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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Портрет художника в юности
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- Стр. 212/241
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Eyes
,
opening
from
the
darkness
of
desire
,
eyes
that
dimmed
the
breaking
east
.
What
was
their
languid
grace
but
the
softness
of
chambering
?
And
what
was
their
shimmer
but
the
shimmer
of
the
scum
that
mantled
the
cesspool
of
the
court
of
a
slobbering
Stuart
.
And
he
tasted
in
the
language
of
memory
ambered
wines
,
dying
fallings
of
sweet
airs
,
the
proud
pavan
,
and
saw
with
the
eyes
of
memory
kind
gentlewomen
in
Covent
Garden
wooing
from
their
balconies
with
sucking
mouths
and
the
pox-fouled
wenches
of
the
taverns
and
young
wives
that
,
gaily
yielding
to
their
ravishers
,
clipped
and
clipped
again
.
The
images
he
had
summoned
gave
him
no
pleasure
.
They
were
secret
and
inflaming
but
her
image
was
not
entangled
by
them
.
That
was
not
the
way
to
think
of
her
.
It
was
not
even
the
way
in
which
he
thought
of
her
.
Could
his
mind
then
not
trust
itself
?
Old
phrases
,
sweet
only
with
a
disinterred
sweetness
like
the
figseeds
Cranly
rooted
out
of
his
gleaming
teeth
.
It
was
not
thought
nor
vision
though
he
knew
vaguely
that
her
figure
was
passing
homeward
through
the
city
.
Vaguely
first
and
then
more
sharply
he
smelt
her
body
.
A
conscious
unrest
seethed
in
his
blood
.
Yes
,
it
was
her
body
he
smelt
,
a
wild
and
languid
smell
,
the
tepid
limbs
over
which
his
music
had
flowed
desirously
and
the
secret
soft
linen
upon
which
her
flesh
distilled
odour
and
a
dew
.
A
louse
crawled
over
the
nape
of
his
neck
and
,
putting
his
thumb
and
forefinger
deftly
beneath
his
loose
collar
,
he
caught
it
.
He
rolled
its
body
,
tender
yet
brittle
as
a
grain
of
rice
,
between
thumb
and
finger
for
an
instant
before
he
let
it
fall
from
him
and
wondered
would
it
live
or
die
.
There
came
to
his
mind
a
curious
phrase
from
CORNELIUS
A
LAPIDE
which
said
that
the
lice
born
of
human
sweat
were
not
created
by
God
with
the
other
animals
on
the
sixth
day
.
But
the
tickling
of
the
skin
of
his
neck
made
his
mind
raw
and
red
.
The
life
of
his
body
,
ill
clad
,
ill
fed
,
louse-eaten
,
made
him
close
his
eyelids
in
a
sudden
spasm
of
despair
and
in
the
darkness
he
saw
the
brittle
bright
bodies
of
lice
falling
from
the
air
and
turning
often
as
they
fell
.
Yes
,
and
it
was
not
darkness
that
fell
from
the
air
.
It
was
brightness
.
Brightness
falls
from
the
air
.
He
had
not
even
remembered
rightly
Nash
's
line
.
All
the
images
it
had
awakened
were
false
.
His
mind
bred
vermin
.
His
thoughts
were
lice
born
of
the
sweat
of
sloth
.
He
came
back
quickly
along
the
colonnade
towards
the
group
of
students
.
Well
then
,
let
her
go
and
be
damned
to
her
!
She
could
love
some
clean
athlete
who
washed
himself
every
morning
to
the
waist
and
had
black
hair
on
his
chest
.
Let
her
.
Cranly
had
taken
another
dried
fig
from
the
supply
in
his
pocket
and
was
eating
it
slowly
and
noisily
.
Temple
sat
on
the
pediment
of
a
pillar
,
leaning
back
,
his
cap
pulled
down
on
his
sleepy
eyes
.
A
squat
young
man
came
out
of
the
porch
,
a
leather
portfolio
tucked
under
his
armpit
.
He
marched
towards
the
group
,
striking
the
flags
with
the
heels
of
his
boots
and
with
the
ferrule
of
his
heavy
umbrella
.
Then
,
raising
the
umbrella
in
salute
,
he
said
to
all
:
