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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Портрет художника в юности
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- Стр. 71/241
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He
returned
to
Mercedes
and
,
as
he
brooded
upon
her
image
,
a
strange
unrest
crept
into
his
blood
.
Sometimes
a
fever
gathered
within
him
and
led
him
to
rove
alone
in
the
evening
along
the
quiet
avenue
.
The
peace
of
the
gardens
and
the
kindly
lights
in
the
windows
poured
a
tender
influence
into
his
restless
heart
.
The
noise
of
children
at
play
annoyed
him
and
their
silly
voices
made
him
feel
,
even
more
keenly
than
he
had
felt
at
Clongowes
,
that
he
was
different
from
others
.
He
did
not
want
to
play
.
He
wanted
to
meet
in
the
real
world
the
unsubstantial
image
which
his
soul
so
constantly
beheld
.
He
did
not
know
where
to
seek
it
or
how
,
but
a
premonition
which
led
him
on
told
him
that
this
image
would
,
without
any
overt
act
of
his
,
encounter
him
.
They
would
meet
quietly
as
if
they
had
known
each
other
and
had
made
their
tryst
,
perhaps
at
one
of
the
gates
or
in
some
more
secret
place
.
They
would
be
alone
,
surrounded
by
darkness
and
silence
:
and
in
that
moment
of
supreme
tenderness
he
would
be
transfigured
.
He
would
fade
into
something
impalpable
under
her
eyes
and
then
in
a
moment
he
would
be
transfigured
.
Weakness
and
timidity
and
inexperience
would
fall
from
him
in
that
magic
moment
.
*
*
*
Two
great
yellow
caravans
had
halted
one
morning
before
the
door
and
men
had
come
tramping
into
the
house
to
dismantle
it
.
The
furniture
had
been
hustled
out
through
the
front
garden
which
was
strewn
with
wisps
of
straw
and
rope
ends
and
into
the
huge
vans
at
the
gate
.
When
all
had
been
safely
stowed
the
vans
had
set
off
noisily
down
the
avenue
:
and
from
the
window
of
the
railway
carriage
,
in
which
he
had
sat
with
his
red-eyed
mother
,
Stephen
had
seen
them
lumbering
along
the
Merrion
Road
.
The
parlour
fire
would
not
draw
that
evening
and
Mr
Dedalus
rested
the
poker
against
the
bars
of
the
grate
to
attract
the
flame
.
Uncle
Charles
dozed
in
a
corner
of
the
half
furnished
uncarpeted
room
and
near
him
the
family
portraits
leaned
against
the
wall
.
The
lamp
on
the
table
shed
a
weak
light
over
the
boarded
floor
,
muddied
by
the
feet
of
the
van-men
.
Stephen
sat
on
a
footstool
beside
his
father
listening
to
a
long
and
incoherent
monologue
.
He
understood
little
or
nothing
of
it
at
first
but
he
became
slowly
aware
that
his
father
had
enemies
and
that
some
fight
was
going
to
take
place
.
He
felt
,
too
,
that
he
was
being
enlisted
for
the
fight
,
that
some
duty
was
being
laid
upon
his
shoulders
.
The
sudden
flight
from
the
comfort
and
revery
of
Blackrock
,
the
passage
through
the
gloomy
foggy
city
,
the
thought
of
the
bare
cheerless
house
in
which
they
were
now
to
live
made
his
heart
heavy
,
and
again
an
intuition
,
a
foreknowledge
of
the
future
came
to
him
.
He
understood
also
why
the
servants
had
often
whispered
together
in
the
hall
and
why
his
father
had
often
stood
on
the
hearthrug
with
his
back
to
the
fire
,
talking
loudly
to
uncle
Charles
who
urged
him
to
sit
down
and
eat
his
dinner
.
--
There
's
a
crack
of
the
whip
left
in
me
yet
,
Stephen
,
old
chap
,
said
Mr
Dedalus
,
poking
at
the
dull
fire
with
fierce
energy
.
We
're
not
dead
yet
,
sonny
.
No
,
by
the
Lord
Jesus
(
God
forgive
me
)
not
half
dead
.
Dublin
was
a
new
and
complex
sensation
.
Uncle
Charles
had
grown
so
witless
that
he
could
no
longer
be
sent
out
on
errands
and
the
disorder
in
settling
in
the
new
house
left
Stephen
freer
than
he
had
been
in
Blackrock
.
In
the
beginning
he
contented
himself
with
circling
timidly
round
the
neighbouring
square
or
,
at
most
,
going
half
way
down
one
of
the
side
streets
but
when
he
had
made
a
skeleton
map
of
the
city
in
his
mind
he
followed
boldly
one
of
its
central
lines
until
he
reached
the
customhouse
.
He
passed
unchallenged
among
the
docks
and
along
the
quays
wondering
at
the
multitude
of
corks
that
lay
bobbing
on
the
surface
of
the
water
in
a
thick
yellow
scum
,
at
the
crowds
of
quay
porters
and
the
rumbling
carts
and
the
ill-dressed
bearded
policeman
.
The
vastness
and
strangeness
of
the
life
suggested
to
him
by
the
bales
of
merchandise
stocked
along
the
walls
or
swung
aloft
out
of
the
holds
of
steamers
wakened
again
in
him
the
unrest
which
had
sent
him
wandering
in
the
evening
from
garden
to
garden
in
search
of
Mercedes
.
And
amid
this
new
bustling
life
he
might
have
fancied
himself
in
another
Marseille
but
that
he
missed
the
bright
sky
and
the
sum-warmed
trellises
of
the
wineshops
.
A
vague
dissatisfaction
grew
up
within
him
as
he
looked
on
the
quays
and
on
the
river
and
on
the
lowering
skies
and
yet
he
continued
to
wander
up
and
down
day
after
day
as
if
he
really
sought
someone
that
eluded
him
.
