（1）William Shakespeare： "Sonnet 18"，"The Merchant of venice"。
要求了解作者的生平概况，了解有关文艺复兴和人文主义的基本知识，能说出莎士比亚的四大喜剧和四大悲剧，掌握有关十四行诗的基本知识。要求认真阅读所选的诗，并能回答后面的思考题。要求熟悉"The Merchant of Venice"的剧情及其主题。
（2）Daniel Defoe： Robinson Crusoe
（3）William Blake： "London"， "The chimney sweeper"。
（4）William Wordsworth： "The Solitary Reaper，""Earth Has Not Anything to Show More Fair"
（5）Jane Austen： Pride and Prejudice
（6）Percy Bysshe shelley： "Ode to the West Wind"
（7）Charles Dickens：Great Expectations
（8）Charlotte Bronte：Jane Eyre
（9） Thomas Hardy：Tess of the D'Urbervilles
（11）James Joyce：A Portrait of the Artisit as a Young Man
（12）D.H.Lawrence：Sons and Lovers
（1）Washington Irving："Rip Van Winkle"
要求了解作者的生平概况、写作风格以及在美国文学史上的地位。要求认真阅读所选作品，并能分析Rip Van Winkle这一人物形象。
（2）Nathaniel Hawthome："Young Goodman Brown"
（3）Robert Lee Frost："The Road Not Taken"、"Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening"
（4）Ernest Hemingway："Indian Camp"
INTRODUCTION TO THE AUTHOR：
Thomas Hardy， English novelist and poet， was born on June 2，1840 at Higher Bockhampton， Dorset， an agricultural district in the south of England. He was educated at local schools in Dorchester and later at King's College in London.
Hardy's father was a stonemason and choirmaster. From him Hardy inherited the family tradition of music making - music for worship and music for dancing， which was a constant inspiration to him. He was also familiar with the ritual of the church and the language of the Bible. In spite of his scepticism and unbelief， he remained an invet erate church - goer till the end of his days. Hardy’s mother came from a very poor family. She had an even greater influence upon him. From his childhood she encouraged him to read widely， and she saw to it that he went to the best local schools， where he had a good basic education. And Hardy learned from her many of the country Iegends which colour all his work.
Hardy started out to follow his father's profession. At the age of，16 he became apprenticed to a local architect， and he studied Gothic restoration work for three years. He then went to London to work as a draftsman from 1862-67. But architecture was not his real interest. He was attracted to literature， devoting much of his sparetime to self - study. He started his writing career with poems. As he himeslf put it， "by 1865 he had begun to write verse， and by 1866 to send his productions to magazines"。 But his first poems earned him no recognition at the time. It was not until 1898 that his first collection of verse， Wessex Poems， containing 51 poems， got published.
For health reason， Hardy left London in the summer of 1867 and returned to Dorset working briefly as an assistant in church restoration. He decided to give up writing poetry and began to draft a novel The Poor Man and the Lady. The book was completed in 1868 but was rejected by publishers， He then wrote another novel entitled Desperate Remedies and had it published in 1871， which was followed by a number of other novels.
Hardy's novels， according to his own classification， are divided into three groups： novels of character and environment，noveles of romance and fantasies and novels of ingenuity. Of the three groups， the first is the most outstanding， which include most of his better known novels： Under the Greenwood Tree（1872）， Far from the Madding Crowd （1891） and Jude the Obscure （1896）， and also two books of short stories， Wessex Tales（1888） and Life’s Little Ironies （1894）。 In the last two novels Tess and Jude， Hardy exposed the serious effects of industrialization and challenged the established values of the Victorian Age. This incurred severe criticism from many critics and wounded him inwardly. Thus he stopped writing novels and turned to writing poetry again. In 1901 his second collection of poems came out under the title of Poems of the Past and Present， which contained nearly twice as many poems as the First. Several more volumes followed. The total number of his poems mounted to nearly nine hundred. His great epic drama， The Dynasts， was published in three parts in 1904，1906 and 1908.
Hardy died on January 11，1928， His ashes were buried at Poet's Corner in Westminster Abbey， with a spadeful of Dorset earth sprinkled on the casket. His heart was buried in his first wife’s grave among the Hardy tombs at Stinsford churchyard. His national prestige and his regional loyalty were both affirmed in these symbolic acts.
Tess of the D'Urbervilles
John Durbeyfield： a poor small trader， middle-aged.
Joan Durbeyfield： wife of John Durbeyfield.
Tess Durbeyfield： eldest child of John & Joan Durbeyfield， who is about17 when the novel begins.
Alec Stoke-d'Urberville： only son of the late successful merchant Simon Stoke，who is about 23 when the novel begins.
Mrs Simon Stoke： Alec's mother， who is blind.
Richard Crick：owner of Talbothays Dairy with about 100 cows.
Angel Clare：the third and youngest son of Jame Clare， a pupil in agriculture，Tess's lawful husband， who is 23 when the novel begins.
Jame Clare： a poor parson and a firm believer， who is 65.
'Liza - Lu：Tess’s sister， who becomes Angel's wife at the end of the story.
GTST OF THE STORY：
Tess Durbeyfield is the eldest daughter of a poor family of seven children. Her father is a small artisan and has TB： It is very difficult for him to feed the family. Then he happens to learn that he is a descendant of the ancient and knightly family of the D' urbervilles. And much more to his delight， there lives a rich lady bearing the name D’ urberville. Regarding it as a guarantee of gaining a rise from their poverty， he and his wife send Tess to claim relations. Tess is employed as a housemaid， but she is soon seduced by the son， Alec. She gives birth to a child， that dies in infancy. Some thime later， she works as a dairymaid on a farm. There she meets Angel Clare， son of a clergyman， and beoomes engaged to him. On their wedding night， Tess tells Angel about her affair with Alec. Upon learning this， Angel abandons her， although he himself is a sinner. But misfortune never comes singly. Her father dies when she is working on another farm as a labourer. All her appeals to Angel for help are in vain. At her wit's end， she is compelled to accept protection from Alec and agrees to live with him. But as luck would have it， her lawfut husband comes back to her from Brazil. Grieved by the second wrong Alec has done her and out of her true love for Angel， Tess kills Alec to liberate herself. After spending a brief period of time with her husband， Tess is arrested aad hanged after trial.
Phase the Fifth1
The Woman Pays
Chapter Thirty - Five
Her narrative2 ended； even its re - assertions and secondary explanations were done. Tess's voice throughout had hardly risen higher than its opening tone； there had been no exculpatroy phrase of any kind，3 and she had not wept.
But the oomplexion even of external things seemed to suffer transmutation4 as her announcement progressed. The fire in the grate looked impish - demoniacally funny， as if it did not care in the least about her strait. The fender grinned idly， as if it too did not care. The light from the water - bottle was merely engaged in a chromatic problem.5 All material objects around announced their irresponsibility with terrible iteration. And yet nothing had changed since the moments. when he had been kissing her； or rather， nothing in the substance of things. But the essence of things had chenged.6
When she ceased， the auricular impressions from their previous endearments seemed to hustle away into the corners of their brains， repeating themselves as echoes from a time of supremely purblind foolishness.
Clare performed the irrelevant act of stirring the fire； the intelligence had not even yet got to the bottom of him.7 After stirring the embers he rose to his feet； all the force of her disclosure had imparted itself now. His face had withered. In the strenuousness of his concentration he treaclted fitfulty on the floor. He could not， by any contrivance， think closely enough； that was the meaning of his vague movement. When he spoke it was in the most inadequate， commonplace voice of the many varied tones she had heard from him.8
'Am I to believe this？ From your manner I am to take it as true. O you cannot be out of your mind！ You ought to be！ Yet you are not. …My wife， my Tess - nothing in you warrants such a supposition as that？
'I am not out of my mind，’ she said.
'And yet - ’He looked vacantly at her， to resume with dazed senses：'Why didn’t you tell me before？ Ah， yes， you would have told me， in a way - but I hindered you， I remember！'
These and other of his words were nothing but the perfunctory babble of the surface while the depths remained paralyzed. He turned away， and bent over a chair. Tess followed him to the middle of the room where he was， and stood there staring at him with eyes that did not weep. Presently she slid down upon her knees beside his foot， and from this position she crouched in a heap.
'In the name of our love， forgive me！’she whispered with a dry mouth. 'I have forgiven you for the same！’
And， as he did not answer，she said again
'Eorgive me as you are forgiven！ I forgive you， Angel.’
'You - yes， you do.’
'But you do not forgive me？’
'O Tess， forgiveness does not apply to the case！ You were one person； now you are another. My God - how can forgiveness meet such a trotesque - prestidigitation as that！？
He paused， oontemplating this definition； then suddenly broke into horrible laughter - as unnatural and ghastly as a laugh in hell.
'Don’t - don't！ It kills me quite， that！’ she shrieked. 'O have mercy upon me - have mercy！’
'He did not answer； and， sickly white， she jumped up.
'Angel， Angel！ what do you mean by that laugh？’ she cried out. 'Do you know what this is to me？’
He shook his head.
'I have been hoping， loging， praying， to make you happy！ I have thought what joy it will be to do it， what an unworthy wife I shall be if I do not！ That’s what I have felt， Angel！'
'I know that.’
'I thought， Angel， that you loved me - me， my very self！ If it is I you do love， O how can it be that you look and speak so？ It frightens me！ Having begun to love you， I love you for ever - in all changes， in all disgraces， because you are yourself. I ask no more. Then how can you. O my own husband， stop loving me？’
'I repeat， the woman I have been loving is not you.’
'Another woman in your shape.’
She perceived in his words the realization of her own apprehensive foreboding in former times. He looked upon her as a species of impostor； a guilty woman in the guise of an innocent one. Terror was upon her white face as she saw it； her cheek was flaccid， and her mouth had almost the aspect of a round little hole. The horrible sense of his view of her so deadened her that she staggered； and he stepped for ward， thinking she was going to fall.
'Sit down， sit down，’ he said gently. 'You are ill； and it is natural that you should be.’
She did sit down， without knowing where she was， that strained look still upon her face， and her eyes such as to make his flesh creep.
'I don’t belong to you any more， then； do I， Angel？' she asked helplessly. ’It is not me， but another woman like me that he loved， he says.'
The image raised caused her to take pity upon hereslf as one who was ill - used. Her eyes filled as she regarded her position further； she turned round and burst into a flood of self - sympathetic tears.
Clace was relieved at this change， for the effect on her of what had happened was beginning to be a trouble to him only less than the woe of the disclosure itself. He waited patiently， apathetically， till the violence of her grief had wom itself out， and her rush of weeping had lessened to a catching gasp at intervals.
'Angel，’ she said suddenly， in her natural tones， the insane， dry voice of terror having left her now. 'Angel， am Itoo wicked for you and me to live together？’
'I have not been able to think what we can do.’
'I shan’t ask you to let me live with you， Angel， because I have no right！ I shall not write to mother and sisters to say was be married，10 as I said I would do； and I shan't finish the good - hussif11 I cut out and meant to make while we were in lodgings.’
'No， I shan’t do anything， unless you order me to； and if you go away from me 1 shall not follow'ee， and if you never speak to me any more I shall not ask why， unless you tell me I may.’
'And if I do order you to do anything？’
'I will obey you like your wretched slave， even if it is to lie down and die.’
