Page:A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (Huebsch 1916).djvu/291

 —Remember—Cranly said—that he would be glorified.—

—Ay—Stephen said somewhat bitterly—bright, agile, impassible and, above all, subtle.

—It is a curious thing, do you know—Cranly said dispassionately—how your mind is supersaturated with the religion in which you say you disbelieve. Did you believe in it when you were at school? I bet you did.—

—I did—Stephen answered.

—And were you happier then?—Cranly asked softly—happier than you are now, for instance?—

—Often happy—Stephen said—and often unhappy. I was someone else then.—

—How someone else? What do you mean by that statement?—

—I mean—said Stephen—that I was not myself as I am now, as I had to become.—

—Not as you are now, not as you had to become—Cranly repeated.—Let me ask you a question. Do you love your mother?—

Stephen shook his head slowly.

—I don't know what your words mean—he said simply.

—Have you never loved anyone?—Cranly asked.

—Do you mean women?—

—I am not speaking of that—Cranly said in a colder tone.—I ask you if you ever felt love towards anyone or anything.—

Stephen walked on beside his friend, staring gloomily at the footpath.

—I tried to love God—he said at length.—It seems now I failed. It is very difficult. I tried to unite my will with the will of God instant by instant. In that I