Портрет художника в юности

           Thenashortlaughbrokefromhislipsashethoughtofthatsolitaryfarmhandinthekitchengardensbehindtheirhousewhomtheyhadnicknamedthemanwiththehat.Asecondlaugh,takingrisefromthefirstafterapause,brokefromhiminvoluntarilyashethoughtofhowthemanwiththehatworked,consideringinturnthefourpointsoftheskyandthenregretfullyplunginghisspadeintheearth.

           Hepushedopenthelatchlessdooroftheporchandpassedthroughthenakedhallwayintothekitchen.Agroupofhisbrothersandsisterswassittingroundthetable.Teawasnearlyoverandonlythelastofthesecondwateredtearemainedinthebottomsofthesmallglassjarsandjampotswhichdidserviceforteacups.Discardedcrustsandlumpsofsugaredbread,turnedbrownbytheteawhichhadbeenpouredoverthem,layscatteredonthetable.Littlewellsoftealayhereandthereontheboard,andaknifewithabrokenivoryhandlewasstuckthroughthepithofaravagedturnover.

           Thesadquietgrey-blueglowofthedyingdaycamethroughthewindowandtheopendoor,coveringoverandallayingquietlyasuddeninstinctofremorseinStephen’sheart.Allthathadbeendeniedthemhadbeenfreelygiventohim,theeldest;butthequietglowofeveningshowedhimintheirfacesnosignofrancour.

           Hesatnearthematthetableandaskedwherehisfatherandmotherwere.Oneanswered:

           —Goneborotoborolookboroatboroaborohouseboro.