Sunday was dedicated to the mystery of the Holy Trinity, Monday to the Holy Ghost, Tuesday to the Guardian Angels,
Wednesday to saint Joseph, Thursday to the Most Blessed Sacrament of the Altar, Friday to the Suffering Jesus,
Saturday to the Blessed Virgin Mary.
Every morning he hallowed himself anew in the presence of some holy image or mystery. His day began with an heroic
offering of its every moment of thought or action for the intentions of the sovereign pontiff and with an early mass. The
raw morning air whetted his resolute piety; and often as he knelt among the few worshippers at the side–altar, following
with his interleaved prayer–book the murmur of the priest, he glanced up for an instant towards the vested figure
standing in the gloom between the two candles, which were the old and the new testaments, and imagined that he was
kneeling at mass in the catacombs.
His daily life was laid out in devotional areas. By means of ejaculations and prayers he stored up ungrudgingly for the
souls in purgatory centuries of days and quarantines and years; yet the spiritual triumph which he felt in achieving with
ease so many fabulous ages of canonical penances did not wholly reward his zeal of prayer, since he could never know
how much temporal punishment he had remitted by way of suffrage for the agonizing souls; and fearful lest in the midst of
the purgatorial fire, which differed from the infernal only in that it was not everlasting, his penance might avail no more
than a drop of moisture, he drove his soul daily through an increasing circle of works of supererogation.
Every part of his day, divided by what he regarded now as the duties of his station in life, circled about its own centre of
spiritual energy. His life seemed to have drawn near to eternity; every thought, word, and deed, every instance of
consciousness could be made to revibrate radiantly in heaven; and at times his sense of such immediate repercussion
was so lively that he seemed to feel his soul in devotion pressing like fingers the keyboard of a great cash register and to
see the amount of his purchase start forth immediately in heaven, not as a number but as a frail column of incense or as
a slender flower.
The rosaries, too, which he said constantly—for he carried his beads loose in his trousers' pockets that he might tell
them as he walked the streets—transformed themselves into coronals of flowers of such vague unearthly texture that
they seemed to him as hueless and odourless as they were nameless. He offered up each of his three daily chaplets that
his soul might grow strong in each of the three theological virtues, in faith in the Father Who had created him, in hope in
the Son Who had redeemed him and in love of the Holy Ghost Who had sanctified him; and this thrice triple prayer he
offered to the Three Persons through Mary in the name of her joyful and sorrowful and glorious mysteries.
On each of the seven days of the week he further prayed that one of the seven gifts of the Holy Ghost might descend
upon his soul and drive out of it day by day the seven deadly sins which had defiled it in the past; and he prayed for each
gift on its appointed day, confident that it would descend upon him, though it seemed strange to him at times that wisdom
and understanding and knowledge were so distinct in their nature that each should be prayed for apart from the others.
Yet he believed that at some future stage of his spiritual progress this difficulty would be removed when his sinful soul
had been raised up from its weakness and enlightened by the Third Person of the Most Blessed Trinity. He believed this
all the more, and with trepidation, because of the divine gloom and silence wherein dwelt the unseen Paraclete, Whose
symbols were a dove and a mighty wind, to sin against Whom was a sin beyond forgiveness, the eternal mysterious
secret Being to Whom, as God, the priests offered up mass once a year, robed in the scarlet of the tongues of fire.
The imagery through which the nature and kinship of the Three Persons of the Trinity were darkly shadowed forth in
the books of devotion which he read—the Father contemplating from all eternity as in a mirror His Divine Perfections and
thereby begetting eternally the Eternal Son and the Holy Spirit proceeding out of Father and Son from all eternity—were
easier of acceptance by his mind by reason of their august incomprehensibility than was the simple fact that God had
loved his soul from all eternity, for ages before he had been born into the world, for ages before the world itself had
existed.
He had heard the names of the passions of love and hate pronounced solemnly on the stage and in the pulpit, had
found them set forth solemnly in books and had wondered why his soul was unable to harbour them for any time or to
force his lips to utter their names with conviction. A brief anger had often invested him but he had never been able to
make it an abiding passion and had always felt himself passing out of it as if his very body were being divested with ease
of some outer skin or peel. He had felt a subtle, dark, and murmurous presence penetrate his being and fire him with a
brief iniquitous lust: it, too, had slipped beyond his grasp leaving his mind lucid and indifferent. This, it seemed, was the
only love and that the only hate his soul would harbour.
