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 agile melody of their leader’s concertina.  The music passed in an instant, as the first bars of sudden music always did, over the fantastic fabrics of his mind, dissolving them painlessly and noiselessly as a sudden wave dissolves the sand-built turrets 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 acquiesced faintly in the companionship.

As he descended the steps the impression which effaced his troubled self-communion 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 feverish quickening of his pulses followed, and a din of meaningless words drove his reasoned thoughts hither and thither confusedly.  His lungs dilated and sank as if he were inhaling a warm moist unsustaining air and he smelt again the moist warm air which hung in the bath in Clongowes above the sluggish turf-coloured 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 acquiescence.  The chill and order of the life repelled 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 deep-rooted 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 pallid 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 sour-favoured and devout, shot with pink tinges of suffocated anger.  Was it not a mental spectre of the face of one of the jesuits whom some of the boys called Lantern Jaws and others Foxy Campbell?