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 whetted5 his resolute6 piety7; and often as he knelt among the few worshippers at the sidealtar, following with his interleaved prayerbook the murmur9 of the priest, he glanced up for an instant towards the vested figure standing10 in the gloom between the two candles, which were the old and the new testaments12, 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 purgatory13 centuries of days and quarantines and years; yet the spiritual triumph which he felt in achieving with ease so many fabulous14 ages of canonical15 penances17 did not wholly reward his zeal18 of prayer, since he could never know how much temporal punishment he had remitted19 by way of suffrage20 for the agonising souls; and fearful lest in the midst of the purgatorial21 fire, which differed from the infernal only in that it was not everlasting22, his penance16 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 drawn23 near to eternity24; every thought, word and deed, every instance of consciousness could be made to revibrate radiantly in heaven; and at times his sense of such immediate25 repercussion26 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 forth27 immediately in heaven, not as a number but as a frail28 column of incense29 or as a slender flower.
The rosaries, too, which he said constantly—for he carried his beads30 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 texture31 that they seemed to him as hueless32 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 virtues34, in faith in the Father Who had created him, in hope in the Son Who had redeemed36 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 joyful37 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 descend38 upon his soul and drive out of it day by day the seven deadly sins which had defiled39 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 trepidation41, because of the divine gloom and silence wherein dwelt the unseen Paraclete, Whose symbols were a dove and a mighty42 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 scarlet43 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 contemplating44 from all eternity as in a mirror His Divine Perfections and thereby45 begetting46 eternally the Eternal Son and the Holy Spirit proceeding47 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 abiding48 passion and had always felt himself passing out of it as if his very body were being divested49 with ease of some outer skin or peel. He had felt a subtle, dark, and murmurous50 presence penetrate51 his being and fire him with a brief iniquitous52 lust53: it, too, had slipped beyond his grasp leaving his mind lucid54 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 twig55 of a tree, his soul should praise and thank the Giver. The world for all its solid substance and complexity56 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 foully57 against the divine purpose. Meek58 and abased59 by this consciousness of the one eternal omnipresent perfect reality his soul took up again her burden of pieties60, 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 virtue35 of the soul itself. The attitude of rapture62 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, humiliated63 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 mortification61 to undo64 the sinful past rather than to achieve a saintliness fraught65 with peril66. Each of his senses was brought under a rigorous discipline. In order to mortify67 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 shunned68 every encounter with the eyes of women. From time to time also he balked69 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 irritation70 such as the sharpening of knives on the knifeboard, the gathering71 of cinders72 on the fireshovel and the twigging of the carpet. To mortify his smell was more difficult as he found in himself no instinctive73 repugnance74 to bad odours whether they were the odours of the outdoor world, such as those of dung or tar3, 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 fishy76 stink77 like that of longstanding 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 distraction78 to divert his mind from the savours of different foods. But it was to the mortification of touch he brought the most assiduous ingenuity79 of inventiveness. He never consciously changed his position in bed, sat in the most uncomfortable positions, suffered patiently every itch80 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 selfrestraint 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 outlet81 to such irritation. Images of the outbursts of trivial anger which he had often noted82 among his masters, their twitching83 mouths, closeshut lips and flushed cheeks, recurred84 to his memory, discouraging him, for all his practice of humility85, by the comparison. To merge86 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 scruples87. His soul traversed a period of desolation in which the sacraments themselves seemed to have turned into dried up sources. His confession88 became a channel for the escape of scrupulous89 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 sere92 foxpapered leaves. A faded world of fervent93 love and virginal responses seemed to be evoked94 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 caress95 the soul, telling her names and glories, bidding her arise as for espousal and come away, bidding her look forth, a spouse96, from Amana and from the mountains of the leopards97; and the soul seemed to answer with the same inaudible voice, surrendering herself: Inter8 ubera mea commorabitur.
This idea of surrender had a perilous98 attraction for his mind now that he felt his soul beset99 once again by the insistent100 voices of the flesh which began to murmur to him again during his prayers and meditations101. 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 verge102 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 undone103 all.
When he had eluded104 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 filched105 from him little by little. The clear certitude of his own immunity106 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 citadel107 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 momentary108 inattention at prayer, a movement of trivial anger in his soul, or a subtle wilfulness110 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 repented90 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 attain111. A restless feeling of guilt112 would always be present with him: he would confess and repent91 and be absolved113, confess and repent again and be absolved again, fruitlessly. Perhaps that first hasty confession wrung114 from him by the fear of hell had not been good? Perhaps, concerned only for his imminent115 doom116, 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 amendment117 of his life.
The director stood in the embrasure of the window, his back to the light, leaning an elbow on the brown crossblind, and, as he spoke119 and smiled, slowly dangling120 and looping the cord of the other blind, Stephen stood before him, following for a moment with his eyes the waning121 of the long summer daylight above the roofs or the slow deft122 movements of the priestly fingers. The priest’s face was in total shadow, but the waning daylight from behind him touched the deeply grooved123 temples and the curves of the skull124. Stephen followed also with his ears the accents and intervals125 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 prelude126 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.
—O certainly, said the director. For the cloister128 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.
