A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man by James Joyce

be carried in, studded with peeled almonds and sprigs of holly, with bluish fire running around it and a little green flag flying from the top.
    It was his first Christmas dinner and he thought of his little brothers and sisters who were waiting in the nursery, as he had often waited, till the pudding came. The deep low collar and the Eton jacket made him feel queer and oldish: and that morning when his mother had brought him down to the parlour, dressed for mass, his father had cried. That was because he was thinking of his own father. And uncle Charles had said so too.
    Mr Dedalus covered the dish and began to eat hungrily. Then he said:
    —Poor old Christy, he’s nearly lopsided now with roguery.
    —Simon, said Mrs Dedalus, you haven’t given Mrs Riordan any sauce.
    Mr Dedalus seized the sauceboat.
    —Haven’t I? he cried. Mrs Riordan, pity the poor blind.
    Dante covered her plate with her hands and said:
    —No, thanks.
    Mr Dedalus turned to uncle Charles.
    —How are you off, sir?
    —Right as the mail, Simon.
    —You, John?
    —I’m all right. Go on yourself.
    —Mary? Here, Stephen, here’s something to make your hair curl.
    He poured sauce freely over Stephen’s plate and set the boat again on the table. Then he asked uncle Charles was it tender. Uncle Charles could not speak because his mouth was full but he nodded that it was.
    —That was a good answer our friend made to the canon. What? said Mr Dedalus.
    —I didn’t think he had that much in him, said Mr Casey.
    —I’ll pay you your dues, father, when you cease turning the house of God into a pollingbooth .
    —A nice answer, said Dante, for any man calling himself a catholic to give to his priest.
    —They have only themselves to blame, said Mr Dedalus suavely. If they took a fool’s advice they would confine their attention to religion.
    —It is religion, Dante said. They are doing their duty in warning the people.
    —We go to the house of God, Mr Casey said, in all humility to pray to our Maker and not to hear election addresses.
    —It is religion, Dante said again. They are right. They must direct their flocks.
    —And preach politics from the altar, is it? asked Mr Dedalus.
    —Certainly, said Dante. It is a question of public morality. A priest would not be a priest if he did not tell his flock what is right and what is wrong.
    Mrs Dedalus laid down her knife and fork, saying:
    —For pity’s sake and for pity sake let us have no political discussion on this day of all days in the year.
    —Quite right, ma’am, said uncle Charles. Now, Simon, that’s quite enough now. Not another word now.
    —Yes, yes, said Mr Dedalus quickly.
    He uncovered the dish boldly and said:
    —Now then, who’s for more turkey?
    Nobody answered. Dante said:
    —Nice language for any catholic to use!
    —Mrs Riordan, I appeal to you, said Mrs Dedalus, to let the matter drop now.
    Dante turned on her and said:
    —And am I to sit here and listen to the pastors of my church being flouted?
    —Nobody is saying a word against them, said Mr Dedalus, so long as they don’t meddle in politics.
    —The bishops and priests of Ireland have spoken, said Dante, and they must be obeyed.
    —Let them leave politics alone, said Mr Casey, or the people may leave their church alone.
    —You hear? said Dante turning to Mrs Dedalus.
    —Mr Casey! Simon! said Mrs Dedalus. Let it end now.
    —Too bad! Too bad! said uncle Charles.
    —What? cried Mr Dedalus. Were we to desert him at the bidding of the English people?
    —He was no longer worthy to lead, said Dante. He was a public sinner.
    —We are all sinners and black sinners, said Mr Casey coldly.
    —Woe be to the man by whom the scandal cometh ! said Mrs Riordan. It would be better for him that a millstone were tied about his neck and that he were cast into the depths of the sea rather than that he should scandalise one of these, my least little ones . That is the language of the Holy Ghost.
    —And very bad language if you ask