'You are very good. But it strikes me that there is a want of harmony between your present mood of self - sacrifice and your past mood of self - preservation.？
These were the first words of antagonism. To fling elaborate sarcasms at Tess， however， was much like flinging them at a dog or cat. The charms of their subtlety passed by her unappreciated， and she only received them as inimical sounds which meant that anger ruled. She remained mute， not knowing that he was smothering his affection for her. She hardly observed that a tear descended slowly upon his cheek， a tear so large that it magnified the pores of the skin over which it rolled， like the object lens of a microscope. Meanwhile reillumination as to the terrible and total change that her confession had wrought in his life， in his universe， returned to him， and he tried desperately to advance among the new conditions in which he stood. Some consequent action was necesary； yet what？
'Tess，’ he said， as gently as he could speak，' I cannot stay - in this room - just now. I will walk out a little way.’
He quietly left the room， and the two glasses of wine that he had poured out for their supper - one for her， on for him - remained on the talbe untasted. This was what their Agape13 had come to. At tea， two or three hours earlier， they had， in the freakishness of affection， drunk from one cup.'
The closing of the door behind， gently as it had been pulled to， roused Tess from her stupor. He was gone； she could not stay. Hastily flinging her cloak around her， she opened the door and followed， putting out the candles as if she were never coming back. The rain was over， and the night was now clear.
She was soon close at his heels， for Clare walked slowly and without purpose. His form beside her light grey figure looked black， sinister，a nd forbidding， and she felt as sarcasm the touch of the jewels of which she had been momentarily so proud.14 Clare tumed at hearing her footsteps， but his recognition of her presence seemed to make no difference in him， and he went on over the five yawning arches of the great bridge in front of the house.
The cow and horse tracks in the road were full of water， the rain having been enough to charge them， but not enough to wash them away. Across these minute pools the reflected stars flitted in a quick transit as she passed； she would not have known they were shining overhead if she had not seen them there - the vastest things of the universe imaged in objects so mean.15
The place to which they had travelled to - day was in the same valley as Talbothays，16 but some miles lower down the river； and the surroundings being open， she kept easily in sight of him. Away from the house the road wound throung the meads， and along these she followed Clare without anly attempt to come up with him or to attract him， but with dumb and vacant fidelity.
At last， however， he listless walk brought her up alongside him， and still he said nothing. The cruelty of fooled honesty is often great after enlightenment， and it was mighty in Clare now. The outdoor air had apparently taken away from him all tendency to act on impulse； she knew that he saw her without irradiation - in all her bareness； that Time was chanting his satiric psalm at her then -
Behold， when thy face is made bare， he that loved thee shall hate；
Thy face shall be ne more fair at the fail of thy fate.
For thy life shall fall as a leaf and be shed as the rain；
And the veil of thine head shall be grief， and the crown shall be pain.17
He was still intently thinking， and her companionship had now insufficient power to break or divert the strain of thought. What a wealk thing her presence must have become to him！ She could not help addressing Clare.
'What have I done - what have I done！ I have not told of any thing that interferes with or belies my love for you. You don’t think I planned it， do you？ It is in your own mind what you are angry at， Angel； it is not in me， and I am not that deceitful woman you think me！'
'H’m - well. Not deceitful， my wife； but not the same. No， not the same. But do not make me reproach you. I have swom that I will not； and I will do everything to avoid it.'
But she went on pleading in her distraction； and perhaps said things that would have been better left to silence.
'Angel！ - Angel！ f was a child - a child when it happened！ I knew nothing of men.’
'You were more sinned against than sinning， that I admit.’
'Then will you not forgive me？’
'I do forgive you， but forgiveness is not all.’
'And love me？’
To this question he did not answer.
'O Angel - my mother says that it sometimes happens so！ she knows several cases where they were worse than I， and the husband has not minded it much - has got over it at least. And yet the woman has not loved him. as I do you！’
'Don’t， Tess； don't argue. Different societies， different manners. You almost make me say you are an unapprehending peasant woman， who have never been initiated into the proportions of social things.18 You don’t know what you say.'
'I am only a peasant by position， not by nature！’
She spoke with an impulse to anger， but it went as it came.
'So much the worse for you. I think that parson19 who unearthed your pedigree would have done better if he had held his tongue. I can not help associating your decline as a family with this other fact - of your want of firmness. Decrepit families imply decrepit conduct. Heaven， why did you give me a handle20 for despising you more by informing me of your descent！ Here was I thinking you a new - sprung child of nature； there were you， the belated seedling of an effete aristocracy！
'Lots of famlilies are as bad as mine in that！ Retty’s21 family were once large landowners， and so were Dairyman Billett's. And the Debbyhouses， who now are carters， were once the De Bayeux family. You find such as 1 everywhere；’ tis a feature of our county22， and I can't help it.’
'So much the worse for the county’。
She took these reproaches in their bulk simply， not in their particulars；he did not love her as be had loved her hitheto， and to all else she was indifferent.
They wandered on again in silence. It was said afterwards that a cottager of Wellbride， who went out late that night for a doctor， met two lovers in the pastures， walking very slowly， without converse， one behind the other， as in a funeral procession， and the glimpse that he obtained of their faces seemed to denote that they were anxious and sad. Returning later， he passed them again in the same field， progressing just as slowly， and as regardless of the hour and of the cheerless night as before. It was only on account of his preoccupation with his own affairs， and the illness in his house， that he did not bear in mind the curious incident， which， however， he recalled a long while after.
During the interal of the cottaget's going and coming， she had said to her husband
？ don't see how I can help being the cause of much misery to you all yourlife. The river is down there. I can put an end to myself in it. I am not afraid.’
'I don’t wish to add murder to my other follies，？ he said.
'I will leave something to show that I did it myself - on account of my shame. tghey will not blame you then.’
'Don’t speak so absurdly - I wish not to hear it. It is nonsense to have such thoughts in this kind of case， which is rather one for satirical laughter than for tragedy. You don't in the least understand the quality of the mishap. It would be viewed in the light of joke by nine - tenths of the world if it were known. Please oblige me by returming to the house and going to bed.’
'I will，’ said she dutifully.
They had rambled round by a road which led to the well - known ruins of the Cistrercian24 abbey behind the mill， the latter having， in centuries past， been attached to the monastic establishment. The mill still worked on， food being a perennial necessity； the abbey had perished， creeds bing transient. One continually sees the ministration of the temporary outlasting the ministration of the eternal.25 Their walk having becn circuitous， they were still not far from the house， and in obeying his direction she only had to reach the large stone bridge across the main river and follow the road for a few yards. When she got back everything remained as she had left it， the fire being still burning. She did not stay downstairs for more than a minute， but proceeded to her chamber， whither the luggage had been taken. Here she sat down on the edge of the bed， looking blankly around， and presently began to undress. In removing the light towards the bedstead its rays fell upon the tester of white dimity， something was hanging beneath it， and she lifted the candle to see what it was. A bough of mistletoe.26 Angel had put it there； she knew that in an instant. This was the explanation of that mysterious parcel which it had been so difficult to pack and bring； whose contents be would not explain to her， sying that time would soon show her the purpose thereof. In his zest and his gaiety he had hung it there. How foolish and inopportune that mistletoe looked now.
Having nothing more to fear， having secarce27 anything to hope， for that he would relent there seemed no promise whatever，28 she lay down dully. When sorrow ceases to be speculative sleep sees her opportunity.29 Among so many happier moods which forbid repose this was a mood which welcomed it， and in a few minutes the lonely Tess forgot existence surrounded by the aromatic stillness of the chamber that had once， possibly， been the bride - chamber of her own ancestry.
Later on that night Clare also retraced his steps to the house. Entering softly to the sitting - room， he obtained a light， and with the manner of one who had considered his course he spread his rugs upon the old horse - hair sofa which stood there， and roughly shaped it to a sleeping - couch. Before lying down he crept shoeless upstairs， and listened at the door of her apartment. Her measured breathing told that she was sleeping profoundly.
'Thank God！’ murmured Clare； and yet he was conscious of a pang of bitterness at the thought - approximately true， though not wholly so - that having shifted the burden of her life to his shoulders she was now reposing without care.
He turned away to descend； then， irresolute， faced round to her door again. In the act he caught sight of one of the d' Urberville dames，30 whose portrait was immediately over the entrance to Tess’s bedchamber. In the candlelight the painting was more than unpleasant. Sinister design lurked in the woman's features， a concentrated purpose of revenge on the other sex - so it seemed to him then. The Caroline31 bodice of the portrait was low - precisely as Tess’s had been when he tucked it in to show the necklace； and again he experienced the distressing sensation of a resemblance between them.
The check was sufficient. He resumed his retreat and descended.
His air remained calm and cold， his small compressed mouth indexing his powers of self - control， his face wearing still that terribly sterile expression which had spread thereon since her disclosure. It was the face of a man who was no longer passion's slave， yet who found no advantage in his enfranchisement.32 He was simply regarding the harrowing contingencies of human experience， the unexpectedness of things. Nothing so pure， so sweet， so virginal as Tess had seemed possible all the long while that he had adored her， up to an hour ago， but
The little less， and what wodds away！33
He argued erroneously when he said to himself that her heart was not indexed34 in the honest freshness of her face； but Tess had no advocate to set him right. Could it be possible， he continued， that eyes which as they gazed never expressed any divergence from what the tongue was telling， were yet ever seeing another world behind her ostensible one， discordant and contrasting.
He reclined on his couch in the sitting - room， and extinguished the light. The night came in， and took up its place there， unconcerned and indifferent； the night which had already swallowed up his happiness， and was now digesting it listlessly； and was ready to swallow up the happiness of a thousand other people with as little disturbance or change of mien.
1. The novel is divided into seven phases - The Maiden， Maiden No More， The Rally， The Consequence， The Woman Pays， The Convert and Fulfilment. "Phase" is originally a special term in astronomy， indicating the amount of the brightness of the moon that can be seen from the earth. Hardy deliberately uses this to specialize time and indicate the various stages in the development of Tess's life from maidenhood to womanhood.
The scene of this part of the story was set in an old farmhouse， which formerly belonged to one of the branches of the D' urbervilles. It was New Year’s Eve. Tess and Angel had just been married. They planned to stay there for a brief period of time and then do some travel. Earlier in the previous chapter Angel confessed to Tess that he once "plunged into eight - and - forty hours' dissipation with a stranger" in London. And he said that he did not mention it before because he was "afraid of endangering his chance" of her. Tess forgave him as she was asked to. Then came her turn to do the confession.
2. her nanative： referring to her confession of her affair with Alec.
3. there had heen no exculpatory phrase of any kind： she had said not a word to excuse herself， to free herself from blame.
4. suffer transmutation： undergo some change.
5. was merely engaged in a chromatic problem： was only thinking of a problem concerning colours.
6. nothing in the substance …the essence of things had changed： All the things around remained the same in appearance， but in essence they had changed. This implies the subtle change in Angel Clare's feelings and psychology.
7. The intelligence had not even yet got to the bottom of him：Clare had not yet fully understood the meaning of Tess's confession. He needed time to think of it.
8.When he spoke it was in the most inadequate， commonplace voice… she had heard from him： Clare now called his wife just by her name， but fornerly he addressed her affectionatly as "Tessy"， "my love"， etc.
9. how can forgiveness meet such a grotesque - prestidigitation as that： how can forgiveness he applied to such an absurd trick as that of yours.
10. we be married： Tess was speaking in her dialect， meaning" we are married"。
11. good - hussif = housewife/'h＾zif/， a case for needles and thread.
12. But it strikes me that there is a want of harmony… and your past mood of self - presevation： What Clare said is very sarcasic. He meant his wif should have committed suicide after she was insulted by Alec.
