 He hoped there would be stew for dinner, turnips and carrots and bruised potatoes
 and fat mutton pieces to be ladled out in thick, peppered, flour-fattened sauce.
 Stuff it into you, his belly counseled him.
 After early nightfall, the yellow lamps would light up here and there
 the squalid quarter of the brothels.
 Hello, Bertie. Any good in your mind?
 Number ten. Fresh Nellie is waiting on you.
 Good night, husband.
 The music came nearer, and he recalled the words.
 The words of Shelley's fragment upon the moon wandering companionless, pale for weariness.
 The dull light fell more faintly upon the page, whereon another equation began to unfold itself
 slowly and to spread abroad its widening tail.
 A cold, lucid indifference reigned in his soul.
 The chaos in which his ardor extinguished itself was a cold, indifferent knowledge of himself.
 At most, by an alms given to a beggar whose blessing he fled from,
 he might hope wearily to win for himself some measure of actual grace.
 Well now, Ennis, I declare you have a head, and so has my stick.
 On Saturday mornings, when the sodality met in the chapel to recite the little office,
 his place was a cushioned kneeling-desk at the right of the altar,
 from which he led his wing of boys through the responses.
 Her eyes seemed to regard him with mild pity.
 Her holiness, a strange light glowing faintly upon her frail flesh, did not humiliate the sinner who approached her.
 If ever he was impelled to cast sin from him and to repent, the impulse that moved him was the wish to be her night.
 He tried to think how it could be, but the dusk, deepening in the schoolroom, covered over his thoughts.
 The bell rang.
 Then you can ask him questions on the catechism, Daedalus.
 Stephen, leaning back and drawing idly on his scribbler, listened to the talk about him,
 which Heron checked from time to time by saying,
 It was strange, too, that he found an arid pleasure in following up to the end the rigid lines of the doctrines of the church,
 and penetrating into obscure silences only to hear and feel the more deeply his own condemnation.
 The sentence of St. James, which says that he who offends against one commandment becomes guilty of all,
 had seemed to him first a swollen phrase, until he had begun to grope in the darkness of his own state.
 If a man had stolen a pound in his youth, and had used that pound to amass a huge fortune,
 how much was he obliged to give back, the pound he had stolen only,
 or the pound together with the compound interest accruing upon it, or all his huge fortune?
 If a layman, in giving baptism, pour the water before saying the words, is the child baptized?
 How comes it that while the first beatitude promises the kingdom of heaven to the poor of heart,
 the second beatitude promises also to the meek that they shall possess the land?
 Why was the sacrament of the Eucharist instituted under the two species of bread and wine,
 if Jesus Christ be present body and blood, soul and divinity, in the bread alone and in the wine alone?
 If the wine change into vinegar, and the host crumble into corruption after they have been consecrated,
 is Jesus Christ still present under their species as God and as man?
 A gentle kick from the tall boy in the bench behind urged Stephen to ask a difficult question.
 The rector did not ask for a catechism to hear the lesson from.
 He clasped his hands on the desk and said,
 The retreat will begin on Wednesday afternoon in honor of St. Francis Xavier, whose feast day is Saturday.
 On Friday, confession will be heard all the afternoon after beads.
 Beware of making that mistake!
 Stephen's heart began slowly to fold and fade with fear like a withering flower.
 He is called, as you know, the Apostle of the Indies.
 A great saint, St. Francis Xavier.
 The rector paused and then, shaking his clasped hands before him, went on.
 He had the faith in him that moves mountains.
 A great saint, St. Francis Xavier.
 In the silence, their dark fire kindled the dusk into a tawny glow.
 He could wait no longer.
 For a full hour he had paced up and down, waiting.
 But he could wait no longer.
 He set off abruptly for the bull, walking rapidly lest his father's shrill whistle might call him back.
 And in a few moments he had rounded the curve at the police barrack and was safe.