—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 discreet130 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 kindling131 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 reins132 by which horses are driven as slender silken bands and it shocked him to feel at Stradbrooke the greasy133 leather of harness. It had shocked him, too, when he had felt for the first time beneath his tremulous fingers the brittle134 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 softworded phrases or within rosesoft 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 disingenuous135 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 frankly136 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, athletic137 and high-spirited prefects. He thought of them as men who washed their bodies briskly with cold water and wore clean cold linen139. 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 christian140 doctrine141 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 seduce142 him from his habit of quiet obedience143; 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 chapel144, 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 eminent145 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 allusion146 had kindled147 upon Stephen’s cheek had sunk down again and his eyes were still fixed148 calmly on the colourless sky. But an unresting doubt flew hither and thither149 before his mind. Masked memories passed quickly before him: he recognised 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 cricketcap. 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.
Stephen parted his lips to answer yes and then withheld151 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 Almighty152 God can bestow153 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 bind154 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 wielding155 calmly and humbly156 the awful power of which angels and saints stood in reverence157! His soul had loved to muse158 in secret on this desire. He had seen himself, a young and silentmannered priest, entering a confessional swiftly, ascending159 the altarsteps, incensing160, genuflecting161, accomplishing the vague acts of the priesthood which pleased him by reason of their semblance162 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 bent163 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 displeased164 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 minor165 sacred offices, to be vested with the tunicle of subdeacon at high mass, to stand aloof166 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 accomplished167, 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 acolyte168 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 rite138 which had always constrained169 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 reverent170 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 wrath171. He would know the sins, the sinful longings172 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 ordination173 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 of sin would linger on his lips in prayer to make him eat and drink damnation to himself not discerning the body of the Lord. He would hold his secret knowledge and secret power, being as sinless as the innocent, and he would be a priest for ever according to the order of Melchisedec.
—I will offer up my mass tomorrow morning, said the director, that Almighty God may reveal to you His holy will. And let you, Stephen, make a novena to your holy patron saint, the first martyr174, who is very powerful with God, that God may enlighten your mind. But you must be quite sure, Stephen, that you have a vocation because it would be terrible if you found afterwards that you had none. Once a priest always a priest, remember. Your catechism tells you that the sacrament of Holy Orders is one of those which can be received only once because it imprints176 on the soul an indelible spiritual mark which can never be effaced177. It is before you must weigh well, not after. It is a solemn question, Stephen, because on it may depend the salvation178 of your eternal soul. But we will pray to God together.
He held open the heavy hall door and gave his hand as if already to a companion in the spiritual life. Stephen passed out on to the wide platform above the steps and was conscious of the caress of mild evening air. Towards Findlater’s church a quartet of young men were striding along with linked arms, swaying their heads and stepping to the agile179 melody of their leader’s concertina. The music passed in an instant, as the first bars of sudden music always did, over the fantastic fabrics180 of his mind, dissolving them painlessly and noiselessly as a sudden wave dissolves the sandbuilt turrets182 of children. Smiling at the trivial air he raised his eyes to the priest’s face and, seeing in it a mirthless reflection of the sunken day, detached his hand slowly which had acquiesced183 faintly in that companionship.
As he descended184 the steps the impression which effaced his troubled selfcommunion was that of a mirthless mask reflecting a sunken day from the threshold of the college. The shadow, then, of the life of the college passed gravely over his consciousness. It was a grave and ordered and passionless life that awaited him, a life without material cares. He wondered how he would pass the first night in the novitiate and with what dismay he would wake the first morning in the dormitory. The troubling odour of the long corridors of Clongowes came back to him and he heard the discreet murmur of the burning gasflames. At once from every part of his being unrest began to irradiate. A feverish185 quickening of his pulses followed, and a din11 of meaningless words drove his reasoned thoughts hither and thither confusedly. His lungs dilated186 and sank as if he were inhaling187 a warm moist unsustaining air and he smelt188 again the moist warm air which hung in the bath in Clongowes above the sluggish189 turfcoloured water.
Some instinct, waking at these memories, stronger than education or piety, quickened within him at every near approach to that life, an instinct subtle and hostile, and armed him against acquiescence190. The chill and order of the life repelled191 him. He saw himself rising in the cold of the morning and filing down with the others to early mass and trying vainly to struggle with his prayers against the fainting sickness of his stomach. He saw himself sitting at dinner with the community of a college. What, then, had become of that deeprooted shyness of his which had made him loth to eat or drink under a strange roof? What had come of the pride of his spirit which had always made him conceive himself as a being apart in every order?
The Reverend Stephen Dedalus, S. J.
His name in that new life leaped into characters before his eyes and to it there followed a mental sensation of an undefined face or colour of a face. The colour faded and became strong like a changing glow of pallid192 brick red. Was it the raw reddish glow he had so often seen on wintry mornings on the shaven gills of the priests? The face was eyeless and sourfavoured and devout193, shot with pink tinges194 of suffocated195 anger. Was it not a mental spectre of the face of one of the jesuits whom some of the boys called Lantern Jaws196 and others Foxy Campbell?
He was passing at that moment before the jesuit house in Gardiner Street, and wondered vaguely197 which window would be his if he ever joined the order. Then he wondered at the vagueness of his wonder, at the remoteness of his own soul from what he had hitherto imagined her sanctuary198, at the frail hold which so many years of order and obedience had of him when once a definite and irrevocable act of his threatened to end for ever, in time and in eternity, his freedom. The voice of the director urging upon him the proud claims of the church and the mystery and power of the priestly office repeated itself idly in his memory. His soul was not there to hear and greet it and he knew now that the exhortation199 he had listened to had already fallen into an idle formal tale. He would never swing the thurible before the tabernacle as priest. His destiny was to be elusive200 of social or religious orders. The wisdom of the priest’s appeal did not touch him to the quick. He was destined201 to learn his own wisdom apart from others or to learn the wisdom of others himself wandering among the snares202 of the world.
