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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Портрет художника в юности
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- Стр. 95/241
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By
the
time
they
had
crossed
the
quadrangle
his
restlessness
had
risen
to
fever
.
He
wondered
how
his
father
,
whom
he
knew
for
a
shrewd
suspicious
man
,
could
be
duped
by
the
servile
manners
of
the
porter
;
and
the
lively
southern
speech
which
had
entertained
him
all
the
morning
now
irritated
his
ears
.
They
passed
into
the
anatomy
theatre
where
Mr
Dedalus
,
the
porter
aiding
him
,
searched
the
desks
for
his
initials
.
Stephen
remained
in
the
background
,
depressed
more
than
ever
by
the
darkness
and
silence
of
the
theatre
and
by
the
air
it
wore
of
jaded
and
formal
study
.
On
the
desk
he
read
the
word
FOETUS
cut
several
times
in
the
dark
stained
wood
.
The
sudden
legend
startled
his
blood
:
he
seemed
to
feel
the
absent
students
of
the
college
about
him
and
to
shrink
from
their
company
.
A
vision
of
their
life
,
which
his
father
's
words
had
been
powerless
to
evoke
,
sprang
up
before
him
out
of
the
word
cut
in
the
desk
.
A
broad-shouldered
student
with
a
moustache
was
cutting
in
the
letters
with
a
jack-knife
,
seriously
.
Other
students
stood
or
sat
near
him
laughing
at
his
handiwork
.
One
jogged
his
elbow
.
The
big
student
turned
on
him
,
frowning
.
He
was
dressed
in
loose
grey
clothes
and
had
tan
boots
.
Stephen
's
name
was
called
.
He
hurried
down
the
steps
of
the
theatre
so
as
to
be
as
far
away
from
the
vision
as
he
could
be
and
,
peering
closely
at
his
father
's
initials
,
hid
his
flushed
face
.
But
the
word
and
the
vision
capered
before
his
eyes
as
he
walked
back
across
the
quadrangle
and
towards
the
college
gate
.
It
shocked
him
to
find
in
the
outer
world
a
trace
of
what
he
had
deemed
till
then
a
brutish
and
individual
malady
of
his
own
mind
.
His
monstrous
reveries
came
thronging
into
his
memory
.
They
too
had
sprung
up
before
him
,
suddenly
and
furiously
,
out
of
mere
words
.
He
had
soon
given
in
to
them
and
allowed
them
to
sweep
across
and
abase
his
intellect
,
wondering
always
where
they
came
from
,
from
what
den
of
monstrous
images
,
and
always
weak
and
humble
towards
others
,
restless
and
sickened
of
himself
when
they
had
swept
over
him
.
--
Ay
,
bedad
!
And
there
's
the
Groceries
sure
enough
!
cried
Mr
Dedalus
.
You
often
heard
me
speak
of
the
Groceries
,
did
n't
you
,
Stephen
.
Many
's
the
time
we
went
down
there
when
our
names
had
been
marked
,
a
crowd
of
us
,
Harry
Peard
and
little
Jack
Mountain
and
Bob
Dyas
and
Maurice
Moriarty
,
the
Frenchman
,
and
Tom
O'Grady
and
Mick
Lacy
that
I
told
you
of
this
morning
and
Joey
Corbet
and
poor
little
good-hearted
Johnny
Keevers
of
the
Tantiles
.
The
leaves
of
the
trees
along
the
Mardyke
were
astir
and
whispering
in
the
sunlight
.
A
team
of
cricketers
passed
,
agile
young
men
in
flannels
and
blazers
,
one
of
them
carrying
the
long
green
wicket-bag
.
In
a
quiet
bystreet
a
German
band
of
five
players
in
faded
uniforms
and
with
battered
brass
instruments
was
playing
to
an
audience
of
street
arabs
and
leisurely
messenger
boys
.
A
maid
in
a
white
cap
and
apron
was
watering
a
box
of
plants
on
a
sill
which
shone
like
a
slab
of
limestone
in
the
warm
glare
.
From
another
window
open
to
the
air
came
the
sound
of
a
piano
,
scale
after
scale
rising
into
the
treble
.
Stephen
walked
on
at
his
father
's
side
,
listening
to
stories
he
had
heard
before
,
hearing
again
the
names
of
the
scattered
and
dead
revellers
who
had
been
the
companions
of
his
father
's
youth
.
And
a
faint
sickness
sighed
in
his
heart
.
He
recalled
his
own
equivocal
position
in
Belvedere
,
a
free
boy
,
a
leader
afraid
of
his
own
authority
,
proud
and
sensitive
and
suspicious
,
battling
against
the
squalor
of
his
life
and
against
the
riot
of
his
mind
.
The
letters
cut
in
the
stained
wood
of
the
desk
stared
upon
him
,
mocking
his
bodily
weakness
and
futile
enthusiasms
and
making
him
loathe
himself
for
his
own
mad
and
filthy
orgies
.
The
spittle
in
his
throat
grew
bitter
and
foul
to
swallow
and
the
faint
sickness
climbed
to
his
brain
so
that
for
a
moment
he
closed
his
eyes
and
walked
on
in
darkness
.
