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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Портрет художника в юности
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- Стр. 194/241
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Above
the
flame
the
smoke
of
praise
Goes
up
from
ocean
rim
to
rim
Tell
no
more
of
enchanted
days
.
Smoke
went
up
from
the
whole
earth
,
from
the
vapoury
oceans
,
smoke
of
her
praise
.
The
earth
was
like
a
swinging
swaying
censer
,
a
ball
of
incense
,
an
ellipsoidal
fall
.
The
rhythm
died
out
at
once
;
the
cry
of
his
heart
was
broken
.
His
lips
began
to
murmur
the
first
verses
over
and
over
;
then
went
on
stumbling
through
half
verses
,
stammering
and
baffled
;
then
stopped
.
The
heart
's
cry
was
broken
.
The
veiled
windless
hour
had
passed
and
behind
the
panes
of
the
naked
window
the
morning
light
was
gathering
.
A
bell
beat
faintly
very
far
away
.
A
bird
twittered
;
two
birds
,
three
.
The
bell
and
the
bird
ceased
;
and
the
dull
white
light
spread
itself
east
and
west
,
covering
the
world
,
covering
the
roselight
in
his
heart
.
Fearing
to
lose
all
,
he
raised
himself
suddenly
on
his
elbow
to
look
for
paper
and
pencil
.
There
was
neither
on
the
table
;
only
the
soup
plate
he
had
eaten
the
rice
from
for
supper
and
the
candlestick
with
its
tendrils
of
tallow
and
its
paper
socket
,
singed
by
the
last
flame
.
He
stretched
his
arm
wearily
towards
the
foot
of
the
bed
,
groping
with
his
hand
in
the
pockets
of
the
coat
that
hung
there
.
His
fingers
found
a
pencil
and
then
a
cigarette
packet
.
He
lay
back
and
,
tearing
open
the
packet
,
placed
the
last
cigarette
on
the
window
ledge
and
began
to
write
out
the
stanzas
of
the
villanelle
in
small
neat
letters
on
the
rough
cardboard
surface
.
Having
written
them
out
he
lay
back
on
the
lumpy
pillow
,
murmuring
them
again
.
The
lumps
of
knotted
flock
under
his
head
reminded
him
of
the
lumps
of
knotted
horsehair
in
the
sofa
of
her
parlour
on
which
he
used
to
sit
,
smiling
or
serious
,
asking
himself
why
he
had
come
,
displeased
with
her
and
with
himself
,
confounded
by
the
print
of
the
Sacred
Heart
above
the
untenanted
sideboard
.
He
saw
her
approach
him
in
a
lull
of
the
talk
and
beg
him
to
sing
one
of
his
curious
songs
.
Then
he
saw
himself
sitting
at
the
old
piano
,
striking
chords
softly
from
its
speckled
keys
and
singing
,
amid
the
talk
which
had
risen
again
in
the
room
,
to
her
who
leaned
beside
the
mantelpiece
a
dainty
song
of
the
Elizabethans
,
a
sad
and
sweet
loth
to
depart
,
the
victory
chant
of
Agincourt
,
the
happy
air
of
Greensleeves
.
While
he
sang
and
she
listened
,
or
feigned
to
listen
,
his
heart
was
at
rest
but
when
the
quaint
old
songs
had
ended
and
he
heard
again
the
voices
in
the
room
he
remembered
his
own
sarcasm
:
the
house
where
young
men
are
called
by
their
christian
names
a
little
too
soon
.
At
certain
instants
her
eyes
seemed
about
to
trust
him
but
he
had
waited
in
vain
.
She
passed
now
dancing
lightly
across
his
memory
as
she
had
been
that
night
at
the
carnival
ball
,
her
white
dress
a
little
lifted
,
a
white
spray
nodding
in
her
hair
.
She
danced
lightly
in
the
round
.
She
was
dancing
towards
him
and
,
as
she
came
,
her
eyes
were
a
little
averted
and
a
faint
glow
was
on
her
cheek
.
At
the
pause
in
the
chain
of
hands
her
hand
had
lain
in
his
an
instant
,
a
soft
merchandise
.
