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- Авторы
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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Портрет художника в юности
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- Стр. 142/241
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What
were
they
now
but
cerements
shaken
from
the
body
of
death
--
the
fear
he
had
walked
in
night
and
day
,
the
incertitude
that
had
ringed
him
round
,
the
shame
that
had
abased
him
within
and
without
--
cerements
,
the
linens
of
the
grave
?
His
soul
had
arisen
from
the
grave
of
boyhood
,
spurning
her
grave-clothes
.
Yes
!
Yes
!
Yes
!
He
would
create
proudly
out
of
the
freedom
and
power
of
his
soul
,
as
the
great
artificer
whose
name
he
bore
,
a
living
thing
,
new
and
soaring
and
beautiful
,
impalpable
,
imperishable
.
He
started
up
nervously
from
the
stone-block
for
he
could
no
longer
quench
the
flame
in
his
blood
.
He
felt
his
cheeks
aflame
and
his
throat
throbbing
with
song
.
There
was
a
lust
of
wandering
in
his
feet
that
burned
to
set
out
for
the
ends
of
the
earth
.
On
!
On
!
his
heart
seemed
to
cry
.
Evening
would
deepen
above
the
sea
,
night
fall
upon
the
plains
,
dawn
glimmer
before
the
wanderer
and
show
him
strange
fields
and
hills
and
faces
.
Where
?
He
looked
northward
towards
Howth
.
The
sea
had
fallen
below
the
line
of
seawrack
on
the
shallow
side
of
the
breakwater
and
already
the
tide
was
running
out
fast
along
the
foreshore
.
Already
one
long
oval
bank
of
sand
lay
warm
and
dry
amid
the
wavelets
.
Here
and
there
warm
isles
of
sand
gleamed
above
the
shallow
tide
and
about
the
isles
and
around
the
long
bank
and
amid
the
shallow
currents
of
the
beach
were
lightclad
figures
,
wading
and
delving
.
Inca
few
moments
he
was
barefoot
,
his
stockings
folded
in
his
pockets
and
his
canvas
shoes
dangling
by
their
knotted
laces
over
his
shoulders
and
,
picking
a
pointed
salt-eaten
stick
out
of
the
jetsam
among
the
rocks
,
he
clambered
down
the
slope
of
the
breakwater
.
There
was
a
long
rivulet
in
the
strand
and
,
as
he
waded
slowly
up
its
course
,
he
wondered
at
the
endless
drift
of
seaweed
.
Emerald
and
black
and
russet
and
olive
,
it
moved
beneath
the
current
,
swaying
and
turning
.
The
water
of
the
rivulet
was
dark
with
endless
drift
and
mirrored
the
high-drifting
clouds
.
The
clouds
were
drifting
above
him
silently
and
silently
the
seatangle
was
drifting
below
him
and
the
grey
warm
air
was
still
and
a
new
wild
life
was
singing
in
his
veins
.
Where
was
his
boyhood
now
?
Where
was
the
soul
that
had
hung
back
from
her
destiny
,
to
brood
alone
upon
the
shame
of
her
wounds
and
in
her
house
of
squalor
and
subterfuge
to
queen
it
in
faded
cerements
and
in
wreaths
that
withered
at
the
touch
?
Or
where
was
he
?
He
was
alone
.
He
was
unheeded
,
happy
and
near
to
the
wild
heart
of
life
.
He
was
alone
and
young
and
wilful
and
wildhearted
,
alone
amid
a
waste
of
wild
air
and
brackish
waters
and
the
sea-harvest
of
shells
and
tangle
and
veiled
grey
sunlight
and
gayclad
lightclad
figures
of
children
and
girls
and
voices
childish
and
girlish
in
the
air
.
