,
and powdery ashes fell softly, alighting on the houses of men.
They stirred, waking from sleep, troubled by the heated air.

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The slide was shot back. The penitent emerged from the
side of the box. The farther slide was drawn. A
woman entered quietly and deftly, where the first penitent had knelt.
The faint murmur began again. He could still leave the chapel.
He could stand up, put one foot before the other,
and walk out softly, and then run, run, run, swiftly

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through the dark streets. He could still escape from the shame.
Had it been any terrible crime but that one sin,
Had it been murder, Little fiery flakes fell and touched
him at all points. Shameful thoughts, shameful words, shameful acts.
Shame covered him wholly, like fine glowing ashes, falling continually

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to say it in words, His soul, stifling and helpless,
would cease to be. The slide was shot back. A
penitent emerged from the farther side of the box. The
near slide was drawn. A penitent entered where the other
penitent had come out. A soft whispering noise floated in

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vaporous cloudlets out of the box. It was the woman,
soft whispering cloudlets, soft whispering, vapor whispering and vanishing. He
beat his breast with his fist, humbly, secretly under cover
of the wooden arm rest. He would be at one
with others and with God. He would love his neighbor.

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He would love God who had made and loved him.
He would kneel and pray with others and be happy.
God would look down on him and on them, and
would love them all. It was easy to be good.
God's yoke was sweet and light. It was better never
to have sinned, to have remained always a child, for

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God loved little children and suffered them to come to him.
It was a terrible and a sad thing to sin,
But God was merciful to poor sinners who were truly sorry.
How true that was? That was indeed goodness. The slide
was shot too. Suddenly the penitent came out. He was next.

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He stood up in terror and walked blindly into the box.
At last it had come. He knelt in the silent
gloom and raised his eyes to the white crucifix suspended
above him. God could see that he was sorry. He
would tell all his sins. His confession would be long long.

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Everybody in the chapel would know then what a sinner
he had been. Let them know it was true, but
God had promised to forgive him if he was sorry.
He was sorry. He clasped his hands and raised them
towards the white form, praying with his darkened eyes, praying
with all his trembling body, swaying, his head to and

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fro like a lost creature, praying with whimpering lips. Sorry, sorry,
oh sorry. The slide clicked back, and his heart bounded
in his breast. The face of an old priest was
at the grating, averted from him. Leaning upon a hand,
he made the sign of the cross and prayed of

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the priest to bless him for he had sinned. Then,
bowing his head, he repeated the confitiore in fright at
the words, my most grievous fault. He ceased breathless. How
long is it since your last confession? My child a
long time father? A month my child longer father, three months,

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my child longer father six months? Eight months father, he
had begun, The priest asked, and what do you remember
since that time? He began to confess his sins, masses,
misted prayers, not said lies, anything else my child, sins

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of anger, envy of others, gluttony, vanity, disobedient, anything else,
my child, sloth, anything else my child. There was no help,
he murmured, I committed sins of impurity. Father. The priest

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did not turn his head with yourself, my child, and
with others with women my child. Yes, Father, were they
married women, My child, he did not know. His sins

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trickled from his lips. One by one, trickled in shameful
drops from his soul, festering and oozing like a sore,
a squalid stream of vice. The last sins oozed forth, sluggish, filthy.
There was no more to tell. He bowed his head overcome.

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The priest was silent. Then he asked, how old you,
my child? Sixteen? Father. The priest passed his hand several
times over his face, then resting his forehead against his hand,
he leaned towards the grating, and, with eyes still averted,

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spoke slowly. His voice was weary and old. You are
very young, my child, he said, And let me implore
of you to give up that sin. It is a
terrible sin. It kills the body, and it kills the soul.
It is the cause of many crimes and misfortunes. Give

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it up, my child, for God's sake. It is dishonorable
and unmanly. You cannot know where that wretched habit will
lead you, or where it will come against you. As
long as you commit that sin, my poor child, you
will never be worth one farthing to God. Pray to
our mother Mary to help you. She will help you,

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my child. Pray to our blessed Lady, when that sin
comes into your mind. I am sure you will do that,
will you not? You repent of all those sins? I
am sure you do, And you will promise God now that,
by His holy grace you will never offend him any
more by that wicked sin. You will make that solemn

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promise to God, will you not? Yes? Father? The old
and weary voice fell like sweet rain upon his quaking,
parching heart. How sweet and sad do so, my poor child?
The devil has led you astray. Drive him back to
hell when he tempts you to dishonor your body in

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that way the foul spirit who hates our Lord. Promise
God now that you will give up that sin, that wretched,
wretched sin. Blinded by his tears and by the light
of God's mercifulness, he bent his head and heard the
grave words of absolution spoken, and saw the priest's hand

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raised above him in token of forgiveness. God, bless you,
my child, pray for me. He knelt to say his penance,
praying in a corner of the dark knave, and his
prayers ascended to heaven from his purified heart, like perfume
streaming upwards from a heart of white rose. The muddy

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streets were gay. He strode homeward, conscious of an invisible grace,
pervading and making light his limbs. In spite of all
he had done it. He had confessed, and God had
pardoned him. His soul was made fair and wholly, once more,
holy and happy. It would be beautiful to die, if

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God so will. It was beautiful to live, if God
so willed, to live in grace, a life of peace
and virtue, and forbearance with others. He sat by the
fire in the kitchen, not daring to speak for happiness.
Till that moment he had not known how beautiful and
peaceful life could be. The green square of paper pinned

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round the lamp, cast down a tender shade. On the
dresser was a plate of sausages and white pudding, and
on the shelf there were eggs. They would be for
the breakfast in the morning after the communion in the
College chapel. White pudding and eggs and sausages and cups
of tea. How simple and beautiful was life after all?

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And life lay all before him in a dream. He
fell asleep in a dream. He rose and saw that
it was morning. In a waking dream. He went through
the quiet morning towards the college. The boys were all there,
kneeling in their places. He knelt among them, happy and shy.

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The altar was heaped with fragrant masses of white flowers,
and in the morning light, the pale flames of the
candles among the white flowers were clear and silent as
his own soul. He knelt before the altar with his
class mates, holding the altar cloth with them over a
living rail of hands. His hands were trembling, and his

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soul trembled as he heard the priest pass with the
siborium from communicant to communicant. Corpus domini nostri. Could it
be he knelt there, sinless and timid, and he would
hold upon his tongue the host, and God would enter
his purified body in utamiternam ah men, another life, a

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life of grace and virtue and happiness. It was true.
It was not a dream from which he would wake.
The past was past. Corpus Domini nostri. The seborium had
come to him. End of chapter three,