Портрет художника в юности

Chapter 1

           Avoiceathisbedsaid:

           Dedalus,don’tspyonus,sureyouwon’t?

           Wells’sfacewasthere.HelookedatitandsawthatWellswasafraid.

           Ididn’tmeanto.Sureyouwon’t?

           Hisfatherhadtoldhim,whateverhedid,nevertopeachonafellow.Heshookhisheadandanswerednoandfeltglad.

           Wellssaid:

           Ididn’tmeanto,honourbright.Itwasonlyforcod.I’msorry.

           Thefaceandthevoicewentaway.Sorrybecausehewasafraid.Afraidthatitwassomedisease.Cankerwasadiseaseofplantsandcanceroneofanimals:oranotherdifferent.Thatwasalongtimeagothenoutontheplaygroundsintheeveninglight,creepingfrompointtopointonthefringeofhisline,aheavybirdflyinglowthroughthegreylight.LeicesterAbbeylitup.Wolseydiedthere.Theabbotsburiedhimthemselves.

           ItwasnotWells’sface,itwastheprefect’s.Hewasnotfoxing.No,no:hewassickreally.Hewasnotfoxing.Andhefelttheprefect’shandonhisforehead;andhefelthisforeheadwarmanddampagainsttheprefect’scolddamphand.Thatwasthewayaratfelt,slimyanddampandcold.Everyrathadtwoeyestolookoutof.Sleekslimycoats,littlelittlefeettuckeduptojump,blackslimyeyestolookoutof.Theycouldunderstandhowtojump.Butthemindsofratscouldnotunderstandtrigonometry.Whentheyweredeadtheylayontheirsides.Theircoatsdriedthen.Theywereonlydeadthings.

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