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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Портрет художника в юности
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- Стр. 230/241
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--
I
can
not
answer
for
the
past
,
Stephen
replied
.
Possibly
not
.
--
Then
,
said
Cranly
,
you
do
not
intend
to
become
a
protestant
?
--
I
said
that
I
had
lost
the
faith
,
Stephen
answered
,
but
not
that
I
had
lost
self-respect
.
What
kind
of
liberation
would
that
be
to
forsake
an
absurdity
which
is
logical
and
coherent
and
to
embrace
one
which
is
illogical
and
incoherent
?
They
had
walked
on
towards
the
township
of
Pembroke
and
now
,
as
they
went
on
slowly
along
the
avenues
,
the
trees
and
the
scattered
lights
in
the
villas
soothed
their
minds
.
The
air
of
wealth
and
repose
diffused
about
them
seemed
to
comfort
their
neediness
.
Behind
a
hedge
of
laurel
a
light
glimmered
in
the
window
of
a
kitchen
and
the
voice
of
a
servant
was
heard
singing
as
she
sharpened
knives
.
She
sang
,
in
short
broken
bars
:
Rosie
O'Grady
.
Cranly
stopped
to
listen
,
saying
:
--
MULIER
CANTAT
.
The
soft
beauty
of
the
Latin
word
touched
with
an
enchanting
touch
the
dark
of
the
evening
,
with
a
touch
fainter
and
more
persuading
than
the
touch
of
music
or
of
a
woman
's
hand
.
The
strife
of
their
minds
was
quelled
.
The
figure
of
a
woman
as
she
appears
in
the
liturgy
of
the
church
passed
silently
through
the
darkness
:
a
white-robed
figure
,
small
and
slender
as
a
boy
,
and
with
a
falling
girdle
.
Her
voice
,
frail
and
high
as
a
boy
's
,
was
heard
intoning
from
a
distant
choir
the
first
words
of
a
woman
which
pierce
the
gloom
and
clamour
of
the
first
chanting
of
the
passion
:
ET
TU
CUM
JESU
GALILAEO
ERAS
.
And
all
hearts
were
touched
and
turned
to
her
voice
,
shining
like
a
young
star
,
shining
clearer
as
the
voice
intoned
the
pro-paroxytone
and
more
faintly
as
the
cadence
died
.