The snares of the world were its ways of sin. He would fall. He had not yet fallen but he would fall silently, in an instant. Not to fall was too hard, too hard; and he felt the silent lapse203 of his soul, as it would be at some instant to come, falling, falling, but not yet fallen, still unfallen, but about to fall.
He crossed the bridge over the stream of the Tolka and turned his eyes coldly for an instant towards the faded blue shrine204 of the Blessed Virgin which stood fowl-wise on a pole in the middle of a hamshaped encampment of poor cottages. Then, bending to the left, he followed the lane which led up to his house. The faint sour stink of rotted cabbages came towards him from the kitchen gardens on the rising ground above the river. He smiled to think that it was this disorder205, the misrule and confusion of his father’s house and the stagnation206 of vegetable life, which was to win the day in his soul. Then a short laugh broke from his lips as he thought of that solitary207 farmhand in the kitchen gardens behind their house whom they had nicknamed the man with the hat. A second laugh, taking rise from the first after a pause, broke from him involuntarily as he thought of how the man with the hat worked, considering in turn the four points of the sky and then regretfully plunging208 his spade in the earth.
He pushed open the latchless door of the porch and passed through the naked hallway into the kitchen. A group of his brothers and sisters was sitting round the table. Tea was nearly over and only the last of the second watered tea remained in the bottoms of the small glass jars and jampots which did service for teacups. Discarded crusts and lumps of sugared bread, turned brown by the tea which had been poured over them, lay scattered209 on the table. Little wells of tea lay here and there on the board, and a knife with a broken ivory handle was stuck through the pith of a ravaged210 turnover211.
The sad quiet greyblue glow of the dying day came through the window and the open door, covering over and allaying212 quietly a sudden instinct of remorse213 in Stephen’s heart. All that had been denied them had been freely given to him, the eldest214; but the quiet glow of evening showed him in their faces no sign of rancour.
He sat near them at the table and asked where his father and mother were. One answered:
—Goneboro toboro lookboro atboro aboro houseboro.
Still another removal! A boy named Fallon, in Belvedere, had often asked him with a silly laugh why they moved so often. A frown of scorn darkened quickly his forehead as he heard again the silly laugh of the questioner.
He asked:
—Why are we on the move again if it’s a fair question?
—Becauseboro theboro landboro lordboro willboro putboro usboro outboro.
The voice of his youngest brother from the farther side of the fireplace began to sing the air Oft in the Stilly Night. One by one the others took up the air until a full choir215 of voices was singing. They would sing so for hours, melody after melody, glee after glee, till the last pale light died down on the horizon, till the first dark nightclouds came forth and night fell.
He waited for some moments, listening, before he too took up the air with them. He was listening with pain of spirit to the overtone of weariness behind their frail fresh innocent voices. Even before they set out on life’s journey they seemed weary already of the way.
He heard the choir of voices in the kitchen echoed and multiplied through an endless reverberation216 of the choirs217 of endless generations of children and heard in all the echoes an echo also of the recurring218 note of weariness and pain. All seemed weary of life even before entering upon it. And he remembered that Newman had heard this note also in the broken lines of Virgil, “giving utterance219, like the voice of Nature herself, to that pain and weariness yet hope of better things which has been the experience of her children in every time.”
He could wait no longer.
From the door of Byron’s public-house to the gate of Clontarf Chapel, from the gate of Clontarf Chapel to the door of Byron’s public-house and then back again to the chapel and then back again to the public-house he had paced slowly at first, planting his steps scrupulously220 in the spaces of the patchwork221 of the footpath222, then timing223 their fall to the fall of verses. A full hour had passed since his father had gone in with Dan Crosby, the tutor, to find out for him something about the university. For a full hour he had paced up and down, waiting: but he could wait no longer.
He set off abruptly224 for the Bull, walking rapidly lest his father’s shrill225 whistle might call him back; and in a few moments he had rounded the curve at the police barrack and was safe.
Yes, his mother was hostile to the idea, as he had read from her listless silence. Yet her mistrust pricked226 him more keenly than his father’s pride and he thought coldly how he had watched the faith which was fading down in his soul ageing and strengthening in her eyes. A dim antagonism227 gathered force within him and darkened his mind as a cloud against her disloyalty and when it passed, cloudlike, leaving his mind serene228 and dutiful towards her again, he was made aware dimly and without regret of a first noiseless sundering229 of their lives.
The university! So he had passed beyond the challenge of the sentries230 who had stood as guardians231 of his boyhood and had sought to keep him among them that he might be subject to them and serve their ends. Pride after satisfaction uplifted him like long slow waves. The end he had been born to serve yet did not see had led him to escape by an unseen path and now it beckoned232 to him once more and a new adventure was about to be opened to him. It seemed to him that he heard notes of fitful music leaping upwards234 a tone and downwards235 a diminished fourth, upwards a tone and downwards a major third, like triple-branching flames leaping fitfully, flame after flame, out of a midnight wood. It was an elfin prelude, endless and formless; and, as it grew wilder and faster, the flames leaping out of time, he seemed to hear from under the boughs236 and grasses wild creatures racing237, their feet pattering like rain upon the leaves. Their feet passed in pattering tumult238 over his mind, the feet of hares and rabbits, the feet of harts and hinds239 and antelopes240, until he heard them no more and remembered only a proud cadence241 from Newman:
—Whose feet are as the feet of harts and underneath242 the everlasting arms.
