A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man | Page 9

he died. He rolled his stockings
off and put on his nightshirt quickly and knelt trembling at his bedside and repeated his
prayers quickly, fearing that the gas would go down. He felt his shoulders shaking as he
murmured:
God bless my father and my mother and spare them to me! God bless my little brothers
and sisters and spare them to me! God bless Dante and Uncle Charles and spare them to
me!
He blessed himself and climbed quickly into bed and, tucking the end of the nightshirt
under his feet, curled himself together under the cold white sheets, shaking and trembling.
But he would not go to hell when he died; and the shaking would stop. A voice bade the
boys in the dormitory good night. He peered out for an instant over the coverlet and saw
the yellow curtains round and before his bed that shut him off on all sides. The light was
lowered quietly.
The prefect's shoes went away. Where? Down the staircase and along the corridors or to
his room at the end? He saw the dark. Was it true about the black dog that walked there at
night with eyes as big as carriage-lamps? They said it was the ghost of a murderer. A
long shiver of fear flowed over his body. He saw the dark entrance hall of the castle. Old
servants in old dress were in the ironing-room above the staircase. It was long ago. The
old servants were quiet. There was a fire there, but the hall was still dark. A figure came
up the staircase from the hall. He wore the white cloak of a marshal; his face was pale
and strange; he held his hand pressed to his side. He looked out of strange eyes at the old
servants. They looked at him and saw their master's face and cloak and knew that he had
received his death-wound. But only the dark was where they looked: only dark silent air.
Their master had received his death-wound on the battlefield of Prague far away over the
sea. He was standing on the field; his hand was pressed to his side; his face was pale and
strange and he wore the white cloak of a marshal.
O how cold and strange it was to think of that! All the dark was cold and strange. There
were pale strange faces there, great eyes like carriage-lamps. They were the ghosts of
murderers, the figures of marshals who had received their death-wound on battlefields far
away over the sea. What did they wish to say that their faces were so strange?
VISIT, WE BESEECH THEE, O LORD, THIS HABITATION AND DRIVE AWAY
FROM IT ALL...
Going home for the holidays! That would be lovely: the fellows had told him. Getting up
on the cars in the early wintry morning outside the door of the castle. The cars were
rolling on the gravel. Cheers for the rector!
Hurray! Hurray! Hurray!
The cars drove past the chapel and all caps were raised. They drove merrily along the
country roads. The drivers pointed with their whips to Bodenstown. The fellows cheered.
They passed the farmhouse of the Jolly Farmer. Cheer after cheer after cheer. Through
Clane they drove, cheering and cheered. The peasant women stood at the half-doors, the

men stood here and there. The lovely smell there was in the wintry air: the smell of Clane:
rain and wintry air and turf smouldering and corduroy.
The train was full of fellows: a long long chocolate train with cream facings. The guards
went to and fro opening, closing, locking, unlocking the doors. They were men in dark
blue and silver; they had silvery whistles and their keys made a quick music: click, click:
click, click.
And the train raced on over the flat lands and past the Hill of Allen. The telegraph poles
were passing, passing. The train went on and on. It knew. There were lanterns in the hall
of his father's house and ropes of green branches. There were holly and ivy round the
pierglass and holly and ivy, green and red, twined round the chandeliers. There were red
holly and green ivy round the old portraits on the walls. Holly and ivy for him and for
Christmas.
Lovely...
All the people. Welcome home, Stephen! Noises of welcome. His mother kissed him.
Was that right? His father was a marshal now: higher than a magistrate. Welcome home,
Stephen!
Noises...
There was a noise of curtain-rings running back along the rods, of water being splashed
in the basins. There was a noise of rising and dressing and washing in the dormitory: a
noise of clapping of hands as the prefect went up and down telling the fellows to look
sharp. A pale sunlight showed the yellow