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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Портрет художника в юности
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- Стр. 91/241
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When
he
came
out
on
the
steps
he
saw
his
family
waiting
for
'
him
at
the
first
lamp
.
In
a
glance
he
noted
that
every
figure
of
the
group
was
familiar
and
ran
down
the
steps
angrily
.
--
I
have
to
leave
a
message
down
in
George
's
Street
,
he
said
to
his
father
quickly
.
I
'll
be
home
after
you
.
Without
waiting
for
his
father
's
questions
he
ran
across
the
road
and
began
to
walk
at
breakneck
speed
down
the
hill
.
He
hardly
knew
where
he
was
walking
.
Pride
and
hope
and
desire
like
crushed
herbs
in
his
heart
sent
up
vapours
of
,
maddening
incense
before
the
eyes
of
his
mind
.
He
strode
down
the
hill
amid
the
tumult
of
sudden-risen
vapours
of
wounded
pride
and
fallen
hope
and
baffled
desire
.
They
streamed
upwards
before
his
anguished
eyes
in
dense
and
maddening
fumes
and
passed
away
above
him
till
at
last
the
air
was
clear
and
cold
again
.
A
film
still
veiled
his
eyes
but
they
burned
no
longer
.
A
power
,
akin
to
that
which
had
often
made
anger
or
resentment
fall
from
him
,
brought
his
steps
to
rest
.
He
stood
still
and
gazed
up
at
the
sombre
porch
of
the
morgue
and
from
that
to
the
dark
cobbled
laneway
at
its
side
.
He
saw
the
word
LOTTS
on
the
wall
of
the
lane
and
breathed
slowly
the
rank
heavy
air
.
That
is
horse
piss
and
rotted
straw
,
he
thought
.
It
is
a
good
odour
to
breathe
.
It
will
calm
my
heart
.
My
heart
is
quite
calm
now
.
I
will
go
back
.
*
*
*
Stephen
was
once
again
seated
beside
his
father
in
the
corner
of
a
railway
carriage
at
Kingsbridge
.
He
was
travelling
with
his
father
by
the
night
mail
to
Cork
.
As
the
train
steamed
out
of
the
station
he
recalled
his
childish
wonder
of
years
before
and
every
event
of
his
first
day
at
Clongowes
.
But
he
felt
no
wonder
now
.
He
saw
the
darkening
lands
slipping
away
past
him
,
the
silent
telegraph-poles
passing
his
window
swiftly
every
four
seconds
,
the
little
glimmering
stations
,
manned
by
a
few
silent
sentries
,
flung
by
the
mail
behind
her
and
twinkling
for
a
moment
in
the
darkness
like
fiery
grains
flung
backwards
by
a
runner
.
He
listened
without
sympathy
to
his
father
's
evocation
of
Cork
and
of
scenes
of
his
youth
,
a
tale
broken
by
sighs
or
draughts
from
his
pocket
flask
whenever
the
image
of
some
dead
friend
appeared
in
it
or
whenever
the
evoker
remembered
suddenly
the
purpose
of
his
actual
visit
.
Stephen
heard
but
could
feel
no
pity
.
The
images
of
the
dead
were
all
strangers
to
him
save
that
of
uncle
Charles
,
an
image
which
had
lately
been
fading
out
of
memory
.
He
knew
,
however
,
that
his
father
's
property
was
going
to
be
sold
by
auction
,
and
in
the
manner
of
his
own
dispossession
he
felt
the
world
give
the
lie
rudely
to
his
phantasy
.
At
Maryborough
he
fell
asleep
.
When
he
awoke
the
train
had
passed
out
of
Mallow
and
his
father
was
stretched
asleep
on
the
other
seat
.
The
cold
light
of
the
dawn
lay
over
the
country
,
over
the
unpeopled
fields
and
the
closed
cottages
.
The
terror
of
sleep
fascinated
his
mind
as
he
watched
the
silent
country
or
heard
from
time
to
time
his
father
's
deep
breath
or
sudden
sleepy
movement
.
The
neighbourhood
of
unseen
sleepers
filled
him
with
strange
dread
,
as
though
they
could
harm
him
,
and
he
prayed
that
the
day
might
come
quickly
.
His
prayer
,
addressed
neither
to
God
nor
saint
,
began
with
a
shiver
,
as
the
chilly
morning
breeze
crept
through
the
chink
of
the
carriage
door
to
his
feet
,
and
ended
in
a
trail
of
foolish
words
which
he
made
to
fit
the
insistent
rhythm
of
the
train
;
and
silently
,
at
intervals
of
four
seconds
,
the
telegraph-poles
held
the
galloping
notes
of
the
music
between
punctual
bars
.
