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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Портрет художника в юности
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- Стр. 205/241
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He
moved
a
thin
shrunken
brown
hand
gently
in
the
air
in
time
to
his
praise
and
his
thin
quick
eyelids
beat
often
over
his
sad
eyes
.
Sadder
to
Stephen
's
ear
was
his
speech
:
a
genteel
accent
,
low
and
moist
,
marred
by
errors
,
and
,
listening
to
it
,
he
wondered
was
the
story
true
and
was
the
thin
blood
that
flowed
in
his
shrunken
frame
noble
and
come
of
an
incestuous
love
?
The
park
trees
were
heavy
with
rain
;
and
rain
fell
still
and
ever
in
the
lake
,
lying
grey
like
a
shield
.
A
game
of
swans
flew
there
and
the
water
and
the
shore
beneath
were
fouled
with
their
green-white
slime
.
They
embraced
softly
--
impelled
by
the
grey
rainy
light
,
the
wet
silent
trees
,
the
shield-like
witnessing
lake
,
the
swans
.
They
embraced
without
joy
or
passion
,
his
arm
about
his
sister
's
neck
.
A
grey
woollen
cloak
was
wrapped
athwart
her
from
her
shoulder
to
her
waist
and
her
fair
head
was
bent
in
willing
shame
.
He
had
loose
red-brown
hair
and
tender
shapely
strong
freckled
hands
.
Face
?
There
was
no
face
seen
.
The
brother
's
face
was
bent
upon
her
fair
rain-fragrant
hair
.
The
hand
freckled
and
strong
and
shapely
and
caressing
was
Davin
's
hand
.
He
frowned
angrily
upon
his
thought
and
on
the
shrivelled
mannikin
who
had
called
it
forth
.
His
father
's
jibes
at
the
Bantry
gang
leaped
out
of
his
memory
.
He
held
them
at
a
distance
and
brooded
uneasily
on
his
own
thought
again
.
Why
were
they
not
Cranly
's
hands
?
Had
Davin
's
simplicity
and
innocence
stung
him
more
secretly
?
He
walked
on
across
the
hall
with
Dixon
,
leaving
Cranly
to
take
leave
elaborately
of
the
dwarf
.
Under
the
colonnade
Temple
was
standing
in
the
midst
of
a
little
group
of
students
.
One
of
them
cried
:
--
Dixon
,
come
over
till
you
hear
.
Temple
is
in
grand
form
.
Temple
turned
on
him
his
dark
gipsy
eyes
.
--
You
're
a
hypocrite
,
O'Keeffe
,
he
said
.
And
Dixon
is
a
smiler
.
By
hell
,
I
think
that
's
a
good
literary
expression
.