But he could no longer disbelieve in the reality of love, since God Himself had loved his individual soul with divine love
from all eternity. Gradually, as his soul was enriched with spiritual knowledge, he saw the whole world forming one vast
symmetrical expression of God’s power and love. Life became a divine gift for every moment and sensation of which,
were it even the sight of a single leaf hanging on the twig of a tree, his soul should praise and thank the Giver. The world
for all its solid substance and complexity no longer existed for his soul save as a theorem of divine power and love and
universality. So entire and unquestionable was this sense of the divine meaning in all nature granted to his soul that he
could scarcely understand why it was in any way necessary that he should continue to live. Yet that was part of the
divine purpose and he dared not question its use, he above all others who had sinned so deeply and so foully against
the divine purpose. Meek and abased by this consciousness of the one eternal omnipresent perfect reality his soul took
up again her burden of pieties, masses and prayers and sacraments and mortifications, and only then for the first time
since he had brooded on the great mystery of love did he feel within him a warm movement like that of some newly born
life or virtue of the soul itself. The attitude of rapture in sacred art, the raised and parted hands, the parted lips and eyes
as of one about to swoon, became for him an image of the soul in prayer, humiliated and faint before her Creator.
But he had been forewarned of the dangers of spiritual exaltation and did not allow himself to desist from even the least
or lowliest devotion, striving also by constant mortification to undo the sinful past rather than to achieve a saintliness
fraught with peril. Each of his senses was brought under a rigorous discipline. In order to mortify the sense of sight he
made it his rule to walk in the street with downcast eyes, glancing neither to right nor left and never behind him. His eyes
shunned every encounter with the eyes of women. From time to time also he balked them by a sudden effort of the will,
as by lifting them suddenly in the middle of an unfinished sentence and closing the book. To mortify his hearing he
exerted no control over his voice which was then breaking, neither sang nor whistled, and made no attempt to flee from
noises which caused him painful nervous irritation such as the sharpening of knives on the knife board, the gathering of
cinders on the fire–shovel and the twigging of the carpet. To mortify his smell was more difficult as he found in himself no
instinctive repugnance to bad odours whether they were the odours of the outdoor world, such as those of dung or tar, or
the odours of his own person among which he had made many curious comparisons and experiments. He found in the
end that the only odour against which his sense of smell revolted was a certain stale fishy stink like that of long–standing
urine; and whenever it was possible he subjected himself to this unpleasant odour. To mortify the taste he practised strict
habits at table, observed to the letter all the fasts of the church and sought by distraction to divert his mind from the
savours of different foods. But it was to the mortification of touch he brought the most assiduous ingenuity of
inventiveness. He never consciously changed his position in bed, sat in the most uncomfortable positions, suffered
patiently every itch and pain, kept away from the fire, remained on his knees all through the mass except at the gospels,
left part of his neck and face undried so that air might sting them and, whenever he was not saying his beads, carried his
arms stiffly at his sides like a runner and never in his pockets or clasped behind him.
He had no temptations to sin mortally. It surprised him however to find that at the end of his course of intricate piety and
self–restraint he was so easily at the mercy of childish and unworthy imperfections. His prayers and fasts availed him
little for the suppression of anger at hearing his mother sneeze or at being disturbed in his devotions. It needed an
immense effort of his will to master the impulse which urged him to give outlet to such irritation. Images of the outbursts of
trivial anger which he had often noted among his masters, their twitching mouths, close–shut lips and flushed cheeks,
recurred to his memory, discouraging him, for all his practice of humility, by the comparison. To merge his life in the
common tide of other lives was harder for him than any fasting or prayer and it was his constant failure to do this to his
own satisfaction which caused in his soul at last a sensation of spiritual dryness together with a growth of doubts and
scruples. His soul traversed a period of desolation in which the sacraments themselves seemed to have turned into
dried–up sources. His confession became a channel for the escape of scrupulous and unrepented imperfections. His
actual reception of the eucharist did not bring him the same dissolving moments of virginal self–surrender as did those
spiritual communions made by him sometimes at the close of some visit to the Blessed Sacrament. The book which he
used for these visits was an old neglected book written by saint Alphonsus Liguori, with fading characters and sere
foxpapered leaves. A faded world of fervent love and virginal responses seemed to be evoked for his soul by the reading
of its pages in which the imagery of the canticles was interwoven with the communicant’s prayers. An inaudible voice
seemed to caress the soul, telling her names and glories, bidding her arise as for espousal and come away, bidding her
look forth, a spouse, from Amana and from the mountains of the leopards; and the soul seemed to answer with the same
inaudible voice, surrendering herself: INTER UBERA MEA COMMORABITUR.
