ch18a

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Stephen's paper was fixed for the second Saturday in March. Between Christmas and that date he had therefore an ample space of time wherein to perform preparative abstinences. His forty days were consumed in aimless solitary walks during which he forged out his sentences.


25Dec to 01Jan = 7
01Jan to 31Jan = 31
01Feb to 28Feb = 28
2nd Sat = 8 or more
total = 74 days


In this manner he had his whole essay in his mind from the first word to the last before he had put any morsel of it on paper. In thinking or constructing the form of the essay he found himself much a hampered by the sitting posture. His body disturbed him and he adopted the expedient of appeasing it by gentle promenading. Sometimes during his walks he lost the train of his thought and whenever the void of his mind seemed irreclaimable he forced order upon it by ejaculatory fervours. His morning walks were critical, his evening walks imaginative and whatever had seemed plausible in the evening was always rigorously examined in the light of day. These wanderings in the desert were reported from different points and Mr Daedalus once asked his son what the hell had brought him out to Dolphin's Barn. Stephen said he had gone part of the way home with a fellow from the college whereupon Mr Daedalus remarked that the fellow from the college should have gone all the way into the county Meath to live as his hand was in. Any acquaintances that were encountered during these walks were never allowed to intrude on the young man's meditations by commonplace conversation — a fact which they seemed to recognise in advance by a deferent salute. Stephen was therefore very much surprised one evening as he was walking past the Christian Brothers' School in North Richmond St to feel his arm seized from behind and to hear a voice say somewhat blatantly:



— Hello, Daedalus, old man, is that you?



Stephen turned round and saw a tall young man with many eruptions on his face dressed completely in heavy black. He stared for a few moments, trying to recall the face.



— Don't you remember me? I knew you at once.

— O, yes now I do, said Stephen. But you've changed.

— Think so?

— I wouldn't know you... Are you... in mourning?

Wells laughed.



— By Jove, that's a good one. Evidently you don't know your Church when you see it.



— What? You don't mean to say...?



— Fact, old man. I'm in Clonliffe at present. Been down in Balbriggan today on leave: the boss is very bad. Poor old chap!


map


— O, indeed!



— You're over in the Green now, Boland told me. Do you know him? He said you were at Belvedere with him.



— Is he in too? Yes I know him.



— He has a great opinion of you. He says you're a litterateur now.



Stephen smiled and did not know what subject to suggest next. He wondered how far this loud-voiced student intended to accompany him.



— See me down a bit of the way, will you? I've just come off the train at Amiens St. I'm making for dinner.



— Certainly.



So they walked on side by side.



— Well, and what have you been doing with yourself? Having a good time, I suppose? Down in Bray?



— Ah, the usual thing, said Stephen.



— I know: I know. After the esplanade girls, isn't that it? Silly game, old man, silly game! Get tired of it.



— You have, evidently.



— Should think so: time too... Ever see any of the Clongowes fellows?



— Never one.



— That's the way. We all lose sight of each other after we leave. You remember Roth?



— Yes.



— Out in Australia now — bushranger or something. You're going in for literature, I suppose.



— I don't know really what I'm going in for.



— I know: I know. On the loose, isn't that it? I've been there myself.



— Well, not exactly... began Stephen.



— O, of course not! said Wells quickly with a loud laugh.






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