13. Agape： love - feast， as held by the early Christians.
14. She felt as sarcasm the touch of the jewels of which she had been momentarily so proud： The jewels mentioned here were sent over to Angel by his father's messenger on his wedding night as a special gift for his wife from his godmother.
15. The vastest things of the universe imaged in objects so
mean："The vastest things of the universe" refer to the moon and stars shining in the sky， and the mean 'objects’ stand for the cow and horse tracks.
16. Talbothays： name of the dairy farm where Tess and Clare had worked before they were married.
17. These lines are quoted from Swinebume.
18. have never been initiated into the proportions of social things： know nothing about social intercourse.
19. that parson： referring to Parson Tringham， who discovered that Tess's father was a true descendant of the ancient and knightly family of the D’ urbervilles.
20. a handle： Here it means the title of knighthood. In fomer times nighthood could be passed down from generation to generation like other titles. If that were still the case， Tess's father would hold a title.’
21. Retty： a dairymaid who once worked with Tess on Talbothays Farm.
22. our oounty： referring to Dorset.
23. my other follies： referring to his falling in love with Tess and marrying her.
24. Cistercian： of the religious order founded in 1098 at Citeaux near Dijon in France， which expanded rapidly in the 12th century and declined in the 14th century. The order played an important role in the development of medieval agriculture and the English wooltrade.
25. The ministration of the temporary outlasting the ministration of the eternal： The "temporary" means material needs while the "eternal" stands for spiritual needs such as religion.
26. A bough of mistletoe： Mistletoe was traditionally believed to bring good luck and fertility.
27. scarce = scarcely.
28. for that he would relent there seemed no promise whatever： It seemed there was not any possibility that he would show mercy.
29. When sorrow ceases to be speculative sleep sees her opportunity： Tess fell asleep as she was now not thinking sorrowfully over the problem.
30. one of the d' Urberville dames， whose portrait…to Tess’s bedchamber： a portrait of a d' Urberville lady， which was built into the wall just over the entrance to Tess’s bedroom.
31. Caroline： referring to the period of Charles I （1660-49）and Charles Ⅱ （1630-85）。
32. found no advantage in his enfranchisement： did not gain any benefit from his freedom from passion.
33. The little less， and what worlds away： This is quoted from Browning's By the Fireside.
34. was not indexed： was not reflected.
1. What was Tess's state of mind when she was confessing to her husband？
2. Analyse Clare's state of mind after he had heard Tess’s confession.
3. What is your understanding of "These and other of his words were nothing but the perfunctory babble of the surface while the depths remained paralyzed"？
4. Is there any meaning implied in the description of the cow and horse tracks that reflected the shining stars in the sky？
5. What do you think of the end of this chapter， especially the way the night is described？
CEORGE BERNARD SHAW
INTRODUCTION TO THE AUTHOR：
George Berard Shaw was born in 1856 in Dublin， Ireland， of English parentage. His father was a small official in the Dublin Law Courts， who lften got drunk and was finally compelled to retire. He then sold his yearly pension of ？60 for a lump sum of ？500， which he invested in a com mill. To help support the family， his mother gave music lessons. When he was very young， Shaw began to acquire from his mother the knowledge and love of music， which qualified him as a music critic in later years and had a remarkable influence upon his plays.
Shaw did not have much formal education. He left school at fourteen and could not afford to go to college. He worked as a clerk and later as a cashier in a land agent's office in Dublin， collecting rents from the poor. In 1876 when Shaw was twenty the went to Lond？？。 Apart from doing some odd jobs for small earnings， he spent his first three years chiefiy in the libraries picking up an education for himself. In 1879 he started writing novels and by 1883 he had finished five. But he had difficulty getting them published. In the meantime， he became a journalist and music and theatre critic for various journals. In 1883 he he read Karl Marx’s Capital and considered himself converted to socialism. The following year h joined the Fabian Society， an organization of petty bourgeois intellectuals， and became on of its most influential members. Throughout his life the Fabian principles of reformism remained with him and can be traced in his writings.
Shaw then gave up writing novels and turned to drama. As theatre critic， he fought the decadent theories of Art for Art's Sake and helped to introduce Ibsen onto the English stage. He lectured on Ibsen’s plays and in 1891 published The Quintessence of Ibsenism， a study of Ibsen's ideas and writings. His first play Widowers’ Houses appeared on the London stage in 1892. This is the first of his Un pleasant Plays， which also includes The Philanderer（1893） and Mrs Warren's Profession （1893）。 Dealing with social problems， both Widowers’ Houses and Mrs Warren's Profession incurred hostile comment and were forcibly banned. Another series of dramas， Plays Pleasant， followed in 1894， including Arms and Man， the Man of Destiny， Candida and You Never Gan Tell. His third series Three Plays for Puritans came out in 1897-99. In 1898 he married an Irish millionairess who was also a Fabian. In the first decade of the 20th century appeared two of Shaw’s outstanding plays， Man and Superman （1903） and Major Barbara （1905）。
During the First World War， Shaw denounced imperialism and in 1917， in is Hearbreak House， he tried to show the decline of the civilization of the capitalist world. He hailed the October Socialist Revolution with enthusiasm， and he remained all his life a friend of the Soviet Union， which he visited in 1931. Some of his later plays are St.Joan （1924）， The Apple Cart （1929） and Too True to Be Good （1932）。 In 1925 he won the Nobel Prize for literature. He continued to write plays till the late 1940s. Altogether he wrote about fifty plays. In 1950 he died at the age of ninety - four.
Mr Sartorius： a London landlord， who makes money out of the slum houses by renting them to poor tenants.
Blanche： Mr Sartorius's only daughter.
Dr Harry Trench： a young aristocrat and recently qualified doctor.
William de Burgh Cokane： Dr Trench's friend.
Lickcheese： Mr Sartorius's rent - collector.
GIST OF THE PLAY：
While touring in Germany. Mr Sartorius and his daughter Blanche met a young aristocrat and medical student Harry Trench. Doctor Trench and Blanche fell in love with each other at first sight. And they were soon engaged. Back in England from the trip a month later， Dr Trench went with his friend Cokane to Sartorius's for a visit. Both the father and the daughter were， of course， very happy to meet them. But while Sartorius was discussing something with his daughter in another room， Lickcheese， the rent collector， told Dr Trench that all his father - in - law’s fortune was wrung out of the slum houses rented to the poor and that he was now sacked merely for spending some money on repairs. Trench was therefore greatly upset. He decided that Blanche should not take any money from her father if they were going to marry at all. Thinking that Trench looked down upon. her father， Blanche got very angry. Heated argument arose between the two， but neither of them could convince the other. The engagement was then broken off. Enraged by this，Sartorius defeated Trench by demonstrating that he was equally culpable since his own income was from a high interest on a mortage on the same slum property. Some time later Lickcheese， now wealthy and independent， returned and suggested to Sartorius to make bigger sums of money from compensation on those slums scheduled to be pulled down. Trench was induced to collaborate in the venture and his surrender was completed by Blanche's coaxing.
Widowers' Houses is Shaw’s first play which was begun in 1885 on material suggested by William Archer but not completed until 1892. It was put on by the Independent Theatre in London in Decenlber the same year， but banned forcilbly after only two performances.
The play is a satire on the employment of renting houses in slum districts as a means of exploitation. This is what Bernard Shaw himself says concerning the theme of the play： "In Widowers' Houses I have shown middle - class respectability and younger son gentility fattening on the poverty of the slum as flies fatten on filty."
EXCERPT FROM THE PLAY：
In the library of a handsomely appointed1 villa at Surbiton on a sunny forenoon in September. Sartorius is busy at a writing table littered with business letters. The fireplace， decorated for summer is close behind him： the window is in the opposite wall. Between the table and the window Blanche， in her prettiest frock， sits reading The Queen. The door is in the middle. All the walls are lined with shelves of smartly tooled books，2 fitting into their places like bricks.
S （Sartorius）。 Blanche.
B （Blanche）。 Yes， papa.
S.I have some news here.
B.What is it？
S.I mean news for you - from Trench.
B. （With affected indifference） Indeed？
S.'Indeed？’ Is that all you have to say to me？ Oh， very well.He resumes his
B.What do his people say， papa？
S.His people？ I dont know. （Still busy.）
B.What does he say！
S.He！ He says nothing. （He folds a letter leisurely， and looks at the
envelope.） He prefers to oommunicate the result of his - 3 where did I
put？" oh， here. Yes： he prefers to communicate the result in person.
B.（springing up） Oh， papa！ When is he coming？
S.If he walks from the station， he may arrive in the course of the next half -
hour. If he drives， he may be here at any moment.
B.（making hastily for the door） Oh！
S.You will of course not meet him until he has spoken to me.
B.（hypocritically） Of course not， papa， 1 shouldnt have thought of such a
S.That is all. （She is going， when he puts out his hand， and says with
fatherly emotion） My dear child. （She responds by going over to kiss him. A
tap at the door.） Come in.
Lickcheese enters， carrying a black handbag. He is a shabby， needy man， with dirty face and linen， scrubby beard and whisders， going bald. A nervous， wiry， pertinacious4 human terrier5， judged by his mouth and eyes， but miserably apprehensive and ser vile before Sartorius. He bids Blanche' good morning， miss’ and she passes out with a slight and contemptuous recognition of him.
L.（Lichcheese）。 Good moming， sir.
S.（harsh and peremptory） Good moming.
L.（taking a little sack of money from his bag） Not much this moming， sir. 1
have just had the honor of making Dr Trench's acquaintance， sir.
S.（looking up from his writing， displeased） Indeed？
L.Yes， sir. Dr Trench asked his way of me， and was hind enough to drive me
from the station.
S.Where is he， then？
L.I left him in the hall， with his friend， sir. I should think he is speaking
to Miss Sartorius.
S.Hm！ What do you mean by his friend？
L.There is a Mr Cokance with him， sir.
S. 1 see you have been talking to him， eh？
L. As we drove along： yes， sir.
S.（sharply） Why did you not come by the nine o' clock train？
S.It cannot be helped now； so never mind what you thought. But do not put off
my business again to the last moment. Has there been any further trouble
about the St Giles property？
L.The Sanitary Inspector has been oomplaining again about No.13 Robins's Row.
He says he'll bring it before the vestry.
S.Did you tell him that I am on the vestry？6
S.What did he say to that？
L.Said he supposed so， or you. wouldnt dare to break the law so scand' lous7.
I only tell you what he said.
S.Hm！ Do you know his name？
L.Yes， sir. Speakman.
S.Write it down in the diary for the day of the next meeting of the Health
Committee. I will teach Mr Speakman his duty to members of the vestry.
L.（doubtfully） The vestry cant hurt him， sir. He's under the Local Government
S.I did not ask you that. Let me see the books. （Lickcheese produces the rent
book， and hands it to Sartorius； then makes the desired entry in the diary
on the table， watching Sartorius with misgiving as the rent book is
examined. Sartorius rises， frowning.） One pound four for repairs to number
thirteen！ What does this mean？
L.Well， sir， it was the staircase on the third floor. It was downright
dangerous： there werent but three whole steps in it， and no handrail. I
thought it best to have a few boards put in.
S.Boarcls！ Firewood， sir， firewood！ They will burn every stick of it. You have
spent twenty - four shillings of money on firewood for them.
L.There ought to be stone stairs， sir： it would be a saving in the long run.
The clergyman says -
S.What！ Who save？'
L.The clergyman， sir， only the clergyman. Not that I make much account of him.
but if you knew how he has worried me over that staircase -
S.I am an Englishman； and I will suffer no priest to interfere in my business.