This idea of surrender had a perilous attraction for his mind now that he felt his soul beset once again by the insistent
voices of the flesh which began to murmur to him again during his prayers and meditations. It gave him an intense sense
of power to know that he could, by a single act of consent, in a moment of thought, undo all that he had done. He
seemed to feel a flood slowly advancing towards his naked feet and to be waiting for the first faint timid noiseless wavelet
to touch his fevered skin. Then, almost at the instant of that touch, almost at the verge of sinful consent, he found himself
standing far away from the flood upon a dry shore, saved by a sudden act of the will or a sudden ejaculation; and, seeing
the silver line of the flood far away and beginning again its slow advance towards his feet, a new thrill of power and
satisfaction shook his soul to know that he had not yielded nor undone all.
When he had eluded the flood of temptation many times in this way he grew troubled and wondered whether the grace
which he had refused to lose was not being filched from him little by little. The clear certitude of his own immunity grew
dim and to it succeeded a vague fear that his soul had really fallen unawares. It was with difficulty that he won back his
old consciousness of his state of grace by telling himself that he had prayed to God at every temptation and that the
grace which he had prayed for must have been given to him inasmuch as God was obliged to give it. The very frequency
and violence of temptations showed him at last the truth of what he had heard about the trials of the saints. Frequent and
violent temptations were a proof that the citadel of the soul had not fallen and that the devil raged to make it fall.
Often when he had confessed his doubts and scruples—some momentary inattention at prayer, a movement of trivial
anger in his soul, or a subtle wilfulness in speech or act—he was bidden by his confessor to name some sin of his past
life before absolution was given him. He named it with humility and shame and repented of it once more. It humiliated and
shamed him to think that he would never be freed from it wholly, however holily he might live or whatever virtues or
perfections he might attain. A restless feeling of guilt would always be present with him: he would confess and repent
and be absolved, confess and repent again and be absolved again, fruitlessly. Perhaps that first hasty confession wrung
from him by the fear of hell had not been good? Perhaps, concerned only for his imminent doom, he had not had sincere
sorrow for his sin? But the surest sign that his confession had been good and that he had had sincere sorrow for his sin
was, he knew, the amendment of his life.
—I have amended my life, have I not? he asked himself.
The director stood in the embrasure of the window, his back to the light, leaning an elbow on the brown crossblind, and,
as he spoke and smiled, slowly dangling and looping the cord of the other blind, Stephen stood before him, following for
a moment with his eyes the waning of the long summer daylight above the roofs or the slow deft movements of the
priestly fingers. The priest’s face was in total shadow, but the waning daylight from behind him touched the deeply
grooved temples and the curves of the skull.
Stephen followed also with his ears the accents and intervals of the priest’s voice as he spoke gravely and cordially of
indifferent themes, the vacation which had just ended, the colleges of the order abroad, the transference of masters. The
grave and cordial voice went on easily with its tale and in the pauses Stephen felt bound to set it on again with respectful
questions. He knew that the tale was a prelude and his mind waited for the sequel. Ever since the message of summons
had come for him from the director his mind had struggled to find the meaning of the message; and, during the long
restless time he had sat in the college parlour waiting for the director to come in, his eyes had wandered from one sober
picture to another around the walls and his mind wandered from one guess to another until the meaning of the summons
had almost become clear. Then, just as he was wishing that some unforeseen cause might prevent the director from
coming, he had heard the handle of the door turning and the swish of a soutane.
