Page 268 - a-portrait-of-the-artist-as-a-young-man

A fine rain began to fall from the high veiled sky and
they turned into the duke’s lawn to reach the national li-
brary before the shower came.
—What do you mean, Lynch asked surlily, by prating
about beauty and the imagination in this miserable Godfor-
saken island? No wonder the artist retired within or behind
his handiwork after having perpetrated this country.
The rain fell faster. When they passed through the passage
beside Kildare house they found many students sheltering
under the arcade of the library. Cranly, leaning against a
pillar, was picking his teeth with a sharpened match, listen-
ing to some companions. Some girls stood near the entrance
door. Lynch whispered to Stephen:
—Your beloved is here.
Stephen took his place silently on the step below the
group of students, heedless of the rain which fell fast, turn-
ing his eyes towards her from time to time. She too stood
silently among her companions. She has no priest to flirt
with, he thought with conscious bitterness, remembering
how he had seen her last. Lynch was right. His mind emptied
of theory and courage, lapsed back into a listless peace.
He heard the students talking among themselves. They
spoke of two friends who had passed the final medical ex-
amination, of the chances of getting places on ocean liners,
of poor and rich practices.
—That’s all a bubble. An Irish country practice is better.
—Hynes was two years in Liverpool and he says the
same. A frightful hole he said it was. Nothing but midwife-
ry cases.

268 A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man