Page 310 - a-portrait-of-the-artist-as-a-young-man

—I will take the risk, said Stephen.
—And not to have any one person, Cranly said, who
would be more than a friend, more even than the noblest
and truest friend a man ever had.
His words seemed to have struck some deep chord in
his own nature. Had he spoken of himself, of himself as he
was or wished to be? Stephen watched his face for some mo-
ments in silence. A cold sadness was there. He had spoken
of himself, of his own loneliness which he feared.
—Of whom are you speaking? Stephen asked at length.
Cranly did not answer.
*****
MARCH 20. Long talk with Cranly on the subject of my
revolt.
He had his grand manner on. I supple and suave. At-
tacked me on the score of love for one’s mother. Tried to
imagine his mother: cannot. Told me once, in a moment
of thoughtlessness, his father was sixty-one when he was
born. Can see him. Strong farmer type. Pepper and salt suit.
Square feet. Unkempt, grizzled beard. Probably attends
coursing matches. Pays his dues regularly but not plentiful-
ly to Father Dwyer of Larras. Sometimes talks to girls after
nightfall. But his mother? Very young or very old? Hardly
the first. If so, Cranly would not have spoken as he did. Old
then. Probably, and neglected. Hence Cranly’s despair of
soul: the child of exhausted loins.
MARCH 21, MORNING. Thought this in bed last night
but was too lazy and free to add to it. Free, yes. The exhaust-
ed loins are those of Elizabeth and Zacchary. Then he is the

310 A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man