The director had begun to speak of the dominican and franciscan orders and of the friendship between saint Thomas
and saint Bonaventure. The capuchin dress, he thought, was rather too…
Stephen’s face gave back the priest’s indulgent smile and, not being anxious to give an opinion, he made a slight
dubitative movement with his lips.
—I believe, continued the director, that there is some talk now among the capuchins themselves of doing away with it
and following the example of the other franciscans.
—I suppose they would retain it in the cloisters? said Stephen.
—O certainly, said the director. For the cloister it is all right but for the street I really think it would be better to do away
with it, don’t you?
—It must be troublesome, I imagine.
—Of course it is, of course. Just imagine when I was in Belgium I used to see them out cycling in all kinds of weather
with this thing up about their knees! It was really ridiculous. LES JUPES, they call them in Belgium.
The vowel was so modified as to be indistinct.
—What do they call them?
—LES JUPES.
—O!
Stephen smiled again in answer to the smile which he could not see on the priest’s shadowed face, its image or spectre
only passing rapidly across his mind as the low discreet accent fell upon his ear. He gazed calmly before him at the
waning sky, glad of the cool of the evening and of the faint yellow glow which hid the tiny flame kindling upon his cheek.
The names of articles of dress worn by women or of certain soft and delicate stuffs used in their making brought always
to his mind a delicate and sinful perfume. As a boy he had imagined the reins by which horses are driven as slender
silken bands and it shocked him to feel at Stradbrooke the greasy leather of harness. It had shocked him, too, when he
had felt for the first time beneath his tremulous fingers the brittle texture of a woman’s stocking for, retaining nothing of all
he read save that which seemed to him an echo or a prophecy of his own state, it was only amid soft–worded phrases or
within rose–soft stuffs that he dared to conceive of the soul or body of a woman moving with tender life.
But the phrase on the priest’s lips was disingenuous for he knew that a priest should not speak lightly on that theme.
The phrase had been spoken lightly with design and he felt that his face was being searched by the eyes in the shadow.
Whatever he had heard or read of the craft of jesuits he had put aside frankly as not borne out by his own experience.
His masters, even when they had not attracted him, had seemed to him always intelligent and serious priests, athletic
and high–spirited prefects. He thought of them as men who washed their bodies briskly with cold water and wore clean
cold linen. During all the years he had lived among them in Clongowes and in Belvedere he had received only two
pandies and, though these had been dealt him in the wrong, he knew that he had often escaped punishment. During all
those years he had never heard from any of his masters a flippant word: it was they who had taught him christian
doctrine and urged him to live a good life and, when he had fallen into grievous sin, it was they who had led him back to
grace. Their presence had made him diffident of himself when he was a muff in Clongowes and it had made him diffident
of himself also while he had held his equivocal position in Belvedere. A constant sense of this had remained with him up
to the last year of his school life. He had never once disobeyed or allowed turbulent companions to seduce him from his
habit of quiet obedience; and, even when he doubted some statement of a master, he had never presumed to doubt
openly. Lately some of their judgements had sounded a little childish in his ears and had made him feel a regret and pity
as though he were slowly passing out of an accustomed world and were hearing its language for the last time. One day
when some boys had gathered round a priest under the shed near the chapel, he had heard the priest say:
—I believe that Lord Macaulay was a man who probably never committed a mortal sin in his life, that is to say, a
deliberate mortal sin.
Some of the boys had then asked the priest if Victor Hugo were not the greatest French writer. The priest had
answered that Victor Hugo had never written half so well when he had turned against the church as he had written when
he was a catholic.
—But there are many eminent French critics, said the priest, who consider that even Victor Hugo, great as he certainly
was, had not so pure a French style as Louis Veuillot.
The tiny flame which the priest’s allusion had kindled upon Stephen’s cheek had sunk down again and his eyes were
still fixed calmly on the colourless sky. But an unresting doubt flew hither and thither before his mind. Masked memories
passed quickly before him: he recognized scenes and persons yet he was conscious that he had failed to perceive some
vital circumstance in them. He saw himself walking about the grounds watching the sports in Clongowes and eating slim
jim out of his cricket cap. Some jesuits were walking round the cycle–track in the company of ladies. The echoes of
certain expressions used in Clongowes sounded in remote caves of his mind.