（He turns suddenly on Lickcheese.） Now look here， Mr Lickcheese！ This is
third time this year that you have brought me a bill of over a pound for
repairs. I have warned you repeatedly against dealing with these tenement
houses as if they were mansions in a West - End square. I have had occasion
to warn you too against discussing my affairs with strangers. You have
chosen to disregard my wishes. You are discharged.
L.（dismayed） Oh， sir， dont say that.
S.（fiercely） You are discharged.
L.Well， Mr Sartorius， it is hard， so it is. No man alive could have screwed
more out of them poor destitute devils8 for you than I have， or spent less
in doing it. I have dirtied my hands at it until theyre not fit for clean
work hardly， and now you trun me -
S.（interrupting him menacingly） What do you mean by dirtying your hands？ If I
find that you have stepped an inch outside the letter of the law，9 Mr
Lickcheese， I will prosecute you myself. The way to deep your hands clean is
to gain the confidence of your employers. You will do well to bear that in
mind in your next situation.
The Parlormaid （opening the door）。 Mr Trench and Mr Cokane. Cokane and Trench
come in： Trench festively dressed and in buoyant spirits： Cokane highly self
S.How do you do， Dr Trench？ Good morning， Mr Cokane. I am pleased to see you
here. Mr Lickcheese： you will place your accounts and money on the table： I
will examine them and settle with you presently.
Lickcheese retires to the table， and begins to arrange his accounts，
greatly depressed. The parlormaid withdraws.
T（Trench）。（glancing at Lickcheese） I hope we're not in the way.
S.By no means. Sit down， pray. I fear you have been kept waiting.
T.（taking Blanch's chair） Not at all. Wever only just come in.
（He takes out a packet of letters. and begins untying them.）
C.（Cokane）。（going to a chair nearer the window， but stopping to look
admiringly round before sitting down） You must be happy here with all these
books， Mr Sartorius. A literary atmosphere.
S.（resuming his seat） I have not looked into them. They are pleasant for
Blanche occasionally when she wishes to read. I chose the house because it
is on gravel. The death - rate is very low.
T.（triumphantly） I have an amount of letters for you. All my people are
delighted that I am going to settle. Aunt Maria wants Blanche to be married
from her house. （He hands Sartorius a latter.）
C.Lady Roxdale， my dear sir； he means Lady Roxdale. Do express yourself with a
little more tact， my dear fellow.
T.Lady Roxdale， of oourse. Uncle Harry -
C.Sir Harry Trench. His godfather， my dear sir， his godfather.
T.Just so. The pleasantest fellow for his age you ever met. He offers us his
house at St Andrews for a couple of months， if we care to pass our honeymoon
there. （He hands Sartorius another letter.） It's the sort of house nobody
can live in， you know； but it's a nice thing for him to offer. Don’t you
S.（dissembling a thrill at the titles） No doubt. These seem gratifying， Dr
T.Yes， aren't they？ Aunt Maria has really behaved like a brick.10
If you read the postscript youll see she spotted Cokane's hand in my letter.
（Chuckling） He wrote it for me.
S.（glancing at Cokane） Indeed！ Mr Cokane evidently did it withgreat tact.
C.（returning the glance） Dont mention it.
T（gleefuly） Well，。 what do you say now， Mr Sartorius？ May we re - gard the
matter as settled at last？
S.Quite settled. （He rises and offers his hand. Trench， glowingwith gratitude，
rises and shakes it vehemently， unable to findwords for his feelings.）
C.（coming between them） Allow me to congratulate you both. （He shankes hands
with the two at the same time.）
S.And now， gentlemen， I have a word to say to my daughter. Dr Trench： you will
not， I hope， grudge me the pleasure of breaking this news to her： I have had
to disappoint her more than once since I last saw you. Will you excuse me
for ten minutes？
C.（in a flush of friendly protest） My dear sir： can you ask？
S.Thank you. （He goes out.）
T.（chuckling again） He wont have any news to break， poor old boy： she's seen
all the letters already.
C.I must say your behavior has been far from straightforward， Harry. You have
been carryinhg on a clandestine correspondence.
L.（stealthily） Gentlemen -
（turning： they had forgotten his presence） Hallo！
L：（coming between them very humbly， but in mortal anxiety and haste） Look
here， gentlemen. （To Trench） You， sir， I address myself to more particlar.11
Will you say a word in my favor to the guvnor？12 He's just given me the
sack； and I have four children looking to me for their bread. A word from
you， sir， on this happy day， might get him to take me on again.
T.（embarrassed） Well， you see， Mr Lickcheese， I don't see how I can interfere.
I'm very sorry， of course.
C.Certainly you cannot interfere. It would be in the most execrable tssts.13
L.Oh， gentlemen， youre young； and you don't know what loss of emplyment means
to the like of me.14 What harm would it do you to help a poor man？ Just
listen to the circumstances， sir， I only
T.（moved， but snatching at an excuse for taking a high tone in avoiding the
unpleasanntness of helping him） No： I had rather not. Excuse me saying
plainly that I think Mr Sartorius is not a man to act hastily or harshly. I
have always found him very fair and generous； and I believe he is a better
judge of the circumstances than I am.
C.（inquisitive） I think you ought to hear the circumstanees. Harry. It can do
no harm. Hear the circumstances by all means.
L.Never mind， sir： it aint any use. When I hear that man called generous and
fair！ - well， never mind.
T.（severely） If you wish me to do anything for you， Mr Liekcheese， let me tell
you that you are not going the right way about it in speaking ill of Mr
L.Have I said one word against him， sir？ leave it to your friend：have I said a
C.True： true. Quite true. Harry： be just.
L.Mark my words， gentlemen： he'll find what a man he’s lost the very first
week's rents the new man’ll bring him. You'll find the difference15
yourself， Dr Trench， if you or your children come into the property. Ive
took money there when no other collector alive would have wrung it out. And
this is the thanks I get for it！ Why， see here， gentlemen！ Look at that bag
of money on the table.Hardly a penny of that but there was a hungry child
crying for the bread it would have bought.17 But I got it for him - screwed
and worried and bullied it out of them. I - look here， gentlemen： I'm pretty
seasoned to the work， but theres money there that I couldn't have taken if
it hadn't been for the thought of my own children depending on me for giving
him satisfaction. And because I charged him four - and - twenty shillin to
mend a staircase that three women have been hurt on， and that would have got
him prosecuted for manslaughter if it had been let go much longer， he gives
me the sack. Wouldn't listen to a word， though I would have offered to make
up the money out of my own pocket： aye， and am willing to do it still if you
will only put in a word for me.
T.（aghast） You took money that ought to have fed starving children！ Serve you
right！ If I had been the father of one of those children， I'd have given you
something worse than the sack. I wouldn't say a word to save your soul， if
you have such a thing. Mr Sartorius was quite right.
L.（staring at him， surprised into contemptuous amusement in the midst of his
anxiety） Just listen to this！ Well， you are an innocent young gentleman. Do
you suppose he sacked me because 1 was too hard？ Not a bit on it；18 it was
because I wasn't hard enough. never heard him say he was satisfied yet： no，
nor he wouldn't， not if Iskinned em alive. I don’t saw he's the worst
landlord in London： he couldn't be worse than some； but he’s no better than
the worst I ever had to do with. And， though I say it， I'm better than the
best collector he ever done business with. I've screwed more and spent less
on his properties than anyone would believe， that knows what such properties
are. I know my merits， Dr Trench， and will speak for myself if no one else
C.What description of properties？ Houses？
L.Tenement houses， let from week to week by the room or halfroom： aye， or
quarter room. It pays when you know how to work it，19 sir. Nothing like
it.20 It's been calculated on the cubic fott of space， sir， that you ean get
higher rents letting by the room than you can for a mansion in Park Lane.
T.I hope Mr Sartorius hasn't much of that sort of property， however it may
L.He has nothing else， sir； and he shows his sense in it，21 too. Every few
hundred pounds he could scrape together he bought old houses with： houses
that you wouldn't hardly look at without holding your nose. He has em in St
Giles's： he has em in Marylebone： he as em in Bethnal Green. Just look how
he lives himself， and you'll see the good of it to him. He likes a low
deathrate and a gravel soil for himself， he does. You come down with me to
Rob - bins's Row； and I’Ⅱ show you a soil and deathrate， I will！ And， mind
you， it's me that makes it pay him so well. Catch him going down to collect
his own rents！ Not likely！
T.Do you mean to say that all his property - all his means - come from this
sort of thing？
L.Every penny of it， sir.
（Trench， overwhelmed， has to sit down.）
C.（looking compassionately at him） Ah， my dear fellow， the love of money is
the root of all evil.
L.Yes， sir； and we'd all like to have the tree growing in our garden.
C.（retvolted） Mr Lickcheese： I did not address myself to you. I do not wish to
be severe with you； but there is something peculiarly repugant to my
feelings in the calling22 of a rent collector.
L.It's no worse than many another. I have my children looking to me.
C.True： I admit. So has our friend Sartorius. His affection for hisdaughter is
a redeeming point - a redeeming point， certainly.
L.She's a lucky daughter， sir. Many another daughter has beenturned out upon
the streets to gratify his affection for her. Thats what business is， sir，
you see. come， sir： I think your friend will say a word for me now he knows
I'm not in fault.
T.（rising angrily） I will not. It's a damnable business from beginning to end；
and you deserve no better luck for helping in it. I've seen it all among the
out - patients at the hospital； and it used to make my blood boil to think
that such things couldn't be prevented.
L.（his suppressed spleen breaking out） Oh indeed， sir. But 1 suppose you'll
take your share when you marry Miss Blanche， all the same. （Furiously） Which
of us is the worse， I should like to know？ me that wrings the money out to
keep a home over my children， or you that spend it and try to shove the
blame on to me？
C.A most improper observation to address to a gentleman， Mr Lick - cheese！ A
most revolutionary sentiment！
L.Perhaps so. But then Robbins's Row aint a school for manners. You collect a
week or two there - youre welcome to my place if I can't keep it for myself
- and you'll hear a little plain speaking， you will.
C.（with dignity） Do you know to whom you are speaking， my good man？
L.（recklessly） I know well enough who I'm speaking to. What do I care for you，
or a thousand such？ I'm poor： thats enough to make a rascal of me. No
consideration for me！ nothing to be got by saying a word for me！ （Suddenly
cringing to Trench） Just a word， sir. It would cost you nothing. （Sartorius
appears at the door， unobserved.） Have some feeling for the poor.
T.I'm afraid you have shown very little， by your own confession.
L.（breaking out again） More than your precious father - in - law， anyhow， I -
（Sartorius's voice， striking in with deadly coldness， paralyzes him.）
S.You will come here tomorrow not later than ten， Mr Lickcheese， to conclude
our business. I shall trouble you no further today. （Lickcheese， cowed， goes
out amid dead silence. Sartorius continues， after an awkward pause.） He is
one of my agents， or rather was； for I have unfortunately had to dismiss him
for repeatedly disregarding my instructions. （Trench says nothing. Sartorius
throws off his embarrassment， and assumes a jocose， rallying air， unbecoming
to him under any circumstances， and just now almost unbearably jarring.）
Blanche will be down presently， Harry （Trench recoils.） - I suppose I must
call you Harry now. What do you say to a stroll throung the garden， Mr
Cokane？ We are celebrated here for our flowers.
C.Chalmed，23 my dear sir， charmed. Life here is an idyll - a perfectidyll， We
were just dwelling on it.24
S.（slyly） Harry can follow with Blanche. We will be down directly.
T.（hastily；） No. 1 can't face her just now.
