Page:A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (Huebsch 1916).djvu/297

 —There's real poetry for you—he said.—There's real love.—

He glanced sideways at Stephen with a strange smile and said:

—Do you consider that poetry? Or do you know what the words mean?—

—I want to see Rosie first, said Stephen.

—She's easy to find—Cranly said.

His hat had come down on his forehead. He shoved it back: and in the shadow of the trees Stephen saw his pale face, framed by the dark, and his large dark eyes. Yes. His face was handsome: and his body was strong and hard. He had spoken of a mother's love. He felt then the sufferings of women, the weaknesses of their bodies and souls: and would shield them with a strong and resolute arm and bow his mind to them.

Away then: it is time to go. A voice spoke softly to Stephen's lonely heart, bidding him go and telling him that his friendship was coming to an end. Yes; he would go. He could not strive against another. He knew his part.

—Probably I shall go away—he said.

—Where?—Cranly asked.

—Where I can—Stephen said.

—Yes—Cranly said.—It might be difficult for you to live here now. But is it that makes you go?—

—I have to go—Stephen answered.

—Because—Cranly continued—you need not look upon yourself as driven away if you do not wish to go or as a heretic or an outlaw. There are many good believers who think as you do. Would that surprise you? The church is not the stone building nor even the clergy and their dogmas. It is the whole mass of those born