Page 307 - a-portrait-of-the-artist-as-a-young-man

Away then: it is time to go. A voice spoke softly to Ste-
phen’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 her-
etic 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 into it. I don’t know what you
wish to do in life. Is it what you told me the night we were
standing outside Harcourt Street station?
—Yes, Stephen said, smiling in spite of himself at Cran-
ly’s way of remembering thoughts in connexion with places.
The night you spent half an hour wrangling with Doherty
about the shortest way from Sallygap to Larras.
—Pothead! Cranly said with calm contempt. What does
he know about the way from Sallygap to Larras? Or what
does he know about anything for that matter? And the big
slobbering washing-pot head of him!
He broke into a loud long laugh.
—Well? Stephen said. Do you remember the rest?
—What you said, is it? Cranly asked. Yes, I remember it.

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