On the steps of the Paris stock exchange the goldskinned men quoting prices on their gemmed fingers.  Gabble of geese.  They swarmed loud, uncouth about the temple, their heads thickplotting under maladroit silk hats.  Not theirs:  these clothes, this speech, these gestures.  Their full slow eyes belied the words, the gestures eager and unoffending, but knew the rancours massed about them and knew their zeal was vain.  Vain patience to heap and hoard.  Time surely would scatter all.  A hoard heaped by the roadside:  plundered and passing on.  Their eyes knew their years of wandering and, patient, knew the dishonours of their flesh.

—­Who has not?  Stephen said.

—­What do you mean?  Mr Deasy asked.

He came forward a pace and stood by the table.  His underjaw fell sideways open uncertainly.  Is this old wisdom?  He waits to hear from me.

—­History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.

From the playfield the boys raised a shout.  A whirring whistle:  goal. 
What if that nightmare gave you a back kick?

—­The ways of the Creator are not our ways, Mr Deasy said.  All human history moves towards one great goal, the manifestation of God.

Stephen jerked his thumb towards the window, saying: 

—­That is God.

Hooray!  Ay!  Whrrwhee!

—­What?  Mr Deasy asked.

—­A shout in the street, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders.

Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings of his nose tweaked between his fingers.  Looking up again he set them free.

—­I am happier than you are, he said.  We have committed many errors and many sins.  A woman brought sin into the world.  For a woman who was no better than she should be, Helen, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten years the Greeks made war on Troy.  A faithless wife first brought the strangers to our shore here, MacMurrough’s wife and her leman, O’Rourke, prince of Breffni.  A woman too brought Parnell low.  Many errors, many failures but not the one sin.  I am a struggler now at the end of my days.  But I will fight for the right till the end.

    For Ulster will fight
    and Ulster will be right.

Stephen raised the sheets in his hand.

—­Well, sir, he began ...

—­I foresee, Mr Deasy said, that you will not remain here very long at this work.  You were not born to be a teacher, I think.  Perhaps I am wrong.

—­A learner rather, Stephen said.

And here what will you learn more?

Mr Deasy shook his head.

—­Who knows? he said.  To learn one must be humble.  But life is the great teacher.

Stephen rustled the sheets again.

—­As regards these, he began.

—­Yes, Mr Deasy said.  You have two copies there.  If you can have them published at once.