The pride of that dim image brought back to his mind the dignity of the office he had refused. All through his boyhood he had mused243 upon that which he had so often thought to be his destiny and when the moment had come for him to obey the call he had turned aside, obeying a wayward instinct. Now time lay between: the oils of ordination would never anoint his body. He had refused. Why?
He turned seaward from the road at Dollymount and as he passed on to the thin wooden bridge he felt the planks244 shaking with the tramp of heavily shod feet. A squad245 of Christian Brothers was on its way back from the Bull and had begun to pass, two by two, across the bridge. Soon the whole bridge was trembling and resounding246. The uncouth247 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 indifference248, a faint stain of personal shame and commiseration249 rose to his own face. Angry with himself he tried to hide his face from their eyes by gazing down sideways into the shallow swirling250 water under the bridge but he still saw a reflection therein of their topheavy silk hats and humble251 tapelike collars and loosely hanging clerical clothes.
—Brother Hickey.
Brother Quaid.
Brother MacArdle.
Brother Keogh.—
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 contrite252 hearts, it might be, paid a far richer tribute of devotion than his had ever been, a gift tenfold more acceptable than his elaborate adoration253. 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 embittering254, finally, to argue, against his own dispassionate certitude, that the commandment of love bade us not to love our neighbour as ourselves with the same amount and intensity255 of love but to love him as ourselves with the same kind of love.
He drew forth a phrase from his treasure and spoke it softly to himself:
—A day of dappled seaborne clouds.
The phrase and the day and the scene harmonised in a chord. Words. Was it their colours? He allowed them to glow and fade, hue33 after hue: sunrise gold, the russet and green of apple orchards256, azure257 of waves, the greyfringed fleece of clouds. No, it was not their colours: it was the poise258 and balance of the period itself. Did he then love the rhythmic259 rise and fall of words better than their associations of legend and colour? Or was it that, being as weak of sight as he was shy of mind, he drew less pleasure from the reflection of the glowing sensible world through the prism of a language manycoloured and richly storied than from the contemplation of an inner world of individual emotions mirrored perfectly260 in a lucid supple261 periodic prose?
He passed from the trembling bridge on to firm land again. At that instant, as it seemed to him, the air was chilled and, looking askance towards the water, he saw a flying squall darkening and crisping suddenly the tide. A faint click at his heart, a faint throb262 in his throat told him once more of how his flesh dreaded264 the cold infrahuman odour of the sea; yet he did not strike across the downs on his left but held straight on along the spine265 of rocks that pointed40 against the river’s mouth.
A veiled sunlight lit up faintly the grey sheet of water where the river was embayed. In the distance along the course of the slowflowing Liffey slender masts flecked the sky and, more distant still, the dim fabric181 of the city lay prone266 in haze267. Like a scene on some vague arras, old as man’s weariness, the image of the seventh city of christendom was visible to him across the timeless air, no older nor more weary nor less patient of subjection than in the days of the thingmote.
Disheartened, he raised his eyes towards the slowdrifting clouds, dappled and seaborne. They were voyaging across the deserts of the sky, a host of nomads268 on the march, voyaging high over Ireland, westward269 bound. The Europe they had come from lay out there beyond the Irish Sea, Europe of strange tongues and valleyed and woodbegirt and citadelled and of entrenched270 and marshalled races. He heard a confused music within him as of memories and names which he was almost conscious of but could not capture even for an instant; then the music seemed to recede271, to recede, to recede, and from each receding272 trail of nebulous music there fell always one longdrawn calling note, piercing like a star the dusk of silence. Again! Again! Again! A voice from beyond the world was calling.
—Hello, Stephanos!
—Here comes The Dedalus!
—Ao!... Eh, give it over, Dwyer, I’m telling you, or I’ll give you a stuff in the kisser for yourself.... Ao!
—Good man, Towser! Duck him!
—Come along, Dedalus! Bous Stephanoumenos! Bous Stephaneforos!
—Help! Help!... Ao!
He recognised their speech collectively before he distinguished274 their faces. The mere275 sight of that medley276 of wet nakedness chilled him to the bone. Their bodies, corpsewhite or suffused277 with a pallid golden light or rawly tanned by the sun, gleamed with the wet of the sea. Their divingstone, poised278 on its rude supports and rocking under their plunges279, and the rough-hewn stones of the sloping breakwater over which they scrambled280 in their horseplay gleamed with cold wet lustre281. The towels with which they smacked282 their bodies were heavy with cold seawater; and drenched283 with cold brine was their matted hair.
He stood still in deference284 to their calls and parried their banter285 with easy words. How characterless they looked: Shuley without his deep unbuttoned collar, Ennis without his scarlet belt with the snaky clasp, and Connolly without his Norfolk coat with the flapless sidepockets! It was a pain to see them, and a swordlike pain to see the signs of adolescence286 that made repellent their pitiable nakedness. Perhaps they had taken refuge in number and noise from the secret dread263 in their souls. But he, apart from them and in silence, remembered in what dread he stood of the mystery of his own body.
—Stephanos Dedalos! Bous Stephanoumenos! Bous Stephaneforos!
