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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Портрет художника в юности
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- Стр. 147/241
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--
He
has
a
curious
idea
of
genders
if
he
thinks
a
bitch
is
masculine
.
--
Ah
,
it
's
a
scandalous
shame
for
you
,
Stephen
,
said
his
mother
,
and
you
'll
live
to
rue
the
day
you
set
your
foot
in
that
place
.
I
know
how
it
has
changed
you
.
--
Good
morning
,
everybody
,
said
Stephen
,
smiling
and
kissing
the
tips
of
his
fingers
in
adieu
.
The
lane
behind
the
terrace
was
waterlogged
and
as
he
went
down
it
slowly
,
choosing
his
steps
amid
heaps
of
wet
rubbish
,
he
heard
a
mad
nun
screeching
in
the
nuns
'
madhouse
beyond
the
wall
.
--
Jesus
!
O
Jesus
!
Jesus
!
He
shook
the
sound
out
of
his
ears
by
an
angry
toss
of
his
head
and
hurried
on
,
stumbling
through
the
mouldering
offal
,
his
heart
already
bitten
by
an
ache
of
loathing
and
bitterness
.
His
father
's
whistle
,
his
mother
's
mutterings
,
the
screech
of
an
unseen
maniac
were
to
him
now
so
many
voices
offending
and
threatening
to
humble
the
pride
of
his
youth
.
He
drove
their
echoes
even
out
of
his
heart
with
an
execration
;
but
,
as
he
walked
down
the
avenue
and
felt
the
grey
morning
light
falling
about
him
through
the
dripping
trees
and
smelt
the
strange
wild
smell
of
the
wet
leaves
and
bark
,
his
soul
was
loosed
of
her
miseries
.
The
rain-laden
trees
of
the
avenue
evoked
in
him
,
as
always
,
memories
of
the
girls
and
women
in
the
plays
of
Gerhart
Hauptmann
;
and
the
memory
of
their
pale
sorrows
and
the
fragrance
falling
from
the
wet
branches
mingled
in
a
mood
of
quiet
joy
.
His
morning
walk
across
the
city
had
begun
,
and
he
foreknew
that
as
he
passed
the
sloblands
of
Fairview
he
would
think
of
the
cloistral
silver-veined
prose
of
Newman
;
that
as
he
walked
along
the
North
Strand
Road
,
glancing
idly
at
the
windows
of
the
provision
shops
,
he
would
recall
the
dark
humour
of
Guido
Cavalcanti
and
smile
;
that
as
he
went
by
Baird
's
stonecutting
works
in
Talbot
Place
the
spirit
of
Ibsen
would
blow
through
him
like
a
keen
wind
,
a
spirit
of
wayward
boyish
beauty
;
and
that
passing
a
grimy
marine
dealer
's
shop
beyond
the
Liffey
he
would
repeat
the
song
by
Ben
Jonson
which
begins
:
I
was
not
wearier
where
I
lay
.
His
mind
when
wearied
of
its
search
for
the
essence
of
beauty
amid
the
spectral
words
of
Aristotle
or
Aquinas
turned
often
for
its
pleasure
to
the
dainty
songs
of
the
Elizabethans
.
His
mind
,
in
the
vesture
of
a
doubting
monk
,
stood
often
in
shadow
under
the
windows
of
that
age
,
to
hear
the
grave
and
mocking
music
of
the
lutenists
or
the
frank
laughter
of
waist-coateers
until
a
laugh
too
low
,
a
phrase
,
tarnished
by
time
,
of
chambering
and
false
honour
stung
his
monkish
pride
and
drove
him
on
from
his
lurking-place
.