S.（rallying him） Indeed！ Ha， ha！
The laugh， the first they have heard from him， sets Trench's teeth on
edge.25 Cokane is taken aback， but instantly recovers himself.
C.Ha！ ha！ ha！ Ho！ ho！
T.But you don't understand.
S.Oh， I think we do， I think we do. Eh， Mr Cokane？ Ha！ ha！
C.I should think we do. Ha！ ha！ ha！
They go out together， laughing at him. He collapses into a chair shuddering
in every nerve. Blanche appears at the door. Her face lights up when she
sees that he is alone. She trips noiselessly to the back of his chair and
clasps her hands over his eyes. With a con vulsive start and exclamation he
springs up and breaks away from her.
T.（with distressed politeness） I beg your pardon. I was thinking - won't you
B.（looking suspiciously at him） Is anything the matter？
（She sits down slowly near the writing table. He takes Cockane's chair.）
T.No. Oh no.
B.Papa has not been disagreeable， I hope.
T.No： I have hardly spoken to him since I was with you. （He rises； takes up
his chair； and plants it beside hers. This pleases her better. She looks at
him with her most winning smile. A sort of sob breaks from him； and he
catches； her hands and kisses them passionately. Then， looking into her eyes
with intense carnestness， he says） Blanche： are you fond of money？
B.（gaily） Very. Are you going to give me any？
T.（wincing） Don't make a joke of it： I’m serious. Do you know that we shall be
B.Is that what made you look as if you had neuralgia？
T.（pleadingly） My dear： it's no laughing matter. Do you know that I have a
bare seven hundred a year to live on？
T.Blanche：it's very serious indeed： I assure you it is.
B.It would keep me rather short in my house - keeping， dearest boy， if I had
nothing of my own. But papa has promised me that I shall be richer than ever
when we are married.
T.We must do the best we can with seven hundred. I think we. ought to be self
B.That's just what I mean to be， Harry. If I were to eat up half your seven
hundred， I should be making you twice as poor； but I'm going to make you
twice as rich instead. （He shakes his head.） Has papa made any difficulty？
T.（rising with a sigh and taking his chair back to its former place）No. None
at all. （He sits down dejectedly. When Blanche speaks again her face and
voice betray the beginning of a struggle with her temper.）
B.Harry： are you too proud to take money from my father？
T.Yes， Blanche： I am too proud.
B.（after a pause） That is not nice to me， Harry.
T.You must bear with me， Blanche. I - I can't explain. After all， it’s very
B.Has it occured to you that I may be proud too？
T.Oh， that's nonsense. No one will accuse you of marrying for money.
B.No one would think the worse of me if I did， or of you either. （She rises
and begins to walk restlessly about.） We really cannot live on seven hundred
a year， Harry； and I don't think it quite fair of you to ask me merely
because you are afraid of people talking.
T.It's not that alone， Blanche.
B.What else is it， then？
T.Nothing. I -
B.（getting behind him， and speaking with foreed playfulness as she bends over
him， her hands on his shoulders） Of course it's nothing. Now don’t be
absurd， Harry： be good； and listen to me： I know how to settle if. You are
too proud to owe anything to me； and I am too proud to owe anything to you.
You have seven hundred a year. Well， I will take just seven hundred a year
from papa at first； and then we shall be quits.26 Now now， Harry， you know
you've not a word to say against that.
T.Yes， impossible. I have resolved not to take any money from your father.
B.But he'll give the money to me， not to you.
T.It's she same thing. （With an effort to be sentimenal） I love you too well
to see any distinction. （He puts up his hand halfheartedly； she takes it
over his shoulder with equal indecision. They are both trying hard to
conciliate one another.）
B.Thats a very nice way of putting it， Harry； but I'm sure there’s something I
ought to know. Has papa been disagreeable？
T.No： he has been very kind - to me， at least. It's not that. It’s nothing you
can guess， Blanche. It would only pain you - perhaps offend you. 1 don't
mean， of course， that we shall live always on seven hundred a year. I intend
to go at my profession in earnest， and work my fingers to the bone.
B.（playing with his fingers， still over his shoulder） But I shouldn't like you
with your fingers worked to the bone. Harry. I must be told what the matter
is. （He takes his hand quickly away， she flushes angrily； and her wice is no
longer even an imitation of the voice of a lady as she exclaims） I hate
secret； and I don't like to be treated as if I were a child.
T.（annoyed by her tone） There's nothing to tell. I dont choose to trespass on
your father's generosity：27 thats all.
B.You had no objection half an hour ago， when you met me in thehall， and
showed me all the letters. Your family doesn't object. Do you object？
T.（earnestly） I do not indeed. It's only a question of money.
B.（imploringly， the voice softening and refining for the last time） Harry：
there's no use in our fencing in this way. Papa will never consent to my
being absolutely dependent on you， and I don't like the idea of it myself.
If you even mention such a thing to him you will break off the match： you
T.（obstinately） I can't help that.
B.（white with rage） You can't help - ！ Oh， I’m beginning to understand. I will
save you the trouble. you can tell papa that I have broken off the match；
and then there will be no further difficulty.
T.（taken aback） What do you mean， Blanche？ Are you offended？
B.Offended！ How dare you ask me？
B.How much more manly it would have been to confess that you were trifling
with me that time on the Rhine！ Why did you come here today？ Why did you
write to your people？
T.Well， Blanche， if you are going to lose your temper -
B.Thats no answer. You depended on your family to get you out of your
engagement； and they did not object： they were only too glad to be rid of
you. You were not mean enough to stay away， and not manly enough to tell the
truth. You thought you could provoke me to break the engagement： that's so
like a man - to try to put the woman in the wrong.28 Well， you have your
way： I release you. I wish you opened my eyes29 by downright brutality； by
striking me； by anything rather than shuffling as you have done.
T.（hotly） Shuffling！ If I'd thought you capable of turning on me like this，
I'd never have spoken to you. I’ve a good mind never to speak to you again.
B.You shall not - not ever. I will take care of that. （going to the door）
T.（alarmed） What are you going to do？
B.To get your letters： you false letters， and your presents： your hateful
presents， to return them to you. I'm very glad it’s all broken off； and if -
（as she puts hand to door it is opened from without by Sartorius， who enters
and shuts it behind him）
S.（interrupting her severely） Hush， pray， Blanche： you are forgetting
yourself： you can beheard all over the house. What is the matter？
B.（too angry to care whether she is overheard or not） You had better ask him.
He has some excuse about money.
S.Excuse！ Excuse for what？
B.For throwing me over.30
T.（vehemently） I declare I never -
B.（interrupting him still more vehemently） You did. You did.
You are doing nothing else -
T.（together：each trying I am doing nothing of the sort.
B.to shout down the other） What else is it but throwing me
You know very well that what you are saying is disgracefully
over？ But I don't care for you. I hate you. I always hate you.
untrue. It's a damned lie. I wont stand -
Beastly - dirty - vile -
S.（in desperation at the noise） Silence！ （still more formidably） Silence！
（They obey. He proceeds firmly） Blanche： you must control your temper： I
will not have these repeated scenes within hearing of the servants. Dr
Trench will answer for himself to me. You had better leave us. （He opens the
door， and calls.） Mr Cokane： will you kindly join us here？
C.（in the conservatory） Coming， my dear sir， coming. （He opens the door.）
B.I'm sure I heve no wish to stay. I hope I shall find you alone when I come
back. （An inarticulate exclamation bursts from Trench. She goes out， passing
Cokane resentfully. He looks after her in surprise； then looks questioningly
at the two men. Sartorius shuts the door with an angry stroke， and turns to
S.（aggressively） Sir -
T.（interrupting him more aggressively） Well， sir？
C.（getting between them） Gently， dear boy， gently. Suavity， Harry， suavity.
S.（mastering himself） if you have anything to say to me， Dr Trench， I will
listen to you patiently. You will then allow me to say what I have to say on
T.（ashamed） I beg your pardon. Of course， yes. Fire away.
S.May I take it that you have refused to fulfil your engagement with my
T.Certainly not： your daughter has refused to fulfil her engagement with me.
But the match is broken off， if that's what you mean.
S.Dr Trench： I will be plain with you. I know that Blanche has a quick temper.
It is part of her strong character and her physical courage， which is
greater than that of most men， I can assure you. You must be prepared for
that. If this quarrel is only Blanche's temper， you may take my word for it
that it will be over before tomorrow. But I understand from what she said
just now that you have some difficulty on the score of money.
T.（with renewed excitement） It was Miss Sartorius who made the difficulty. I
shouldn't have minded that so much， if it hadn’t been for the things she
said. She showed that she doesn't care that（snapping his fingers） for me.
C.（soothingly） Dear boy -
T.Hold your tongue， Billy：it's enough to make a man wish he’d never seen a
woman. Look here， Mr Sartorius： I put the matter to her as delicately and
considerately as possible， never mentioning a word of my reasons， but just
asking her to be content to live on my own littie income； and yet she turned
on me as if I'd behaved like a savage.
S.Live on your income！ Impossible： my daughter is accustomed to a proper
establishment. Did I not expressly undertake to provide for that？ Did she
not tell you I promised her to do so？
T.Yes， I know all about that， Mr Sartorius； and I'm greatly obliged to you；
but I'd rather not take anything from you except Blanche herself.
S.And why did you not say so before？
T.No matter why. Let us drop the subject.
S.No matter！ But it does matter， sir. I insist on an answer. Why did you not
say so before7
T.No matter why. Let us drop the subject.
S.No matter！ But it does matter， sir. I insist on an answer. Why did you not
say so before？
T.No matter why. Let us drop the subject.
S.No matter！ But it does matter， sir. I insist on an answer. Why did you not
say so before7
T.I didn't know before.
S.（provoked） Then you ought to have known your own mind on a point of such
T.（much injured） I ought to have known！ Cokane： is this reason able？ （Cokane's
features are contorted by an a air of judicial consideration； but he says
nothing； and Trench again addresses Sartorius， this time with a marked
diminution of respect.） How the duce could I have known？ You didn't tell me.
S.You are trifling with me， sir. You said that you did not know your own mind
T.1 said nothing of the sort. I say that I did not know where your money came
S.That is not true， sir. I -
C.Gently， my dear sir. Gently， Harry， dear boy， Suaviter in modo； fort -31
T.Let him begin， then. What does he mean by attacking me in this fashion？
S.Mr Cokane： you will bear me out. I was explicit on the point. I said I was a
self - made man； and I am not ashamed of it.
T.You are nothing of the sort. I found out this morning from your man -
Lickcheese， or whatever his confounded name is - that your fortune has been
made out of a parcel of unfortunate creatures that have hardly enough to
deep body and soul togethermade by screwing， and bullying and threatening，
and all sorts of pettifogging tyranny.
S.（outraged） Sir！ （They confront one another threateningly.）
C.（softly） Rent must be paid， dear boy. It is inevitable， Harry， inevitable.
（Trench turns away petulantly. Sartorius looks after him reflectively for a
moment； then resumes his former deliberate and dignified manner， and
addresses Trench with studied consideration， but with a perceptible
condescension to his youth and folly.）
S.I am afraid， Dr Trench， that your are a very young hand at busi ness； and I
am sorry I forgot that for a moment or so. May I ask you to suspend your
judgment until we have had a little quiet dis cussion of this sentimental
notion of yours？ If you will excuse me for calling it so. （He takes a chair，
and motions Trench to another on his right.）
C.Very nicely put， my dear sir. Come， Harry： sit down and listen； and consider
the matter calmly and judicially. Don't be head strong.