Their banter was not new to him and now it flattered his mild proud sovereignty. Now, as never before, his strange name seemed to him a prophecy. So timeless seemed the grey warm air, so fluid and impersonal287 his own mood, that all ages were as one to him. A moment before the ghost of the ancient kingdom of the Danes had looked forth through the vesture of the hazewrapped city. Now, at the name of the fabulous artificer, he seemed to hear the noise of dim waves and to see a winged form flying above the waves and slowly climbing the air. What did it mean? Was it a quaint288 device opening a page of some medieval book of prophecies and symbols, a hawklike289 man flying sunward above the sea, a prophecy of the end he had been born to serve and had been following through the mists of childhood and boyhood, a symbol of the artist forging anew in his workshop out of the sluggish matter of the earth a new soaring impalpable imperishable being?
His heart trembled; his breath came faster and a wild spirit passed over his limbs as though he was soaring sunward. His heart trembled in an ecstasy291 of fear and his soul was in flight. His soul was soaring in an air beyond the world and the body he knew was purified in a breath and delivered of incertitude292 and made radiant and commingled293 with the element of the spirit. An ecstasy of flight made radiant his eyes and wild his breath and tremulous and wild and radiant his windswept limbs.
—One! Two!... Look out!
—O, Cripes, I’m drownded!
—One! Two! Three and away!
—The next! The next!
—One!... Uk!
—Stephaneforos!
His throat ached with a desire to cry aloud, the cry of a hawk290 or eagle on high, to cry piercingly of his deliverance to the winds. This was the call of life to his soul not the dull gross voice of the world of duties and despair, not the inhuman294 voice that had called him to the pale service of the altar. An instant of wild flight had delivered him and the cry of triumph which his lips withheld cleft295 his brain.
—Stephaneforos!
What were they now but cerements shaken from the body of death—the fear he had walked in night and day, the incertitude that had ringed him round, the shame that had abased him within and without—cerements, the linens296 of the grave?
His soul had arisen from the grave of boyhood, spurning297 her graveclothes. Yes! Yes! Yes! He would create proudly out of the freedom and power of his soul, as the great artificer whose name he bore, a living thing, new and soaring and beautiful, impalpable, imperishable.
He started up nervously298 from the stoneblock for he could no longer quench299 the flame in his blood. He felt his cheeks aflame and his throat throbbing300 with song. There was a lust of wandering in his feet that burned to set out for the ends of the earth. On! On! his heart seemed to cry. Evening would deepen above the sea, night fall upon the plains, dawn glimmer301 before the wanderer and show him strange fields and hills and faces. Where?
He looked northward302 towards Howth. The sea had fallen below the line of seawrack on the shallow side of the breakwater and already the tide was running out fast along the foreshore. Already one long oval bank of sand lay warm and dry amid the wavelets. Here and there warm isles303 of sand gleamed above the shallow tide and about the isles and around the long bank and amid the shallow currents of the beach were lightclad figures, wading304 and delving305.
In a few moments he was barefoot, his stockings folded in his pockets and his canvas shoes dangling by their knotted laces over his shoulders and, picking a pointed salteaten stick out of the jetsam among the rocks, he clambered down the slope of the breakwater.
There was a long rivulet306 in the strand307 and, as he waded308 slowly up its course, he wondered at the endless drift of seaweed. Emerald and black and russet and olive, it moved beneath the current, swaying and turning. The water of the rivulet was dark with endless drift and mirrored the highdrifting clouds. The clouds were drifting above him silently and silently the seatangle was drifting below him and the grey warm air was still and a new wild life was singing in his veins310.
Where was his boyhood now? Where was the soul that had hung back from her destiny, to brood alone upon the shame of her wounds and in her house of squalor and subterfuge311 to queen it in faded cerements and in wreaths that withered312 at the touch? Or where was he?
He was alone. He was unheeded, happy and near to the wild heart of life. He was alone and young and wilful109 and wildhearted, alone amid a waste of wild air and brackish313 waters and the seaharvest of shells and tangle309 and veiled grey sunlight and gayclad lightclad figures of children and girls and voices childish and girlish in the air.
A girl stood before him in midstream, alone and still, gazing out to sea. She seemed like one whom magic had changed into the likeness314 of a strange and beautiful seabird. Her long slender bare legs were delicate as a crane’s and pure save where an emerald trail of seaweed had fashioned itself as a sign upon the flesh. Her thighs315, fuller and softhued as ivory, were bared almost to the hips316, where the white fringes of her drawers were like feathering of soft white down. Her slateblue skirts were kilted boldly about her waist and dovetailed behind her. Her bosom317 was as a bird’s, soft and slight, slight and soft as the breast of some darkplumaged dove. But her long fair hair was girlish: and girlish, and touched with the wonder of mortal beauty, her face.
She was alone and still, gazing out to sea; and when she felt his presence and the worship of his eyes her eyes turned to him in quiet sufferance of his gaze, without shame or wantonness. Long, long she suffered his gaze and then quietly withdrew her eyes from his and bent them towards the stream, gently stirring the water with her foot hither and thither. The first faint noise of gently moving water broke the silence, low and faint and whispering, faint as the bells of sleep; hither and thither, hither and thither; and a faint flame trembled on her cheek.
He turned away from her suddenly and set off across the strand. His cheeks were aflame; his body was aglow319; his limbs were trembling. On and on and on and on he strode, far out over the sands, singing wildly to the sea, crying to greet the advent233 of the life that had cried to him.
Her image had passed into his soul for ever and no word had broken the holy silence of his ecstasy. Her eyes had called him and his soul had leaped at the call. To live, to err175, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life! A wild angel had appeared to him, the angel of mortal youth and beauty, an envoy320 from the fair courts of life, to throw open before him in an instant of ecstasy the gates of all the ways of error and glory. On and on and on and on!
He halted suddenly and heard his heart in the silence. How far had he walked? What hour was it?
