ch18e

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Except for the eloquent and arrogant peroration Stephen's essay was a careful exposition of a carefully meditated theory of esthetic. When he had finished it he found it necessary to change the title from "Drama and Life" to "Art and Life" for he had occupied himself so much with securing the foundations that he had not left himself space enough to raise the complete structure. This strangely unpopular manifesto was traversed by the two brothers phrase by phrase and word by word and at last pronounced flawless at all points. It was then safely laid by until the time should come for its public appearance. Besides Maurice two other well-wishers had an advance view of it; these were Stephen's mother and his friend Madden. Madden had not asked for it directly but at the end of a conversation in which Stephen had recounted sarcastically his visit to Clonliffe College he had vaguely wondered what state of mind could produce such irreverences and Stephen had at once offered him the manuscript saying "This is the first of my explosives." The following evening Madden had returned the manuscript and praised the writing highly. Part of it had been too deep for him, he said, but he could see that it was beautifully written.



— You know Stevie, he said (Madden had a brother Stephen and he sometimes used this familiar form) you always told me I was a country buachail and I can't understand you mystical fellows.

Jimmy?


— Mystical? said Stephen.



— About the planets and the stars, you know. Some of the fellows in the League belong to the mystical set here. They'd understand quick enough.



— But there's nothing mystical in it I tell you. I have written it carefully...



— O, I can see you have. It's beautifully written. But I'm sure it will be above the heads of your audience.



— You don't mean to tell me, Madden, you think it's a 'flowery' composition!



— I know you've thought it out. But you are a poet, aren't you?



— I have... written verse... if that's what you mean.



— Do you know Hughes is a poet too?



— Hughes!



— Yes. He writes for our paper, you know. Would you like to see some of his poetry?



— Why, could you show me any?



— It so happens I have one in my pocket. There's one in this week's Sword too. Here it is: read it.



Stephen took the paper and read a piece of verse entitled Mo Naire Tu (My shame art thou). There were four stanzas in the piece and each stanza ended with the Irish phrase — Mo Naire Tu, the last word, of course, rhyming to an English word in the corresponding line. The piece began:

What! Shall the rippling tongue of Gaels
Give way before the Saxon slang!

and in lines full of excited patriotism proceeded to pour scorn upon the Irishman who would not learn the ancient language of his native land. Stephen did not remark anything in the lines except the frequency of such contracted forms as "e'en" "ne'er" and "thro'" instead of "even" "never" and "through" and he handed back the paper to Madden without offering any comment on the verse.

— I suppose you don't like that because it's too Irish but you'll like this, I suppose, because it's that mystical, idealistic kind of writing you poets indulge in. Only you mustn't say I let you see...



— O, no.



Madden took from his inside pocket a sheet of foolscap folded in four on which was inscribed a piece of verse, consisting of four stanzas of eight lines each, entitled "My Ideal." Each stanza began with the words "Art thou real?" The poem told of the poet's troubles in a 'vale of woe' and of the 'heart-throbs' which these troubles caused him. It told of 'weary nights' and 'anxious days' and of an 'unquenchable desire' for an excellence beyond that 'which earth can give.' After this mournful idealism the final stanza offered a certain consolatory, hypothetical alternative to the poet in his woes: it began somewhat hopefully:

Art thou real, my Ideal?
Wilt thou ever come to me
In the soft and gentle twilight
With your baby on your knee?

The effect of this apparition on Stephen was a long staining blush of anger. The tawdry lines, the futile change of number, the ludicrous waddling approach of Hughes's "Ideal" weighed down by an inexplicable infant combined to cause him a sharp agony in the sensitive region. Again he handed back the verse without saying a word of praise or of blame but he decided that attendance in Mr Hughes's class was no longer possible for him and he was foolish enough to regret having yielded to the impulse for sympathy from a friend.




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