Портрет художника в юности

           HeshoveditbackandintheshadowofthetreesStephensawhispaleface,framedbythedark,andhislargedarkeyes.Yes.Hisfacewashandsomeandhisbodywasstrongandhard.Hehadspokenofamother’slove.Hefeltthenthesufferingsofwomen,theweaknessesoftheirbodiesandsouls;andwouldshieldthemwithastrongandresolutearmandbowhismindtothem.

           Awaythen:itistimetogo.AvoicespokesoftlytoStephen’slonelyheart,biddinghimgoandtellinghimthathisfriendshipwascomingtoanend.Yes;hewouldgo.Hecouldnotstriveagainstanother.Heknewhispart.

           —ProbablyIshallgoaway,hesaid.

           —Where?Cranlyasked.

           —WhereIcan,Stephensaid.

           —Yes,Cranlysaid.Itmightbedifficultforyoutoliveherenow.Butisitthatmakesyougo?

           —Ihavetogo,Stephenanswered.

           —Because,Cranlycontinued,youneednotlookuponyourselfasdrivenawayifyoudonotwishtogoorasahereticoranoutlaw.Therearemanygoodbelieverswhothinkasyoudo.Wouldthatsurpriseyou?Thechurchisnotthestonebuildingnoreventheclergyandtheirdogmas.Itisthewholemassofthosebornintoit.Idon’tknowwhatyouwishtodoinlife.IsitwhatyoutoldmethenightwewerestandingoutsideHarcourtStreetstation?

           —Yes,Stephensaid,smilinginspiteofhimselfatCranly’swayofrememberingthoughtsinconnexionwithplaces.