There was no human figure near him nor any sound borne to him over the air. But the tide was near the turn and already the day was on the wane321. He turned landward and ran towards the shore and, running up the sloping beach, reckless of the sharp shingle322, found a sandy nook amid a ring of tufted sandknolls and lay down there that the peace and silence of the evening might still the riot of his blood.
He felt above him the vast indifferent dome323 and the calm processes of the heavenly bodies; and the earth beneath him, the earth that had borne him, had taken him to her breast.
He closed his eyes in the languor324 of sleep. His eyelids325 trembled as if they felt the vast cyclic movement of the earth and her watchers, trembled as if they felt the strange light of some new world. His soul was swooning into some new world, fantastic, dim, uncertain as under sea, traversed by cloudy shapes and beings. A world, a glimmer or a flower? Glimmering326 and trembling, trembling and unfolding, a breaking light, an opening flower, it spread in endless succession to itself, breaking in full crimson327 and unfolding and fading to palest rose, leaf by leaf and wave of light by wave of light, flooding all the heavens with its soft flushes, every flush deeper than the other.
Evening had fallen when he woke and the sand and arid328 grasses of his bed glowed no longer. He rose slowly and, recalling the rapture of his sleep, sighed at its joy.
He climbed to the crest329 of the sandhill and gazed about him. Evening had fallen. A rim75 of the young moon cleft the pale waste of skyline, the rim of a silver hoop330 embedded331 in grey sand; and the tide was flowing in fast to the land with a low whisper of her waves, islanding a few last figures in distant pools.
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1
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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5
whetted
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| v.（在石头上）磨（刀、斧等）( whet的过去式和过去分词 )；引起，刺激（食欲、欲望、兴趣等） | |
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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7
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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8
inter
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| v.埋葬 | |
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murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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10
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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12
testaments
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| n.遗嘱( testament的名词复数 )；实际的证明 | |
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13
purgatory
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| n.炼狱；苦难；adj.净化的，清洗的 | |
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14
fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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15
canonical
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| n.权威的；典型的 | |
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16
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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penances
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| n.（赎罪的）苦行，苦修( penance的名词复数 ) | |
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18
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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19
remitted
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| v.免除（债务），宽恕( remit的过去式和过去分词 )；使某事缓和；寄回，传送 | |
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20
suffrage
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| n.投票，选举权，参政权 | |
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21
purgatorial
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| adj.炼狱的，涤罪的 | |
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22
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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25
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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repercussion
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| n.[常pl.](不良的)影响，反响，后果 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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28
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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29
incense
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| v.激怒；n.香，焚香时的烟，香气 | |
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30
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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31
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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32
hueless
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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35
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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36
redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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37
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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38
descend
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| vt./vi.传下来，下来，下降 | |
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defiled
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| v.玷污( defile的过去式和过去分词 )；污染；弄脏；纵列行进 | |
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40
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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41
trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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42
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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43
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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44
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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45
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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46
begetting
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| v.为…之生父( beget的现在分词 )；产生，引起 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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49
divested
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| v.剥夺( divest的过去式和过去分词 )；脱去（衣服）；2。从…取去…；1。（给某人）脱衣服 | |
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50
murmurous
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| adj.低声的 | |
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51
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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52
iniquitous
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| adj.不公正的；邪恶的；高得出奇的 | |
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53
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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54
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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55
twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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56
complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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57
foully
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| ad.卑鄙地 | |
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58
meek
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| adj.温顺的，逆来顺受的 | |
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59
abased
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| 使谦卑( abase的过去式和过去分词 )； 使感到羞耻； 使降低（地位、身份等）； 降下 | |
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60
pieties
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| 虔诚，虔敬( piety的名词复数 ) | |
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61
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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62
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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63
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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64
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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65
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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66
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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67
mortify
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| v.克制，禁欲，使受辱 | |
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68
shunned
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| v.避开，回避，避免( shun的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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69
balked
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| v.畏缩不前，犹豫( balk的过去式和过去分词 )；（指马）不肯跑 | |
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70
irritation
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| n.激怒，恼怒，生气 | |
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71
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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72
cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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73
instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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74
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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75
rim
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| n.(圆物的)边，轮缘；边界 | |
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76
fishy
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| adj. 值得怀疑的 | |
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77
stink
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| vi.发出恶臭；糟透，招人厌恶；n.恶臭 | |
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78
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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79
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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80
itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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81
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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82
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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83
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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84
recurred
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| 再发生，复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 )； 治愈 | |
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85
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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86
merge
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| v.(使)结合，(使)合并，(使)合为一体 | |
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87
scruples
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|
| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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88
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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89
scrupulous
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|
| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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90
repented
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| 对（自己的所为）感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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91
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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92
sere
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| adj.干枯的；n.演替系列 | |
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93
fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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94
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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95
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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96
spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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97
leopards
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|
| n.豹( leopard的名词复数 )；本性难移 | |
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98
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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99
beset
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| v.镶嵌；困扰，包围 | |
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100
insistent
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| adj.迫切的，坚持的 | |
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101
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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102
verge
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| n.边，边缘；v.接近，濒临 | |
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103
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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104
eluded
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| v.（尤指机敏地）避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 )；逃避；躲避；使达不到 | |
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105
filched
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| v.偷（尤指小的或不贵重的物品）( filch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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106
immunity
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| n.优惠；免除；豁免，豁免权 | |
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107
citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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108
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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109
wilful
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| adj.任性的，故意的 | |
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110
wilfulness
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| 任性；倔强 | |
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111
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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112
