Continuing with details on cp in Joyce's Portrait (cf. part B): Fleming is made to kneel because he makes a mistake in Latin grammar: Father Arnall suddenly shut the book and shouted at him: [Joyce has no quotation marks. Why?] Kneel out there in the middle of the class. You are one of the idlest boys I ever met. Copy out your themes again the rest of you.
Fleming moved heavily out of his place and knelt between the last two benches. The other boys bent over their themebooks and began to write. A silence filled the classroom and Stephen glancing timidly at Father Arnall's dark face, saw that it was a little red from the wax he was in.
Was that a sin for Father Arnall to be in a wax or was he allowed to get into a wax when the boys were idle because that made them study better or was he only letting on to be in a wax? . . .
The door opened quietly and closed. A quick whisper ran through the class: the prefect of studies. There was an instant of dead silence and then the loud crack of a pandybat on the last desk. Stephen's heart leapt up in fear.
Any boys want flogging here, Father Arnall? cried the prefect of studies. Any idle loafers that want flogging in this class? [Maybe there are no quotation marks because this all supposed to be part of Stephen's stream of consciousness, not a direct transcription of what happened.]
He came to the middle of the class and saw Fleming on his knees. Hoho he cried. Who is this boy? Why is he on his knees? What is your name, boy?
Fleming, sir.
Hoho Fleming an idler, of course. I can see it in your eye. Why is he on his knees, Father Arnall?
He wrote a bad Latin theme, Father Arnall said, and he missed all the questions in grammar.
Of course he did! cried the prefect of studies. Of course, he did! A born idler. I can see it in the corner of his eye.
He banged the pandybat down on the desk and cried: Up, Fleming! Up, my boy!
Fleming stood up slowly.
Hold out! cried the prefect of studies.
Fleming held out his hand. The pandybat came down on it with a loud smacking sound: one, two, three, four, five, six.
Other hand.
The pandybat came down again in six loud quick smacks.
Kneel down! cried the prefect of studies.
Fleming knelt down, squeezing his hands under his armpits, his face contorted with pain, but Stephen knew how hard his hands were because Fleming was always rubbing rosin into them. But perhaps he was in great pain because the noise of the pandies was terrible. Stephen's heart was beating and fluttering.
Stay tuned for more Joycean cp goodies. As I've said before, it's a pity that there is no movement from hands to arse, but still, it's quite a turn on. (I enjoy beating my cute dinge boy Jacko's pink palms, as opposed to the dark chocolatey backs of his hand, with a hairbrush, and watching him wince with anticipation as the wooden hairbrush thuds down with a satisfying crack.)