Page 200 - a-portrait-of-the-artist-as-a-young-man

dom. The voice of the director urging upon him the proud
claims of the church and the mystery and power of the
priestly office repeated itself idly in his memory. His soul
was not there to hear and greet it and he knew now that
the exhortation he had listened to had already fallen into
an idle formal tale. He would never swing the thurible be-
fore the tabernacle as priest. His destiny was to be elusive of
social or religious orders. The wisdom of the priest’s appeal
did not touch him to the quick. He was destined to learn his
own wisdom apart from others or to learn the wisdom of
others himself wandering among the snares of the world.
The snares of the world were its ways of sin. He would
fall. He had not yet fallen but he would fall silently, in an
instant. Not to fall was too hard, too hard; and he felt the si-
lent lapse of his soul, as it would be at some instant to come,
falling, falling, but not yet fallen, still unfallen, but about
to fall.
He crossed the bridge over the stream of the Tolka and
turned his eyes coldly for an instant towards the faded blue
shrine of the Blessed Virgin which stood fowl-wise on a pole
in the middle of a ham-shaped encampment of poor cot-
tages. Then, bending to the left, he followed the lane which
led up to his house. The faint Sour stink of rotted cabbages
came towards him from the kitchen gardens on the rising
ground above the river. He smiled to think that it was this
disorder, the misrule and confusion of his father’s house
and the stagnation of vegetable life, which was to win the
day in his soul. Then a short laugh broke from his lips as he
thought of that solitary farmhand in the kitchen gardens

200 A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man