Page 240 - a-portrait-of-the-artist-as-a-young-man

—That thought is not mine, he said to himself quick-
ly. It came from the comic Irishman in the bench behind.
Patience. Can you say with certitude by whom the soul of
your race was bartered and its elect betrayed—by the ques-
tioner or by the mocker? Patience. Remember Epictetus. It
is probably in his character to ask such a question at such
a moment in such a tone and to pronounce the word SCI-
ENCE as a monosyllable.
The droning voice of the professor continued to wind it-
self slowly round and round the coils it spoke of, doubling,
trebling, quadrupling its somnolent energy as the coil mul-
tiplied its ohms of resistance.
Moynihan’s voice called from behind in echo to a dis-
tant bell:
—Closing time, gents!
The entrance hall was crowded and loud with talk. On
a table near the door were two photographs in frames and
between them a long roll of paper bearing an irregular tail
of signatures. MacCann went briskly to and fro among the
students, talking rapidly, answering rebuffs and leading
one after another to the table. In the inner hall the dean of
studies stood talking to a young professor, stroking his chin
gravely and nodding his head.
Stephen, checked by the crowd at the door, halted irreso-
lutely. From under the wide falling leaf of a soft hat Cranly’s
dark eyes were watching him.
—Have you signed? Stephen asked.
Cranly closed his long thin-lipped mouth, communed
with himself an instant and answered:

240 A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man