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saw the door before him. It was impossible: he could not. He thought of the baldy head of the prefect of studies with the cruel no-coloured eyes looking at him and he heard the voice of the prefect of studies asking him twice what his name was. Why could he not remember the name when he was told the first time? Was he not listening the first time or was it to make fun out of the name? The great men in the history had names like that and nobody made fun of them. It was his own name that he should have made fun of if he wanted to make fun. Dolan: it was like the name of a woman who washed clothes.
    He had reached the door and, turning quickly up to the right, walked up the stairs and, before he could make up his mind to come back, he had entered the low dark narrow corridor that led to the castle. And as he crossed the threshold of the door of the corridor he saw, without turning his head to look, that all the fellows were looking after him as they went filing by.
    He passed along the narrow dark corridor, passing little doors that were the doors of the rooms of the community. He peered in front of him and right and left through the gloom and thought that those must be portraits. It was dark and silent and his eyes were weak and tired with tears so that he could not see. But he thought they were the portraits of the saints and great men of the order who were looking down on him silently as he passed: saint Ignatius Loyola holding an open book and pointing to the words AD MAJOREM DEI GLORIAM in it; saint Francis Xavier pointing to his chest; Lorenzo Ricci with his berretta on his head like one of the prefects of the lines, the three patrons of holy youth — saint Stanislaus Kostka, saint Aloysius Gonzago, and Blessed John Berchmans, all with young faces because they died when they were young, and Father Peter Kenny sitting in a chair wrapped in a big cloak.
    He came out on the landing above the entrance hall and looked about him. That was where Hamilton Rowan had passed and the marks of the soldiers’ slugs were there. And it was there that the old servants had seen the ghost in the white cloak of a marshal.
    An old servant was sweeping at the end of the landing. He asked him where was the rector’s room and the old servant pointed to the door at the far end and looked after him as he went on to it and knocked.
    There was no answer. He knocked again more loudly and his heart jumped when he heard a muffled voice say:
      — Come in!
    He turned the handle and opened the door and fumbled for the handle of the green baize door inside. He found it and pushed it open and went in.
    He saw the rector sitting at a desk writing. There was a skull on the desk and a strange solemn smell in the room like the old leather of chairs.
    His heart was beating fast on account of the solemn place he was in and the silence of the room: and he looked at the skull and at the rector’s kind-looking face.
      — Well, my little man, said the rector, what is it?
    Stephen swallowed down the thing in his throat and said:
      — I broke my glasses, sir.
    The rector opened his mouth and said:
      — O!
    Then he smiled and said:
      — Well, if we broke our glasses we must write home for a new pair.
      — I wrote home, sir, said Stephen, and Father Arnall said I am not to study till they come.
      — Quite right! said the rector.
    Stephen swallowed down the thing again and tried to keep his legs and his voice from shaking.
      — But, sir —
      — Yes?
      — Father Dolan came in today and pandied me because I was not writing my theme.
    The rector looked at him in silence and he could feel the blood rising to his face and the tears about to rise to his eyes.
    The rector said:
      — Your name is Dedalus, isn’t it?
      — Yes, sir...
      — And where did you break your glasses?
      — On the cinder-path, sir. A fellow was coming out of the bicycle house and I fell and they got broken. I don’t know the fellow’s name.
    The rector looked