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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Портрет художника в юности
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- Стр. 158/241
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--
It
is
called
a
tundish
in
Lower
Drumcondra
,
said
Stephen
,
laughing
,
where
they
speak
the
best
English
.
--
A
tundish
,
said
the
dean
reflectively
.
That
is
a
most
interesting
word
.
I
must
look
that
word
up
.
Upon
my
word
I
must
.
His
courtesy
of
manner
rang
a
little
false
and
Stephen
looked
at
the
English
convert
with
the
same
eyes
as
the
elder
brother
in
the
parable
may
have
turned
on
the
prodigal
.
A
humble
follower
in
the
wake
of
clamorous
conversions
,
a
poor
Englishman
in
Ireland
,
he
seemed
to
have
entered
on
the
stage
of
jesuit
history
when
that
strange
play
of
intrigue
and
suffering
and
envy
and
struggle
and
indignity
had
been
all
but
given
through
--
a
late-comer
,
a
tardy
spirit
.
From
what
had
he
set
out
?
Perhaps
he
had
been
born
and
bred
among
serious
dissenters
,
seeing
salvation
in
Jesus
only
and
abhorring
the
vain
pomps
of
the
establishment
.
Had
he
felt
the
need
of
an
implicit
faith
amid
the
welter
of
sectarianism
and
the
jargon
of
its
turbulent
schisms
,
six
principle
men
,
peculiar
people
,
seed
and
snake
baptists
,
supralapsarian
dogmatists
?
Had
he
found
the
true
church
all
of
a
sudden
in
winding
up
to
the
end
like
a
reel
of
cotton
some
fine-spun
line
of
reasoning
upon
insufflation
on
the
imposition
of
hands
or
the
procession
of
the
Holy
Ghost
?
Or
had
Lord
Christ
touched
him
and
bidden
him
follow
,
like
that
disciple
who
had
sat
at
the
receipt
of
custom
,
as
he
sat
by
the
door
of
some
zinc-roofed
chapel
,
yawning
and
telling
over
his
church
pence
?
The
dean
repeated
the
word
yet
again
.
--
Tundish
!
Well
now
,
that
is
interesting
!
--
The
question
you
asked
me
a
moment
ago
seems
to
me
more
interesting
.
What
is
that
beauty
which
the
artist
struggles
to
express
from
lumps
of
earth
,
said
Stephen
coldly
.
--
The
little
word
seemed
to
have
turned
a
rapier
point
of
his
sensitiveness
against
this
courteous
and
vigilant
foe
.
He
felt
with
a
smart
of
dejection
that
the
man
to
whom
he
was
speaking
was
a
countryman
of
Ben
Jonson
.
He
thought
:
--
The
language
in
which
we
are
speaking
is
his
before
it
is
mine
.
How
different
are
the
words
HOME
,
CHRIST
,
ALE
,
MASTER
,
on
his
lips
and
on
mine
!
I
can
not
speak
or
write
these
words
without
unrest
of
spirit
.
His
language
,
so
familiar
and
so
foreign
,
will
always
be
for
me
an
acquired
speech
.
I
have
not
made
or
accepted
its
words
.
My
voice
holds
them
at
bay
.
My
soul
frets
in
the
shadow
of
his
language
.
