Портрет художника в юности

           Hissinstrickledfromhislips,onebyone,trickledinshamefuldropsfromhissoul,festeringandoozinglikeasore,asqualidstreamofvice.Thelastsinsoozedforth,sluggish,filthy.Therewasnomoretotell.Hebowedhishead,overcome.

           ThePriestwassilent.Thenheasked:

           —Howoldareyou,mychild?

           —Sixteen,father.

           Thepriestpassedhishandseveraltimesoverhisface.Then,restinghisforeheadagainsthishand,heleanedtowardsthegratingand,witheyesstillaverted,spokeslowly.Hisvoicewaswearyandold.

           —Youareveryyoung,mychild,hesaid,andletmeimploreofyoutogiveupthatsin.Itisaterriblesin.Itkillsthebodyanditkillsthesoul.Itisthecauseofmanycrimesandmisfortunes.Giveitup,mychild,forGod’ssake.Itisdishonourableandunmanly.Youcannotknowwherethatwretchedhabitwillleadyouorwhereitwillcomeagainstyou.Aslongasyoucommitthatsin,mypoorchild,youwillneverbeworthonefarthingtoGod.PraytoourmotherMarytohelpyou.Shewillhelpyou,mychild.PraytoOurBlessedLadywhenthatsincomesintoyourmind.Iamsureyouwilldothat,willyounot?Yourepentofallthosesins.Iamsureyoudo.AndyouwillpromiseGodnowthatbyHisholygraceyouwillneveroffendHimanymorebythatwickedsin.YouwillmakethatsolemnpromisetoGod,willyounot?

           —Yes,father.