Портрет художника в юности

Chapter 1

           

           Yourfondson,Stephen

           Howfarawaytheywere!Therewascoldsunlightoutsidethewindow.Hewonderedifhewoulddie.Youcoulddiejustthesameonasunnyday.Hemightdiebeforehismothercame.ThenhewouldhaveadeadmassinthechapellikethewaythefellowshadtoldhimitwaswhenLittlehaddied.Allthefellowswouldbeatthemass,dressedinblack,allwithsadfaces.Wellstoowouldbetherebutnofellowwouldlookathim.Therectorwouldbethereinacopeofblackandgoldandtherewouldbetallyellowcandlesonthealtarandroundthecatafalque.Andtheywouldcarrythecoffinoutofthechapelslowlyandhewouldbeburiedinthelittlegraveyardofthecommunityoffthemainavenueoflimes.AndWellswouldbesorrythenforwhathehaddone.Andthebellwouldtollslowly.

           Hecouldhearthetolling.HesaidovertohimselfthesongthatBrigidhadtaughthim.

           Dingdong!Thecastlebell!

           Farewell,mymother!

           Burymeintheoldchurchyard

           Besidemyeldestbrother.

           Mycoffinshallbeblack,

           Sixangelsatmyback,

           Twotosingandtwotopray

           Andtwotocarrymysoulaway.

           Howbeautifulandsadthatwas!HowbeautifulthewordswerewheretheysaidBURYMEINTHEOLDCHURCHYARD!Atremorpassedoverhisbody.

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