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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113
absolved
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| 宣告…无罪，赦免…的罪行，宽恕…的罪行( absolve的过去式和过去分词 )； 不受责难，免除责任 [义务] ,开脱（罪责） | |
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114
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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115
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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116
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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117
amendment
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| n.改正，修正，改善，修正案 | |
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118
Amended
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| adj. 修正的 动词amend的过去式和过去分词 | |
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119
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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120
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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121
waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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122
deft
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| adj.灵巧的，熟练的（a deft hand 能手） | |
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123
grooved
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| v.沟( groove的过去式和过去分词 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏 | |
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124
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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125
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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126
prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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127
cloisters
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| n.（学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的）走廊( cloister的名词复数 )；回廊；修道院的生活；隐居v.隐退，使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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128
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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129
vowel
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| n.元音；元音字母 | |
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130
discreet
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| adj.(言行)谨慎的；慎重的；有判断力的 | |
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131
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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132
reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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133
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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134
brittle
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| adj.易碎的；脆弱的；冷淡的；(声音)尖利的 | |
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135
disingenuous
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| adj.不诚恳的，虚伪的 | |
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136
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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137
athletic
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| adj.擅长运动的，强健的；活跃的，体格健壮的 | |
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138
rite
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| n.典礼，惯例，习俗 | |
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139
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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140
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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141
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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142
seduce
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| vt.勾引，诱奸，诱惑，引诱 | |
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143
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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144
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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145
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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146
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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147
kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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148
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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149
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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150
vocation
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| n.职业，行业 | |
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151
withheld
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| withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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152
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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153
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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154
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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155
wielding
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的现在分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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156
humbly
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| adv. 恭顺地，谦卑地 | |
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157
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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158
muse
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| n.缪斯（希腊神话中的女神），创作灵感 | |
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159
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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160
incensing
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| 焚香，烧香（incense的现在分词形式） | |
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161
genuflecting
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| v.屈膝（尤指宗教礼节中）( genuflect的现在分词 ) | |
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162
semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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163
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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164
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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165
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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166
aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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167
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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168
acolyte
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| n.助手，侍僧 | |
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169
constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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170
reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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171
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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172
longings
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| 渴望，盼望( longing的名词复数 ) | |
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173
ordination
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| n.授任圣职 | |
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174
martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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175
err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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176
imprints
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| n.压印( imprint的名词复数 )；痕迹；持久影响 | |
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177
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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178
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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179
agile
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| adj.敏捷的，灵活的 | |
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180
fabrics
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| 织物( fabric的名词复数 )； 布； 构造； （建筑物的）结构（如墙、地面、屋顶）：质地 | |
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181
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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182
turrets
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| （六角）转台( turret的名词复数 )； （战舰和坦克等上的）转动炮塔； （摄影机等上的）镜头转台； （旧时攻城用的）塔车 | |
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183
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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184
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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185
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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186
dilated
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|
| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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187
inhaling
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| v.吸入( inhale的现在分词 ) | |
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188
smelt
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| v.熔解，熔炼；n.银白鱼，胡瓜鱼 | |
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189
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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190
acquiescence
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| n.默许；顺从 | |
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191
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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192
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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193
devout
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| adj.虔诚的，虔敬的，衷心的 (n.devoutness) | |
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194
tinges
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| n.细微的色彩，一丝痕迹( tinge的名词复数 ) | |
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195
suffocated
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| （使某人）窒息而死( suffocate的过去式和过去分词 )； （将某人）闷死； 让人感觉闷热； 憋气 | |
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196
jaws
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| n.口部；嘴 | |
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197
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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198
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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199
exhortation
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| n.劝告，规劝 | |
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200
elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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201
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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202
snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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203
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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204
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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205
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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206
stagnation
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| n. 停滞 | |
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207
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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208
plunging
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| adj.跳进的，突进的v.颠簸( plunge的现在分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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209
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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210
ravaged
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| 毁坏( ravage的过去式和过去分词 )； 蹂躏； 劫掠； 抢劫 | |
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211
turnover
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| n.人员流动率，人事变动率；营业额，成交量 | |
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212
allaying
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| v.减轻，缓和( allay的现在分词 ) | |
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213
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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214
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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215
choir
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| n.唱诗班，唱诗班的席位，合唱团，舞蹈团；v.合唱 | |
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216
reverberation
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| 反响； 回响； 反射； 反射物 | |
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217
choirs
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| n.教堂的唱诗班( choir的名词复数 )；唱诗队；公开表演的合唱团；（教堂）唱经楼 | |
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218
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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219
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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220
scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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221
patchwork
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| n.混杂物；拼缝物 | |
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222
footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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223
timing
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| n.时间安排，时间选择 | |
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224
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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225
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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226
pricked