T.I have no objection to sit down and listen； but I don't see how that can
make black white； and I am tired of being turned on as if I were in the
wrong. （He sits down.）
Cokane sits at Trench's elbow， on his right. They compose themselves for a
S.I assume， to begin with， Dr Trench， that you are not a Socialist， or
anything of that sort.
T.Certainly not. I'm a Conservative. At least， if I ever took the trouble to
vote， I should vote for the Conservative and against the other fellow.32
C.True blue，33 Harry true blue！
S.I am glad to find that so far we are in perfect sympathy. I am， of course， a
Conservative. Not a narrow or prejudiced one， I hope， not at all opposed to
true progress. Still， a sound Conservative. As to Lickcheese， I need say no
more about him than that I have dismissed him from my service this morning
for a breach of trust； and you will hardly accept his testimony as friendly
or disinterested. As to my business， it is simply to provide homes suited to
the small means of very poor people. Do you suppose I can keep up those
roofs for nothing？
T.Yes： thats all very fine； but the point is， what sort of homes do you give
them for their money？ People must live somewhere， or else go to jail.
Advantage is taken of that to make them pay for houses that are not fit for
dogs. Why don't you build proper dwellings， and give fair value for the
money you take？
S.（pitying his innocence） My young friend： these poor people do not know how
to live in proper dwellings； they would wreck them in a week. You doubt me：
try it for yourself. You are welcome to replace all the missing banisters，
handrails， cisten lids and dusthole tops at your own expense； and you will
find them missing again in less than three days： burnt， sir， every stick of
them. I do not blame the poor creatures： they need fires， and often have no
other was of getting them. But I really cannot spend pound after pound in r
repairs for them to pull down， when I can barely get them to pay me four and
sixpence a week for a room， which is the recognized fair London rent. No，
gentlemen： when people are very poor， you cannot help them， no matter how
much you may sympathize with them. It does them more harm than good in the
long run. I prefer to save my money in order to provide additional houses
for the homeless， and to lay by a little for Blanche. （he looks at them.
They are silent： Trench unconvinced， but talked down， Cokane humanely
perplexed. Sartorius bends his brows； comes forward in his chair as if
gathering himself for a spring； and addresses himself， with impressive
significance， to Trench.） And now， Dr Trench， may I ask what your income is
T.（defiantly） From interest： not from houses. My hands are cleanas far as that
goes. Interest on a mortgage.
S.（forcibly） Yes： a mortgage on my property. When I， to use your own words，
screw， and bully， and drive these people to pay what they have freely
undertaken to pay me， I cannot touch one penny of the money they give me
until I have first paid you your seven hundred a year out of it. What
Lickcheese did for me， I do for you. He and I are alike intermediaries： you
are the principal. It is because of the risks I run through the property of
my tenants that you exact interest from me at the monstrous and exorbitant
rate of seven per cent， forcing me to exact the uttermost farthing in my
turn from the tenants. And yet， Dr Trench， you， who have never done a hand's
turn of work in connection with the place， you have not hesitated to speak
contemptuously of me because I have applied my industry and forethought to
the management of our property， and am maintaining it by the same honorable
C.（greatly relieved） Admirable， my dear sir， excellent！ I felt instinctively
that Trench was talking unpractical nonsense. Let us drop the subject， my
dear boy： you only make an ass of yourself34 when you meddle in business
matters. I told you it was inevitable.
T.（dazed） Do you mean to say that I am just as bad as you are？
C.Shame， Harry， shame！ Grossly bad taste！35 Be a gentleman， Apologize.
S.Allow me， Mr Cokane. （To Trench） If， when you say you are just as bad as I
am， you mean that you are just as powerless to alter the state of society，
then you are unfortunately right.
Trench does not at once reply. He stares at Sartorius， and then hangs his
head and gazes stupidly at the floor， morally beggared. With his clasped
knuckles between his knees， a living picture of disillusion. Cokane comes
sympathetically to him and puts an encouraging hand on his shoulder.
C.（gently） Come， Harry， come！ Pull yourself together. You owe a word to36 Mr
T.（still stupefied， slowly unlaces his fingers； puts his hands on his knees，
and lifts himself upright； pulls his waistcoat straight with a tug； and
tries to take his disenchantment philosophically as he says， turning to
Sartorius） Well， people who live in glass houses have no right to throw
stones. But， on my honor， I never knew that my house was a glass one until
you pointed it out. I beg your pardon. （He offers his hand.）
S.Say no more， Harry： your feelings do you credit： I assure you I feel exactly
as you do， myself. Every man who has a heart must wish that a better state
of things was practicable. But unhappily it is not.
T.（a little consoled） I suppose not.
C.Not a doubt of it， my dear sir： not a doubt of it. The increase of the
population is at the bottom of it all.37
S.（to Trench） I trust I have convinced you that you need no more object to
Blanche sharing my fortune than I need object to her sharing yours.
T.（with dull wistfulness） It seems so. We're all in the same swim，38 it
appears. I hope you'll excuse my making such a fuss.
S.Not another word. In fact， I thank you for refraining from explaining the
nature of your scruples to Blanche： I admire that in you， Harry. Perhaps it
will be as well to Leave her in ignorance.
T.（anxiously） But I must explain now. You saw how angry she was.
S.You had better leave that to me. （He looks at his watch， and rings the
bell.） Lunch is nearly due： while you are getting ready for it I can see
Blanche； and I hope the result will be quite satisfactory to us all. （The
parlormaid answers the bell： he addresses her with his habitual
peremptoriness.） Tell Miss Blanche I want her.
The Parlormaid（relieved）。 Yes， sir. （She goes out.）
S.I will show you your room， Harry. I hope you will soon be perfectly at home
in it. You also， Mr Cokane， must learn your way about here. Let us go before
Blanche comes. （He leads the way to the door.）
C.（cheerily， following him） Our little discussion has given me quite an
T.（moodily） It's taken mine away.
The two friends go out， Sartorius holding the door for them. He is following
when the parlormaid reappears. She is a snivelling sympathetie creature， and
is on the verge of tears.
S.Well， is Miss Blanche coming？
The Parlormaid. Yes， sir， I think so， sir.
S.Wait here until she comes； and tell her that I will be back in a moment. I
have to show Dr Trench his room.
The Parlormaid. Yes， sir. （She comes into the room. A sound between a sob
and a sniff escapes her.）
（Sartorius looks suspiciously at her. He half closes the door.）
S.（lowering his voice） Whats the matter with you？
The Parlormaid.（whimpering） Nothing， sir.
S.（at the same pitch， more menacingly） Take care how you behave yourself when
there are visitors present. Do you hear？
The Parlormaid. Yes， sir. （Sartorius goes out.）
S.（outside） Excuse me： I had a word to say to the servant.
Trench is heard replying'Not at all，’ and Cokane'Don’t mention it， my dear
Their voices pass out of hearing. The Parlormaid sniffs， dries her eyes； and
takes some brown paper and a ball of string from a cupboard under the
bookcase. She puts them on the table， and wrestles with another sob. Blanche
comes in， with a jewel box in her hands. Her expression is that of a strong
and determined woman in an intense passion. The maid looks at her with
abject wounded affection and bodily terror.
B.（looking round） Where's my father？
The Parlormaid（tremulously propitiatory） He left word he'd be back directly，
miss. I'm sure he won’t be long. Heres the paper and string all ready， miss.
（She spreads the paper on the table.） Can I do the parcel for you， miss？
B.No. Mind your own business. （She empties the box on the sheet of brown
paper. It contains a packet of letters and some jewellery. She plucks a ring
from her finger and throws it down on the heap so angrily that it rolls away
and falls on the carpet.
The Parlormaid submissively picks it up and puts it on the table， again
sniffling and drying her eyes.）
What are you crying for？
The Parlormaid. （plaintively） You speak so brutal to me， Miss Blanche； and I
do love you so. I'm sure no one else would stay and put up with what I have
to put up with.
B.Then go. I don't want you. Do you hear？ Go.
The Parlormaid. （piteously；， falling on her knees） Oh no， Miss Blanche.
Don't send me away from you： dont
B.（with fierce disgust） Ah！ I hate the sight of you. （The maid， wounded to the
heart， cries bitterly.） Hold your tongue. Are those two gentlemen gone？
The Parlormaid. （protesting and imploring， but in a carefully sub dued
voice） Let me go， Miss Blanche： you know you'll be sorry： you always are.
Remember how dreadfully my head was cut last time.
B.（raging） Answer me， will you. Have they gone？
The Parlormaid. Lickcheese has gone， looking dreadf -
（She breaks off with a stifled cry as Blanche's fingers tighten furiously
B.Did I ask you about Lickcheese？ You beast： you know who I mean： youre doing
it on purpose.
The Parlormaid. （in a gasp） They're staying to lunch.
B.（looking intently into her face） He？
The Parlormaid. （whispering with a sympathetic nod） Yes， miss. （Blanche lets
her drop， and stands forlom， with despair in her face. The parlormaid，
recognizing the passing of the crisis of passion， and fearing no further
violence， sits discomfortedly on her heels， and tries to arrange her hair
and cap， whimpering a little with exhaustion and soreness.） Now you've set
my hands all trembling； and shall jingle the things on the tray at lunch so
that everybody will notice me. It's too bad of you， Miss B1 - （Sartorius
B.（quickly） Sh！ Get up. （The parlormaid hastily rises， and goes out as
demurely as she can. Sartorius glances sternly at her and comes to Blanche.）
S.（mournfully） My dear： con you not make a little better fight with your
B.（panting with the subsidence of her fit） No I can't. I won’t. I do my best.
Nobody who really cares for me gives me up because of my temper. I never
show my temper to any of the ser vants but that girl； and she is the only
one that will stay with us.
S.But， my dear， remember that we have to meet our visitors at luncheon
presently. I have run down before them to say that I have arranged that
litte difficulty with Trench. It was only a piece of mischief made by
Lickcheese. Trench is a young fool； but it is all right now.
B.I don't want to marry a fool.
S.Then you will have to take a husband over thirty， Blanche. You must not
exppect too much， my child. You will be richer than your husband， and， I
think， cleverer too. I am bettr pleased that it should be so.
B.（seizing his arm） Papa.
S.Yes， my dear.
B.May I do as I like about this marriage； or must I do as you like？
S.（uneasily） Blanche -
B.No. papa： you must answer me.
S.（abandoning his self - control and giving way recklessly to his affection
for her） You shall do as you like now and always， my beloved child. I only
wish to do as my own darling pleases.
B.Then I will not marry him. He has played fast and loose with me. He thinks
us beneath him： he is ashamed of us： he dared to object to being benefited
by you - as if it were not natural for him to owe you everything； and yet
the money tempted him after all. （She throws her arms hysterically about his
neck.） Papa： I don't want to marry； I only want to stay with you and be
happy as we have always been. I hate the thought of being married： I don't
care for him， I don't want to leave you. （Trench and Cokane come in； but she
can hear nothing but her own voice and does not notice them.） Only send him
away： promise me that you will send him away keep me here with you as we
have al-ways-（seeing Trench） Oh！ （She hides her face on her father's
T.（nervously） 1 hope we are not intruding.
S.（formidably） Dr Trench： my daughter has changed her mind.
T.（disconcerted） Am I to understand -
C.（striking in his most vinegary manner） I think， Harry， under the
circumstances， we have no alternative but to seek luncheon else where.
T.But， Mr Sartorius， have you explained？
S.（straight in Trench's face） I have explained， sir. Good morning. （Trench，
outraged， advances a step. Blanche sinks away from her father into a chair.
