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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Портрет художника в юности
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- Стр. 82/241
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A
soft
peal
of
mirthless
laughter
escaped
from
his
lips
and
,
bending
down
as
before
,
he
struck
Stephen
lightly
across
the
calf
of
the
leg
with
his
cane
,
as
if
in
jesting
reproof
.
Stephen
's
moment
of
anger
had
already
passed
.
He
was
neither
flattered
nor
confused
,
but
simply
wished
the
banter
to
end
.
He
scarcely
resented
what
had
seemed
to
him
a
silly
indelicateness
for
he
knew
that
the
adventure
in
his
mind
stood
in
no
danger
from
these
words
:
and
his
face
mirrored
his
rival
's
false
smile
.
--
Admit
!
repeated
Heron
,
striking
him
again
with
his
cane
across
the
calf
of
the
leg
.
The
stroke
was
playful
but
not
so
lightly
given
as
the
first
one
had
been
.
Stephen
felt
the
skin
tingle
and
glow
slightly
and
almost
painlessly
;
and
,
bowing
submissively
,
as
if
to
meet
his
companion
's
jesting
mood
,
began
to
recite
the
CONFITEOR
.
The
episode
ended
well
,
for
both
Heron
and
Wallis
laughed
indulgently
at
the
irreverence
.
The
confession
came
only
from
Stephen
's
lips
and
,
while
they
spoke
the
words
,
a
sudden
memory
had
carried
him
to
another
scene
called
up
,
as
if
by
magic
,
at
the
moment
when
he
had
noted
the
faint
cruel
dimples
at
the
corners
of
Heron
's
smiling
lips
and
had
felt
the
familiar
stroke
of
the
cane
against
his
calf
and
had
heard
the
familiar
word
of
admonition
:
--
Admit
.
It
was
towards
the
close
of
his
first
term
in
the
college
when
he
was
in
number
six
.
His
sensitive
nature
was
still
smarting
under
the
lashes
of
an
undivined
and
squalid
way
of
life
.
His
soul
was
still
disquieted
and
cast
down
by
the
dull
phenomenon
of
Dublin
.
He
had
emerged
from
a
two
years
'
spell
of
revery
to
find
himself
in
the
midst
of
a
new
scene
,
every
event
and
figure
of
which
affected
him
intimately
,
disheartened
him
or
allured
and
,
whether
alluring
or
disheartening
,
filled
him
always
with
unrest
and
bitter
thoughts
.
All
the
leisure
which
his
school
life
left
him
was
passed
in
the
company
of
subversive
writers
whose
jibes
and
violence
of
speech
set
up
a
ferment
in
his
brain
before
they
passed
out
of
it
into
his
crude
writings
.
The
essay
was
for
him
the
chief
labour
of
his
week
and
every
Tuesday
,
as
he
marched
from
home
to
the
school
,
he
read
his
fate
in
the
incidents
of
the
way
,
pitting
himself
against
some
figure
ahead
of
him
and
quickening
his
pace
to
outstrip
it
before
a
certain
goal
was
reached
or
planting
his
steps
scrupulously
in
the
spaces
of
the
patchwork
of
the
pathway
and
telling
himself
that
he
would
be
first
and
not
first
in
the
weekly
essay
.
On
a
certain
Tuesday
the
course
of
his
triumphs
was
rudely
broken
.
Mr
Tate
,
the
English
master
,
pointed
his
finger
at
him
and
said
bluntly
:
--
This
fellow
has
heresy
in
his
essay
.
