Page:A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (Huebsch 1916).djvu/246

 him and left him for another. And you invite me to be one of you. I'd see you damned first.—

—They died for their ideals, Stevie—said Davin.—Our day will come yet, believe me.—

Stephen, following his own thought, was silent for an instant.

—The soul is born—he said vaguely—first in those moments I told you of. It has a slow and dark birth, more mysterious than the birth of the body. When the soul of a man is born in this country there are nets flung at it to hold it back from flight. You talk to me of nationality, language, religion. I shall try to fly by those nets.—

Davin knocked the ashes from his pipe.

—Too deep for me, Stevie—he said.—But a man's country comes first. Ireland first, Stevie. You can be a poet or a mystic after.—

—Do you know what Ireland is?—asked Stephen with cold violence.—Ireland is the old sow that eats her farrow.—

Davin rose from his box and went towards the players, shaking his head sadly. But in a moment his sadness left him and he was hotly disputing with Cranly and the two players who had finished their game. A match of four was arranged, Cranly insisting, however, that his ball should be used. He let it rebound twice or thrice to his hand and struck it strongly and swiftly towards the base of the alley, exclaiming in answer to its thud:

—Your soul!—

Stephen stood with Lynch till the score began to rise. Then he plucked him by the sleeve to come away. Lynch obeyed, saying:

—Let us eke go, as Cranly has it.— [238]