Sartorius stands his ground rigidly.）
T.（turning away indignantly） Come on， Cokane.
C.Certainly， Harry， certainly. （Trench goes out， very angry. The parlormaid，
with a tray jingling in her hands， passes outside.） You have disappointed
me， sir， very acutely. Good moming. （He follows Trench.）
1.handsomely appointed： well equipped and furnished.
2.smartly tooled books： books having ornament with designs on the ridges pressed on with a heated tool.
3.he prefers to communicate the result of his - ：he prefers to tell the result of his talk with his own people about the marriage.
5.terrier：a kind of dog used for hunting.
6.I am on the vestry： I am a member of the council of representatives of this parish.
7.scand'lous = scandalously.
8.them poor destitute devils = those poor destitute devils； referring to the poor tenants.
9.have stepped an inch outside the letter of the law： have done something to break the law.
10.behave like a brick： be generons or kind - hearted.
11.particlar： Lickcheese meant to say "particularly"。
12.guvnor： wrongly used here for "governor"。
13.be in the most execrable taste： be most improper.
14.the like of me： people like me.
15.the difference： the difference between me and the new rent collector.
16.come into the property： succeed to the tenement houses.
17.Hardly a penny of that but it would have bought = There's hardly a penny of that money that was not taken from a family in which there was a hungry child crying for the bread the money would have bought.
18.Not a bit on it： Not a bit on that account.
19.It pays when you know how to work it： It will bring you a lot of money when you know how to manage it.
20.Nothing like it = There's nothing like it.
21.he shows his sense in it： He's experienced in making money out of the tenement houses.
23.charmed：We're glad to have a walk through the garden.
24.We were just dwelling on it： We were just thinking of it.
25.sets Trench's teeth on edge： makes Trench feel unplea sant.
26.be quits： be on even terms.
27.don't choose to trespass on your father’s generosity： don't like to make too much use of your father’s generosity.
28.put the woman in the wrong： shift the responsibility onto the shoulders of the woman.
29.opened my eyes：made me understand.
30.throwing me over： abandoning me.
31.Suaviter in modo； fort：（Latin） = suaviter in modo， fortiter in re， meaning gentle in manner but firm in action.
32.the other fellow：referring to the Labour Party.
33.True blue： meaning a faithful member of the Conservative Party， whose compaigning colour is blue.
34.make an ass of yourself： make a fool of yourself.
35.（in） bad taste：inappropriate.
36.owe a word to （sb.）： owe a word of apology to （sb.）。
37.The increase of the population is at the bottom of it all：The increase of the population is the root cause of the problem.
38.in the same swim： in the same situation.
1.What do you think of the way Sartorius disclosed the news of Dr Trench's visit？
2.Find examples to show the use of puns in this act of the play.
3.Discuss the dual nature in Lickcheese's characteristics.
4.Instead of merely condemning the landlord， the playwright makes efforts to examine the problem of slum landlordism from various aspects. Discuss this.
INTRODUCTION TO THE AUTHOR：
James Joyce was born in Dublin on February 2，1882. His father was a rate - collector. Joyce was educated at two Jesuit schools， first at Clongowes Wood College and later at Belvedere College. He did well at school， being interested in poetry， Latin and modern language. In 1898 he went to the University College， Dublin， where he studied philosophy and languages. He was interested in the the atre and in April 1900 he wrote in the Fornightly Review on Ibsen't When We Dead Awaken. He graduated from the University in 1902.
As a young man， Joyce was dissatisfied with the narrowness and intolerance of the Irish Catholicism. So in October 1902 he went to Paris， but returned to Dublin a year later as his mother was dying. In 1904 he got married and left Ireland for good. He spent the rest of his life abroad， chiefly in Trieste， Paris and Zurich， writng prose and poetry and often earning a living by teaching and translating. All his life， in spite of his poverty， periods of semi - blindness and difficulties with censors， he retained the agility， curiosity and sensibility of his youth.
Joyce's first published work was a volume of verse， Chamber Music（1907）， followed by Dubliners （short stories， 1914）， Exiles （a play， 1918） and A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man （a largely autobiographical work， first published serially in The Egoist between 1914-15）。 His famous novel Ulysses was first published in Paris in 1922， and Finnegans Wake was published in its complete form in 1939. The last two works revolutionized the form and structure of the novel in the development of the stream of consciousness technique， and in Finnegans Wake， especially， language was pushed to the extreme limits of communication. He has great influence on subsequent novelists. And he is regarded as the most important and most important and most influential novelist in the 20th century. He died in Zurich on January 13，1941.
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man is James Joyce's repre sentative work and is one of the masterpieces in English literature. It took him ten years （1904-14） to complete it， which finally appeared in America in 1916 and in England a year later. Joyce first wrote it under the title of Stephen Hero. But when he recast it afterwards， he changed the title to the present one. With the change in the title and the rearrangements in materials， the stress of the book is shifted from "the young man" to "the artist"。
When the book first appeared the reception by the public was very mixed. One reviewer called it "a study in garbage" and another "a brilliant and nasty variety of pseudo - realism"。 But it was also hailed as "one of the most remarkable confessions outside Russia and French literature"； Ezra Pound （1885-1972） said it contained the best prose of creative invention； while the English magazine The Nation called Joyce "a new writer with a new form"
A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man is an autobiography of James Joyce. However， we should not read it as straight' autobiography， because it is a work of art， not just a slice of life. And since matereials of the life it creates have been selected， aranged， altered， dramatized and fictionized to support the central theme， they are not necessarily true to the facts， though they are probably all true to the spirit of Joyce’s development from childhood to adolescence and youth.
EXCERPT FROM THE BOOK：
He could wait no longer.
From the door of Byron's publie - 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 scrupulously in the spaces of the patchwork of the footpath，2 then timing their fall to the fall of verses.3 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 abruptly for the Bull， walking rapidly lest his father's shrill 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，4 as he had read from her listlss silence. Yet her mistrust pricked him more keenly than his father's pride5 and he thought coldly how he had watched the faith which was fading down in his soul6 ageing and strengthening in her eyes. A dim antagonism gathered force within him and darkened his mind as a cloud against her disloyalty7： and when it passed， cloudlike， leaving his mind serene and dutiful towards her again， he was made aware dimly and without regret of a first noiseless sundering of their lives.8
The university！ So he had passed beyond the challenge of the sentries who had stood as guardians of his boyhood9 and had sought to keep him among them that he might be subject to them10 and serve their ends. Pride after satisfaction uplifted him like long slow waves. The end11 he had been born to serve yet did not see had led him to escape by an unseen path and now it beckoned 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 upwards a tone and downwards 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 erelude， endless and formless； and， as it grew wilder and faster， the flames leaping out of time， he seemed to hear from under the boughs and grasses wild creatures racing， their feet pattering like rain upon the leaves. Their feet passed in pattering tumult over his mind， the feet of hares and rabbit， the feet of harts and hinds and antelopes， until he heard them no more and remembered only a proud cadence from Newman12：
-Whose feet are as the feet of harts and underneath the everlasting arms.
The pride of that dim image13 brought back to his mind the dignity of the office14 he had refused. All through his boyhood he had mused upon that15 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 law between： the oils of ordination16 would never anoint his body. He had refused. Why？
He turned seawards from the road at Dollymount and as he passed on to the thin wooden bridge he felt the planks shaking with the tramp of heavily shod feet.17 A squad 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 resounding. The uncouth 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 indifference， a faint stain of personal shame and commiseration rose to his own face. Angry with himself he tried to hide his face from their eyes by gazing down sideways into the shallow swirling water under the bridge but he still saw a reflection therein of their topheavy silk hats， and humble and humble tapelike collars and loosely hanging clerical clothes.
Brother Keogh. -
Their piety would be like their names， like their faces， like their clothes；18 and it was idle for him to tell himself that their humble and contrite hearts， it might be， paid a far richer tribute of devotion than his had ever been， a gift tenfold more acceptable than his elaborate adoration. 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 embittering， 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 intensity of love but to love him as ourselves with the same kind of love.19
He drew forth a phrase from his treasure20 and spoke it softly to himself： - A day of dappled seaborne clouds.21
The phrase and the day and the scene harmonized in a chord. Words.22 Was it their colotlrs？ He allowed them to glow and fade， hue after hue： sunrise gold， the russet and green of apple orchards azure of waves， the grey - fringed fleece of clouds.23 No， it was not their colours： it was the poise and balance of the period itself. Did he then love the rhythmic rise and fall of words24 better than their associations of legend and colour？ Or was it that， being as weak of sight25 as he was of mind， he drew less pleasure from the reflection of the glowing sensible world through the prism of a language many - coloured and richly storied26 than from the contemplation of an inner world of individual emotions mirrored perfectly in a lucid supple periodic prose？
He passed from the trembling bridge on to firm land again.27 At that instant， as it seemed to him the air was chilled and， looking askance towards the water， he saw a flying squall28 darkening and crisping suddenly the tide. A faint click at his heart， a faint throb in his throat told him once more of how his flesh dreaded the cold infrahuman odour of the sea； yet he did not strike across the downs on his left but held straight on along the spine of rocks that pointed 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 slow - flowing Liffey slender masts flecked the sky and， more distant still， the dim fabric of the city lay prone in haze. Like a scene on some vague arras， old as man's weariness， the image of the seventh city of christendom29 was visible to him across the timeless air， no older norweary nor less palient of subjection than in the days of the thingmote.30
Disheartened， he raised his eyes towards the slow - drifting clouds， dappled and seaborne.31 They were voyaging across the deserts of the sky， a host of nomads on the march32， voyaging high over Ireland， westward bound. The Europe they had come from lay out there beyond the Irish Sea. Europe of strange tongues and valleyed and woodbegirt and cirtadelled and of entrenched and marshalled races33. 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 recede， to recede， to recede； and from each receding trail of nebulous music there fell always one long - drawn calling note， piercing like a star the dusk of silence. Again！ Again！ A voice from beyond the world was calling.34
-Here comes The Dedalus！
-Ao！ ……Eh， give it over，35 Dwyer. I'm telling you or I’ll give you a stuff in the kisser36 for yourself……Ao！
-Good man， Towser！ Duck him！37
-Come along， Dedalus！ Bous Stephanoumenos！ Bous Stephaneforos！
-Duck him！ Guzzle him38 now， Towse！
-Help！ Help！ ……Ao！
He recognized their speech collectively before he distinguished their faces. The mere sight of that medley of wet nakedness chilled him to the bone. Their bodies， corpse - white or suffused with a pallid golden light or rawly tanned by the suns， gleamed with the wet of the sea. Their diving - stone， poised on its rude supports and rocking under their plunges， and the rough - hewn stones of the sloping breakwater over which they scrambled in their horseplay，39 gleamed with cold wet lustre. The towels with which they smacked their bodies were heavy with cold seawater： and drenched with cold brine was their matted hair.
