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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Портрет художника в юности
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- Стр. 211/241
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--
That
word
is
a
most
interesting
word
.
That
's
the
only
English
dual
number
.
Did
you
know
?
--
Is
it
?
Stephen
said
vaguely
.
He
was
watching
Cranly
's
firm-featured
suffering
face
,
lit
up
now
by
a
smile
of
false
patience
.
The
gross
name
had
passed
over
it
like
foul
water
poured
over
an
old
stone
image
,
patient
of
injuries
;
and
,
as
he
watched
him
,
he
saw
him
raise
his
hat
in
salute
and
uncover
the
black
hair
that
stood
stiffly
from
his
forehead
like
an
iron
crown
.
She
passed
out
from
the
porch
of
the
library
and
bowed
across
Stephen
in
reply
to
Cranly
's
greeting
.
He
also
?
Was
there
not
a
slight
flush
on
Cranly
's
cheek
?
Or
had
it
come
forth
at
Temple
's
words
?
The
light
had
waned
.
He
could
not
see
.
Did
that
explain
his
friend
's
listless
silence
,
his
harsh
comments
,
the
sudden
intrusions
of
rude
speech
with
which
he
had
shattered
so
often
Stephen
's
ardent
wayward
confessions
?
Stephen
had
forgiven
freely
for
he
had
found
this
rudeness
also
in
himself
.
And
he
remembered
an
evening
when
he
had
dismounted
from
a
borrowed
creaking
bicycle
to
pray
to
God
in
a
wood
near
Malahide
.
He
had
lifted
up
his
arms
and
spoken
in
ecstasy
to
the
sombre
nave
of
the
trees
,
knowing
that
he
stood
on
holy
ground
and
in
a
holy
hour
.
And
when
two
constabulary
men
had
come
into
sight
round
a
bend
in
the
gloomy
road
he
had
broken
off
his
prayer
to
whistle
loudly
an
air
from
the
last
pantomime
.
He
began
to
beat
the
frayed
end
of
his
ashplant
against
the
base
of
a
pillar
.
Had
Cranly
not
heard
him
?
Yet
he
could
wait
.
The
talk
about
him
ceased
for
a
moment
and
a
soft
hiss
fell
again
from
a
window
above
.
But
no
other
sound
was
in
the
air
and
the
swallows
whose
flight
he
had
followed
with
idle
eyes
were
sleeping
.
She
had
passed
through
the
dusk
.
And
therefore
the
air
was
silent
save
for
one
soft
hiss
that
fell
.
And
therefore
the
tongues
about
him
had
ceased
their
babble
.
Darkness
was
falling
.
Darkness
falls
from
the
air
.
A
trembling
joy
,
lambent
as
a
faint
light
,
played
like
a
fairy
host
around
him
.
But
why
?
Her
passage
through
the
darkening
air
or
the
verse
with
its
black
vowels
and
its
opening
sound
,
rich
and
lutelike
?
He
walked
away
slowly
towards
the
deeper
shadows
at
the
end
of
the
colonnade
,
beating
the
stone
softly
with
his
stick
to
hide
his
revery
from
the
students
whom
he
had
left
:
and
allowed
his
mind
to
summon
back
to
itself
the
age
of
Dowland
and
Byrd
and
Nash
.
