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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Портрет художника в юности
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- Стр. 114/241
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--
O
,
my
dear
little
brothers
in
Christ
,
may
it
never
be
our
lot
to
hear
that
language
!
May
it
never
be
our
lot
,
I
say
!
In
the
last
day
of
terrible
reckoning
I
pray
fervently
to
God
that
not
a
single
soul
of
those
who
are
in
this
chapel
today
may
be
found
among
those
miserable
beings
whom
the
Great
Judge
shall
command
to
depart
for
ever
from
His
sight
,
that
not
one
of
us
may
ever
hear
ringing
in
his
ears
the
awful
sentence
of
rejection
:
DEPART
FROM
ME
,
YE
CURSED
,
INTO
EVERLASTING
FIRE
WHICH
WAS
PREPARED
FOR
THE
DEVIL
AND
HIS
ANGELS
!
He
came
down
the
aisle
of
the
chapel
,
his
legs
shaking
and
the
scalp
of
his
head
trembling
as
though
it
had
been
touched
by
ghostly
fingers
.
He
passed
up
the
staircase
and
into
the
corridor
along
the
walls
of
which
the
overcoats
and
waterproofs
hung
like
gibbeted
malefactors
,
headless
and
dripping
and
shapeless
.
And
at
every
step
he
feared
that
he
had
already
died
,
that
his
soul
had
been
wrenched
forth
of
the
sheath
of
his
body
,
that
he
was
plunging
headlong
through
space
.
He
could
not
grip
the
floor
with
his
feet
and
sat
heavily
at
his
desk
,
opening
one
of
his
books
at
random
and
poring
over
it
.
Every
word
for
him
.
It
was
true
.
God
was
almighty
.
God
could
call
him
now
,
call
him
as
he
sat
at
his
desk
,
before
he
had
time
to
be
conscious
of
the
summons
.
God
had
called
him
.
Yes
?
What
?
Yes
?
His
flesh
shrank
together
as
it
felt
the
approach
of
the
ravenous
tongues
of
flames
,
dried
up
as
it
felt
about
it
the
swirl
of
stifling
air
.
He
had
died
.
Yes
.
He
was
judged
.
A
wave
of
fire
swept
through
his
body
:
the
first
.
Again
a
wave
.
His
brain
began
to
glow
.
Another
.
His
brain
was
simmering
and
bubbling
within
the
cracking
tenement
of
the
skull
.
Flames
burst
forth
from
his
skull
like
a
corolla
,
shrieking
like
voices
:
--
Hell
!
Hell
!
Hell
!
Hell
!
Hell
!
Voices
spoke
near
him
:
--
On
hell
.
--
I
suppose
he
rubbed
it
into
you
well
.
--
You
bet
he
did
.
He
put
us
all
into
a
blue
funk
.
--
That
'S
what
you
fellows
want
:
and
plenty
of
it
to
make
you
work
.
He
leaned
back
weakly
in
his
desk
.
He
had
not
died
.
God
had
spared
him
still
.
He
was
still
in
the
familiar
world
of
the
school
.
Mr
Tate
and
Vincent
Heron
stood
at
the
window
,
talking
,
jesting
,
gazing
out
at
the
bleak
rain
,
moving
their
heads
.