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| 刺，扎，戳( prick的过去式和过去分词 )； 刺伤； 刺痛； 使剧痛 | |
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227
antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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228
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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229
sundering
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| v.隔开，分开( sunder的现在分词 ) | |
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230
sentries
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| 哨兵，步兵( sentry的名词复数 ) | |
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231
guardians
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| 监护人( guardian的名词复数 )； 保护者，维护者 | |
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232
beckoned
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| v.（用头或手的动作）示意，召唤( beckon的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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233
advent
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| n.(重要事件等的)到来，来临 | |
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234
upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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235
downwards
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| adj./adv.向下的（地），下行的（地） | |
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236
boughs
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| 大树枝( bough的名词复数 ) | |
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237
racing
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| n.竞赛，赛马；adj.竞赛用的，赛马用的 | |
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238
tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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239
hinds
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| n.（常指动物腿）后面的( hind的名词复数 )；在后的；（通常与can或could连用）唠叨不停；滔滔不绝 | |
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240
antelopes
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| 羚羊( antelope的名词复数 )； 羚羊皮革 | |
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241
cadence
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| n.（说话声调的）抑扬顿挫 | |
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242
underneath
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|
| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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243
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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244
planks
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| （厚）木板( plank的名词复数 )； 政纲条目，政策要点 | |
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245
squad
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| n.班，小队，小团体；vt.把…编成班或小组 | |
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246
resounding
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| adj. 响亮的 | |
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247
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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248
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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249
commiseration
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| n.怜悯，同情 | |
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250
swirling
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|
| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的现在分词 ) | |
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251
humble
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|
| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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252
contrite
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|
| adj.悔悟了的，后悔的，痛悔的 | |
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253
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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254
embittering
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| v.使怨恨，激怒( embitter的现在分词 ) | |
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255
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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256
orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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257
azure
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| adj.天蓝色的，蔚蓝色的 | |
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258
poise
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| vt./vi. 平衡，保持平衡；n.泰然自若，自信 | |
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259
rhythmic
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|
| adj.有节奏的，有韵律的 | |
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260
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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261
supple
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|
| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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262
throb
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| v.震颤，颤动；(急速强烈地)跳动，搏动 | |
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263
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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264
dreaded
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|
| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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265
spine
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|
| n.脊柱，脊椎；(动植物的)刺；书脊 | |
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266
prone
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|
| adj.(to)易于…的，很可能…的；俯卧的 | |
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267
haze
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| n.霾，烟雾；懵懂，迷糊；vi.(over)变模糊 | |
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268
nomads
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| n.游牧部落的一员( nomad的名词复数 )；流浪者；游牧生活；流浪生活 | |
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269
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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270
entrenched
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|
| adj.确立的，不容易改的(风俗习惯) | |
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271
recede
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| vi.退(去)，渐渐远去；向后倾斜，缩进 | |
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272
receding
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|
| v.逐渐远离( recede的现在分词 )；向后倾斜；自原处后退或避开别人的注视；尤指问题 | |
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273
guzzle
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| v.狂饮，暴食 | |
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274
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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275
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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276
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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277
suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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278
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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279
plunges
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|
| n.跳进，投入vt.使投入，使插入，使陷入vi.投入，跳进，陷入v.颠簸( plunge的第三人称单数 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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280
scrambled
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的过去式和过去分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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281
lustre
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| n.光亮，光泽；荣誉 | |
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282
smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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283
drenched
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|
| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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284
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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285
banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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286
adolescence
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| n.青春期，青少年 | |
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287
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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288
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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289
hawklike
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290
hawk
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| n.鹰，骗子；鹰派成员 | |
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291
ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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292
incertitude
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| n.疑惑，不确定 | |
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293
commingled
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| v.混合，掺和，合并( commingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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294
inhuman
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| adj.残忍的，不人道的，无人性的 | |
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295
cleft
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| n.裂缝；adj.裂开的 | |
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296
linens
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| n.亚麻布( linen的名词复数 )；家庭日用织品 | |
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297
spurning
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| v.一脚踢开，拒绝接受( spurn的现在分词 ) | |
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298
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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299
quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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300
throbbing
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| a. 跳动的,悸动的 | |
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301
glimmer
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| v.发出闪烁的微光；n.微光，微弱的闪光 | |
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302
northward
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| adv.向北；n.北方的地区 | |
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303
isles
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| 岛( isle的名词复数 ) | |
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304
wading
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的现在分词 ) | |
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305
delving
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| v.深入探究，钻研( delve的现在分词 ) | |
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306
rivulet
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| n.小溪，小河 | |
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307
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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308
waded
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| （从水、泥等）蹚，走过，跋( wade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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309
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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310
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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311
subterfuge
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| n.诡计；藉口 | |
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312
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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313
brackish
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| adj.混有盐的；咸的 | |
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314
likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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315
thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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316
hips
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| abbr.high impact polystyrene 高冲击强度聚苯乙烯，耐冲性聚苯乙烯n.臀部( hip的名词复数 )；[建筑学]屋脊；臀围（尺寸）；臀部…的 | |
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317
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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318
profane
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| adj.亵神的，亵渎的；vt.亵渎，玷污 | |
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319
aglow
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| adj.发亮的；发红的；adv.发亮地 | |
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320
envoy
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| n.使节，使者，代表，公使 | |
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321
wane
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| n.衰微，亏缺，变弱；v.变小，亏缺，呈下弦 | |
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322
shingle
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| n.木瓦板；小招牌(尤指医生或律师挂的营业招牌)；v.用木瓦板盖（屋顶）；把（女子头发）剪短 | |
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323
dome
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| n.圆屋顶，拱顶 | |
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324
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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325
eyelids
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| n.眼睑( eyelid的名词复数 )；眼睛也不眨一下；不露声色；面不改色 | |
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326
glimmering
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| n.微光，隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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327
crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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328
arid
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| adj.干旱的；(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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329
crest
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| n.顶点；饰章；羽冠；vt.达到顶点；vi.形成浪尖 | |
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330
hoop
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| n.（篮球）篮圈，篮 | |
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331
embedded
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| a.扎牢的 | |
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