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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Портрет художника в юности
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--
MacCann
is
in
tiptop
form
.
Ready
to
shed
the
last
drop
.
Brand
new
world
.
No
stimulants
and
votes
for
the
bitches
.
Stephen
smiled
at
the
manner
of
this
confidence
and
,
when
Moynihan
had
passed
,
turned
again
to
meet
Cranly
's
eyes
.
--
Perhaps
you
can
tell
me
,
he
said
,
why
he
pours
his
soul
so
freely
into
my
ear
.
Can
you
?
A
dull
scowl
appeared
on
Cranly
's
forehead
.
He
stared
at
the
table
where
Moynihan
had
bent
to
write
his
name
on
the
roll
,
and
then
said
flatly
:
--
A
sugar
!
--
QUIS
EST
IN
MALO
HUMORE
,
said
Stephen
,
EGO
AUT
VOS
?
Cranly
did
not
take
up
the
taunt
.
He
brooded
sourly
on
his
judgement
and
repeated
with
the
same
flat
force
:
--
A
flaming
bloody
sugar
,
that
's
what
he
is
!
It
was
his
epitaph
for
all
dead
friendships
and
Stephen
wondered
whether
it
would
ever
be
spoken
in
the
same
tone
over
his
memory
.
The
heavy
lumpish
phrase
sank
slowly
out
of
hearing
like
a
stone
through
a
quagmire
.
Stephen
saw
it
sink
as
he
had
seen
many
another
,
feeling
its
heaviness
depress
his
heart
.
Cranly
's
speech
,
unlike
that
of
Davin
,
had
neither
rare
phrases
of
Elizabethan
English
nor
quaintly
turned
versions
of
Irish
idioms
.
Its
drawl
was
an
echo
of
the
quays
of
Dublin
given
back
by
a
bleak
decaying
seaport
,
its
energy
an
echo
of
the
sacred
eloquence
of
Dublin
given
back
flatly
by
a
Wicklow
pulpit
.