 The university, pride after satisfaction, uplifted him like long, slow waves,
 whose feet are as the feet of hearts and underneath the everlasting arms.
 The pride of that dim image brought back to his mind the dignity of the office he had refused.
 Soon the whole bridge was trembling and resounding.
 The uncouth faces passed him two by two, stained yellow or red or livid by the sea.
 And as he strove to look at them with ease and indifference,
 a faint stain of personal shame and commiseration rose to his own face.
 Angry with himself, he tried to hide his face from their eyes by gazing down sideways into the shallow,
 swirling water under the bridge.
 But he still saw a reflection therein of their top-heavy silk hats and humble tape-like collars and loosely hanging clerical clothes.
 Brother Hickey, Brother McArdle, Brother Keough.
 Their piety would be like their names, like their faces, like their clothes.
 And it was idle for him to tell himself that their humble and contrite hearts, it might be,
 paid a far richer tribute of devotion than his had ever been,
 a gift tenfold more acceptable than his elaborate adoration.
 It was idle for him to move himself to be generous towards them,
 to tell himself that, if he ever came to their gates, stripped of his pride, beaten and in beggar's weeds,
 that they would be generous towards him, loving him as themselves.
 Idle and embittering, finally, to argue against his own dispassionate certitude,
 that the commandment of love bade us not to love our neighbor as ourselves with the same amount and intensity of love,
 but to love him as ourselves with the same kind of love.
 The phrase and the day and the scene harmonized in accord.
 Words.
 Was it their colors?
 They were voyaging across the deserts of the sky,
 a host of nomads on the march,
 voyaging high over Ireland, westward bound.
 The Europe they had come from lay out there beyond the Irish Sea,
 Europe of strange tongues and valleyed and wood-begirt and citadeled
 and of entrenched and marshaled races.
 Again, again, a voice from beyond the world was calling.
 Hello, Stephanos!
 Here comes the Daedalus!
 Their diving stone, poised on its rude supports and rocking under their plunges,
 and the rough-hewn stones of the sloping breakwater over which they scrambled in their horseplay,
 gleamed with cold, wet luster.
 He stood still, in deference to their calls, and parried their banter with easy words.
 It was a pain to see them, and a sword-like pain to see the signs of adolescence
 that made repellent their pitiable nakedness.
 Stephanos Derlos!
 A moment before, the ghost of the ancient kingdom of the Danes
 had looked forth through the vesture of the haze-wrapped city.
 You will find me continually speaking of four men, Titian, Holbein, Turner, and Tintoret,
 in almost the same terms.
 They unite every quality, and sometimes you will find me referring to them as colorists,
 sometimes as chiaroscurists.
 By being studious of color, they are studious of division,
 and while the chiaroscurist devotes himself to the representation of degrees of force in one thing,
 unseparated light,
 the colorists have for their function the attainment of beauty
 by arrangement of the divisions of light.
 My first and principal reason was that they enforced,
 beyond all resistance,
 on any student who might attempt to copy them,
 this method of laying portions of distinct hue side by side.
 Some of the touches, indeed,
 when the tint has been mixed with much water,
 have been laid in little drops or ponds,
 so that the pigment might crystallize hard at the edge.
 It is the head of a parrot,
 with a little flower in his beak,
 from a picture of Carpaccio's,
 one of his series of the life of St. George.
 Then he comes to the beak of it.
 The brown ground beneath is left, for the most part.
 One touch of black is put for the hollow,
 two delicate lines of dark gray define the outer curve,
 and one little quivering touch of white
 draws the inner edge of the mandible.
 For, believe me,
 the final philosophy of art can only ratify their opinion
 that the beauty of a cock-robin is to be red,
 and of a grass plot to be green.
 And the best skill of art is in instantly seizing
 on the manifold deliciousness of light,
 which you can only seize by precision
 of instantaneous touch.
 But in this vignette, copied from Turner,
 you have the two principles brought out perfectly.
 It must, remember, be one or the other.
 Yeah.