His ears were listening to these distant echoes amid the silence of the parlour when he became aware that the priest
was addressing him in a different voice.
—I sent for you today, Stephen, because I wished to speak to you on a very important subject.
—Yes, sir.
—Have you ever felt that you had a vocation?
Stephen parted his lips to answer yes and then withheld the word suddenly. The priest waited for the answer and
added:
—I mean, have you ever felt within yourself, in your soul, a desire to join the order? Think.
—I have sometimes thought of it, said Stephen.
The priest let the blindcord fall to one side and, uniting his hands, leaned his chin gravely upon them, communing with
himself.
—In a college like this, he said at length, there is one boy or perhaps two or three boys whom God calls to the religious
life. Such a boy is marked off from his companions by his piety, by the good example he shows to others. He is looked up
to by them; he is chosen perhaps as prefect by his fellow sodalists. And you, Stephen, have been such a boy in this
college, prefect of Our Blessed Lady’s sodality. Perhaps you are the boy in this college whom God designs to call to
Himself.
A strong note of pride reinforcing the gravity of the priest’s voice made Stephen’s heart quicken in response.
To receive that call, Stephen, said the priest, is the greatest honour that the Almighty God can bestow upon a man. No
king or emperor on this earth has the power of the priest of God. No angel or archangel in heaven, no saint, not even the
Blessed Virgin herself, has the power of a priest of God: the power of the keys, the power to bind and to loose from sin,
the power of exorcism, the power to cast out from the creatures of God the evil spirits that have power over them; the
power, the authority, to make the great God of Heaven come down upon the altar and take the form of bread and wine.
What an awful power, Stephen!
A flame began to flutter again on Stephen’s cheek as he heard in this proud address an echo of his own proud
musings. How often had he seen himself as a priest wielding calmly and humbly the awful power of which angels and
saints stood in reverence! His soul had loved to muse in secret on this desire. He had seen himself, a young and silent–
mannered priest, entering a confessional swiftly, ascending the altarsteps, incensing, genuflecting, accomplishing the
vague acts of the priesthood which pleased him by reason of their semblance of reality and of their distance from it. In
that dim life which he had lived through in his musings he had assumed the voices and gestures which he had noted with
various priests. He had bent his knee sideways like such a one, he had shaken the thurible only slightly like such a one,
his chasuble had swung open like that of such another as he turned to the altar again after having blessed the people.
And above all it had pleased him to fill the second place in those dim scenes of his imagining. He shrank from the dignity
of celebrant because it displeased him to imagine that all the vague pomp should end in his own person or that the ritual
should assign to him so clear and final an office. He longed for the minor sacred offices, to be vested with the tunicle of
subdeacon at high mass, to stand aloof from the altar, forgotten by the people, his shoulders covered with a humeral veil,
holding the paten within its folds or, when the sacrifice had been accomplished, to stand as deacon in a dalmatic of cloth
of gold on the step below the celebrant, his hands joined and his face towards the people, and sing the chant ITE MISSA
EST. If ever he had seen himself celebrant it was as in the pictures of the mass in his child’s massbook, in a church
without worshippers, save for the angel of the sacrifice, at a bare altar, and served by an acolyte scarcely more boyish
than himself. In vague sacrificial or sacramental acts alone his will seemed drawn to go forth to encounter reality; and it
was partly the absence of an appointed rite which had always constrained him to inaction whether he had allowed
silence to cover his anger or pride or had suffered only an embrace he longed to give.
He listened in reverent silence now to the priest’s appeal and through the words he heard even more distinctly a voice
bidding him approach, offering him secret knowledge and secret power. He would know then what was the sin of Simon
Magus and what the sin against the Holy Ghost for which there was no forgiveness. He would know obscure things,
hidden from others, from those who were conceived and born children of wrath. He would know the sins, the sinful
longings and sinful thoughts and sinful acts, of others, hearing them murmured into his ears in the confessional under the
shame of a darkened chapel by the lips of women and of girls; but rendered immune mysteriously at his ordination by the
imposition of hands, his soul would pass again uncontaminated to the white peace of the altar. No touch of sin would
linger upon the hands with which he would elevate and break the host; no touch