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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Портрет художника в юности
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- Стр. 139/241
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--
A
day
of
dappled
seaborne
clouds
.
The
phrase
and
the
day
and
the
scene
harmonized
in
a
chord
.
Words
.
Was
it
their
colours
?
He
allowed
them
to
glow
and
fade
,
hue
after
hue
:
sunrise
gold
,
the
russet
and
green
of
apple
orchards
,
azure
of
waves
,
the
grey-fringed
fleece
of
clouds
.
No
,
it
was
not
their
colours
:
it
was
the
poise
and
balance
of
the
period
itself
.
Did
he
then
love
the
rhythmic
rise
and
fall
of
words
better
than
their
associations
of
legend
and
colour
?
Or
was
it
that
,
being
as
weak
of
sight
as
he
was
shy
of
mind
,
he
drew
less
pleasure
from
the
reflection
of
the
glowing
sensible
world
through
the
prism
of
a
language
many-coloured
and
richly
storied
than
from
the
contemplation
of
an
inner
world
of
individual
emotions
mirrored
perfectly
in
a
lucid
supple
periodic
prose
?
He
passed
from
the
trembling
bridge
on
to
firm
land
again
.
At
that
instant
,
as
it
seemed
to
him
,
the
air
was
chilled
and
,
looking
askance
towards
the
water
,
he
saw
a
flying
squall
darkening
and
crisping
suddenly
the
tide
.
A
faint
click
at
his
heart
,
a
faint
throb
in
his
throat
told
him
once
more
of
how
his
flesh
dreaded
the
cold
infrahuman
odour
of
the
sea
;
yet
he
did
not
strike
across
the
downs
on
his
left
but
held
straight
on
along
the
spine
of
rocks
that
pointed
against
the
river
's
mouth
.
A
veiled
sunlight
lit
up
faintly
the
grey
sheet
of
water
where
the
river
was
embayed
.
In
the
distance
along
the
course
of
the
slow-flowing
Liffey
slender
masts
flecked
the
sky
and
,
more
distant
still
,
the
dim
fabric
of
the
city
lay
prone
in
haze
.
Like
a
scene
on
some
vague
arras
,
old
as
man
's
weariness
,
the
image
of
the
seventh
city
of
christendom
was
visible
to
him
across
the
timeless
air
,
no
older
nor
more
weary
nor
less
patient
of
subjection
than
in
the
days
of
the
thingmote
.
Disheartened
,
he
raised
his
eyes
towards
the
slow-drifting
clouds
,
dappled
and
seaborne
.
They
were
voyaging
across
the
deserts
of
the
sky
,
a
host
of
nomads
on
the
march
,
voyaging
high
over
Ireland
,
westward
bound
.
The
Europe
they
had
come
from
lay
out
there
beyond
the
Irish
Sea
,
Europe
of
strange
tongues
and
valleyed
and
woodbegirt
and
citadelled
and
of
entrenched
and
marshalled
races
.
He
heard
a
confused
music
within
him
as
of
memories
and
names
which
he
was
almost
conscious
of
but
could
not
capture
even
for
an
instant
;
then
the
music
seemed
to
recede
,
to
recede
,
to
recede
,
and
from
each
receding
trail
of
nebulous
music
there
fell
always
one
longdrawn
calling
note
,
piercing
like
a
star
the
dusk
of
silence
.
Again
!
Again
!
Again
!
A
voice
from
beyond
the
world
was
calling
.
--
Hello
,
Stephanos
!
--
Here
comes
The
Dedalus
!
--
Ao
!
Eh
,
give
it
over
,
Dwyer
,
I
'm
telling
you
,
or
I
'll
give
you
a
stuff
in
the
kisser
for
yourself
.
Ao
!