He stood still in deference to their calls and parried their banter with easy words. How characterless they looked： Shuley without his deep unbuttoned collar， Ennis without his scarlet belt with the snaky clasp， and Connolly40 without his Norfolk coat with the flapless sidepockets！ It was a pain to see them and a sword - like pain to see the signs of adolescence that made repellent their pitiable nakedness. Perhaps they had taken refuge in number and noise from the secret dread in their souls. But he， apart from them and in silence， remembered in what dread he stood of the mystery of his own body.41
-Stephanos Dedalos！ Bous Stephanoumenos！ Bous Stephane - foros！
Their banter was not new to him42 and now it flattered his mild proud sovereignty. Now， as never before， his strange name seemed to him a prophecy43. So timeless seemed the grey warm air， so fluid and impersonal his own mood， that all ages were as one to him. A moment before the ghost of the ancient kingdom of the Danes44 had looked forth through the vesture of the hazewrapped city. Now， at the name of the fabulous artificer45， he seemed to hear the noise of dim waves and to a winged form flying above the waves and slowly climbing the air. What did it mean？ Was it a quaint device opening a page of some medieval book of prophecies and symbols， a hawklike man flying sunwards 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 earth46 a new soaring impalpable imperishable being？
His heart trembled； his breath came faster and a wild spirit passed over his limbs as though he were soaring sunwards47. His heart trembled in an ecstasy 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 incertitude and made radiant and commingled with the element of the spirit. An ecatasy 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！
His throat ached with a desire to cry aloud， the cry of a hawk 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 inhuman voice that had called him to the pale service of the altar. An instant of wild fiight48 had delivered him and the cry of triumph which his lips withheld cleft his brain.
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 linens of the grave？
His soul had arisen from the grave of boyhood， spurning her graveclothes. 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 nervously from the stone block for he could no longer quench the flame in his blood. He felt his cheeks aflame and his throat throbbing with song. There was a lust of wandering in his feet that burned to set out fort the ends of the earth. On！ On！ his heart seemed to cry. Evening would deepen above the sea， night fall upon the plains， dawn glimmer before the wanderer and show him strange fields and hills and faces. Where？
He looked northward 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 isles 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 light - clad figures， wading and delving.
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 salt - eaten stick out of the jetsam among the rocks， he clambered down the slope of the breakwater.
There was a long rivulet in the strand and， as he waded 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 high - drifting clouds. The clouds were drifting above him silently and silently the sea - tangle49 was drifting below him； and the grey warm air was still； and a new wild life was singing in his veins.
Where was his boyhood now？ Where was the soul that had hung back from her destiny，50 to brood alone upon the shame of her wounds51 and in her house of squalor and subterfuge to queen it52 in faded cerements and in wreaths that withered at the touch？ Or where was he？
He was alone. He was unheeded， happy， and near to the wildheart of life. He was alone and young and wilful and wild hearted， alone amidst a waste of wild air and brackish waters and the seaharvest of shells and tangle 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 likeness of 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 thighs， fuller and softhued as ivory， were bared almost to the hips 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 bosom was as a bird’s， soft and slight， slight and soft as the breast of some adrkplumaged 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.53 Long， long she suffered his gaze and then quickly 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 hercheek.
-Heavenly God！ cried Stephen's soul， in an outburst of profane joy. He turned away from her suddenly and set off across the strand. His cheeks were aflame； his body was aglow； 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 advent of the life that had cried to him.
Her image had passed into 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 err， to fall， to triumph， to recreate life out of life！54 A wild angel had appeared to him， the angel of mortal youth and beauty， an envoy 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 wane. He turned landwards and ran towards the shore and， running up the sloping beach， recklss of the sharp shingle， 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 dome55 and the calm processes of the heavenly bodies56； and the earth beneath him， the earth that had bome him， had taken him to the breast.
He closed his eyes in the languor of sleep. His eyelids trembled as if they felt the vast cyclic movement of the earth and her watchers，57 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？58 Glimmering and trembling， trembling and unfolding， a breaking light， an opening flower， it spread in endless succession to itself， breaking in full crimson 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 flashes， every flush deeper than other.
Evening had fallen when he woke and the sand and arid grasses of his bed glowed no longer. He rose slowly and， recalling the rapture of his sleep， sighed at its joy.
He climbed at the crest of the sandhill and gazed about him. Evening had fallen. A rim of the young moon cleft the pale waste of skyline， the rim of a silver hoop embedded 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.
1.Earlier in this chapter the director of the school asded Stephen if he had ever felt a desire to join the order. He told him 'in a college like this……there is one boy or perhaps two or three boys whom God calls to the relighious life. Such a boy is marked off from his companions by his piety， by the good example he shows to others…… Perhaps you are the boy in this oollege whom God designs to call Himself.’ And he said 'to receive that call is the greatest honour that the Almighty God can bestow upon a man. No king or emperor in this earth has the power of the priest of God. ’This was a crucial moment in Stephen's life. After a fierce mental struggle he declined the offer in spite of the temptation of honour and power， and decided to go on to university in order to become an artist.
2.he had paced slowly at first， planting his steps scrupulously in the spaces of patchwork of the footpath："patchwork" here refer to the stones or pieces of cement that make up the pavement. Stephen walked that way in order to read his fate as to whether he could be accepted by the university.
3.timing their fall to the fall of verses： timing the fall of his steps to the rhythm of veres.
4.his mother was hostile to the idea： his mother was strongly opposed to his decision to enter university.
5.his father's Pride： refening to his father’s pride of his being chosen from so many students to be a priest.
6.the faith which was fading down in his soul： the religious faith which was becoming less strong deep in his own mind. Stephen was then experiencing a crisis in religious belief.
7.her disloyalty： referring to her hostile attitude towards Stephen's decision to study at university.
8.a first noiseless sundering of their lives： a wide gap， which he felt for the first time， between himself and his mother caused by their different opinions about his choice of future career.
9.had passed beynod the challenge of the sentries who had stood asguardians of his boyhood： "Sentries" is used as a metaphor， meaning the shackles or influence of the society， the church and his own family upon him during his boyhood.
10.that he might be subject to them： so that he might be submissive to them.
11.the end of life： the aim of his life； his dedication to art.
12.Newman：Johm Henry Newman（1801-90）， an English writer and a priest.
13.that dim image： referring to the music which he seemed to hear and which was now rising and now falling just like the triple - branching flames out of a wood at midnight.
14.the office： religious rite， here it means becoming a priest.
15.had mused upon that： "That" stands for "the office" in the previous sentence.
16.ordination： ceremony of making someone a priest.
17.heavily shood feet： feet wearing heavy shoes.
18.Their piety would be like their names， like their faces， like their clothes： Their pious feeling was shown on their faces， by their names and by the clothes they wore. Here Stephen purposely liked the religious feeling of these Christian brothers with their names， their faces and their clothes. But he seemed to be doubtful that they could be more pious than he.
19.the commandment of love bade us not to love our neighbour as ourselves……："The commandment of love" means the divine command of love， or God. The whole sentence is a distortion of the Bible teaching："Love your neighbour as you love yourself." Stephen's argument here would sound blasphemous to a Christian.
20.his treasure：meaning his memory or mind.
21.A day of dappled seaborne clouds： The day that was about to end was like a day of clouds floatig over the sea and marked with different shades of colour.
22.Words. Was it their colous？： Were words the colours of clouds？
23.sunrise gold， the russet and green of apple orchards， azure of waves， the greyfringed fleece of clouds： referring to the various kinds of colours - golden， brown， green， blue and grey.
24.the rhythmic rise and fall of words： referring to poetry.
25.weak of sight： near sighted. Stephen wore glasses.
26.a language many - coloured and richly storied： a language which is colourful and rich in meaning.
27.He passed from the trembling bridge on to firm land again： From this we can see that Stephen's passing the bridge was dramatized as a severe test on his decision to go on to study at university. But he had stood the test.
28.a flying squall： referring to a sudden gust of wind rushing out from the water.
29.the image of the seventh city of christendom： referring to Dublin that looked like the holy city of Jerusalem.
30.nor more weary nor less patient of subjection than in the days of the thingmote： indicating that the Irish people were as submissive to Britain's subjugation as they had been. This reflects Stephen’s dissatisfaction with his own people. Ireland was still Britain's colony at that time.
31.he raised his eyes towards the slow - drifting clouds， dappled and seaborne： This and the sentence that follows imply Stephen's longing to leave Ireland for Europe.
32.a host of nomads on the march： referring to the clouds drifting across the sky. They are like nomadic people as they are always on the march， never settle down.
33.Europe of strange tongues and valleyed and woodbegirt and citadelled and of entrenched and marshalled races： Here Stephen was thinking what Europe was like. He thought that the people there spoke different languages， that there were valleys and woods and fortresses， and that the Europeans， made up of variousraces， were firmly established and courageous not like the Irish.
34.A voice from beyond the world was calling： Stephen heard a faint voice calling as he was walking towards the sea. Some of his classmates were swimming and playing there in the shallow water. Setting Stephen coming， they teased him by calling him Stephanos， the Dedalus， etc.
35.give it over：stop doing it.
36.give you a stuff in the kisser： put something in your mouth.
37.duck him： push him under water.
38.Guzzle him：make him drink water.
39.horseplay， rough， noisy play for fun. It refers here to the boy's climbing in turn over the breakwater and then jumping from the unsteady diving - stone into the sea.
40.Connolly： like Shuley and Ennis， is Stephen's classmate.
41.But he……remembered in what dread he stood of the mystery of his own body： At the sight of his classmates who were swimming and playing noisily there in the sea， Stephen thought of his own fear he had to endure， his fear of the mystery of his own body. The use of the word "mystery" drops a hint about the relation between himself and the mythological hero Daedalus. Stephen was now beginning to realize it.
42.Their banter was not new to him： "Banter" means the joke or teasing made of Stephen's name.
43.Now， as never before， his strange name seemed to him a prophecy： Now Stephen became aware of the relation between his name and that of the mythical hero and he thought his name was a prophecy that he would become a great artist just like Daedalus.
44.the ancient kingdom of the Danes：referring to Britain， as the Danes conquered Britain and ruled over it from 1017 to 1042.
45.the fabulous artificer： the famous artist， referring to Daedalus who invented wings to escape from his imprisonment in the labyrinth.
46.the sluggish matter of the earth： implying Ireland.
47.His heart trembled……；as though he were soaring sunwards： Stephen got very excited at the vision of the flying winged form and the hawk - like man. He， too， seemed to be flying upwards. The quick rhythm of the sentence helps to convey Stephen's feeling of excitement.
48.An instant of wild flight： referring to the feeling he had just now experienced that he was flying high up in the sky.
49.sea - tangle：seaweed.
50.the soul that had hung back from here destiny： the soul of Stephen's boyhood that shrank from fulfilling her destiny of becoming an artist.
51.brood alone upon the shame of her wounds：think alone about her shame of failing to fulfil her destiny. Stephen's awareness of his true destiny and his freedom from the shackling influence of his boyhood seemed to have wounded the soul.
52.queen it：act like a queen.
53.when she felt his presence and the worship of his eyes……without shame or wantonness： Here we can see that the girl was not an ordinary girl. Stephen regarded her as his muse and saw in her the certainty of his true vocation as an artist.
54.To live， to err， to fall， to triumph， to tecreate life out of life： This， Stephen thought， was the message the angel - the birdlike girl - had brought him.
55.the vast indifferent dome： meaning the sky.
56.the calm processes of the heavenly bodies： the quiet movement of the moon and stars.
57.her watchers： the moon and stars. "Her" here means the earth's.
58.A world， a glimmer， or a flower？： Is a world a glimmer or a flower？ From the sentence that follows we can see that Stephen thought that the world was both a glimmer and a flower.
1.What do you know about the Greek myth concerning Daedalus who built the labyrinth？
2.What was Stephen Dedalus waiting for so impatiently？ Why were Clontarf Chapel and Byron's public - house mentioned？
3.Who did Stephen meet on the bridge？ Why was he angry with himself？
4.What is the significance of the winged form Stephen seemed to see flying above the waves and slowly climbing the air？
5.Why did he think the girL standing before him in midstream was like a bird？ What is the significance of this image？