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He turned towards his friend's face and saw there a raw smile which some force of will strove to make finely significant. Cranly asked suddenly in a plain sensible tone: Tell me the truth. Were you at all shocked by what I said? Somewhat, Stephen said. And why were you shocked, Cranly pressed on in the same tone, if you feel sure that our religion is false and that Jesus was not the son of God?
Cranly, embarrassed for a moment, took another fig from his pocket and was about to eat it when Stephen said: Don't, please. You cannot discuss this question with your mouth full of chewed fig. Cranly examined the fig by the light of a lamp under which he halted. Then he smelt it with both nostrils, bit a tiny piece, spat it out and threw the fig rudely into the gutter.
Are you drunk or what are you or what are you trying to say? asked Cranly, facing round on him with an expression of wonder. The most profound sentence ever written, Temple said with enthusiasm, is the sentence at the end of the zoology. Reproduction is the beginning of death. He touched Stephen timidly at the elbow and said eagerly: Do you feel how profound that is because you are a poet?
Cranly came out through the door of the entrance hall, his hat thrust back on the nape of his neck and picking his teeth with care. And here's the wiseacre, said Temple. Do you know that about the Forsters? He paused for an answer. Cranly dislodged a figseed from his teeth on the point of his rude toothpick and gazed at it intently.
QUIS EST IN MALO HUMORE, said Stephen, EGO AUT VOS? Cranly did not take up the taunt. He brooded sourly on his judgement and repeated with the same flat force: A flaming bloody sugar, that's what he is! It was his epitaph for all dead friendships and Stephen wondered whether it would ever be spoken in the same tone over his memory.
The bloodboltered shambles in act five is a forecast of the concentration camp sung by Mr Swinburne. Cranly, I his mute orderly, following battles from afar. Whelps and dams of murderous foes whom none But we had spared... Between the Saxon smile and yankee yawp. The devil and the deep sea. He will have it that Hamlet is a ghoststory, John Eglinton said for Mr Best's behoof.
It was a priest-like face, priest-like in its palor, in the wide winged nose, in the shadowings below the eyes and along the jaws, priest-like in the lips that were long and bloodless and faintly smiling; and Stephen, remembering swiftly how he had told Cranly of all the tumults and unrest and longings in his soul, day after day and night by night, only to be answered by his friend's listening silence, would have told himself that it was the face of a guilty priest who heard confessions of those whom he had not power to absolve but that he felt again in memory the gaze of its dark womanish eyes.
Stephen blushed and turned aside. MacCann stood his ground and said with hostile humour: Minor poets, I suppose, are above such trivial questions as the question of universal peace. Cranly raised his head and held the handball between the two students by way of a peace-offering, saying: PAX SUPER TOTUM SANGUINARIUM GLOBUM.
The singing ceased. They went on together, Cranly repeating in strongly stressed rhythm the end of the refrain: And when we are married, O, how happy we'll be For I love sweet Rosie O'Grady And Rosie O'Grady loves me. There's real poetry for you, he said. There's real love. He glanced sideways at Stephen with a strange smile and said: Do you consider that poetry?
He bit off the rest of the fig and flung away the butt. I suffer little children to come unto me, Glynn said amiably. A bloody ape, Cranly repeated with emphasis, and a blasphemous bloody ape! Temple stood up and, pushing past Cranly, addressed Glynn: That phrase you said now, he said, is from the new testament about suffer the children to come to me. Go to sleep again, Temple, said O'Keeffe.
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