Портрет художника в юности

           Onallsidesdistortedreflectionsofherimagestartedfromhismemory:theflowergirlintheraggeddresswithdampcoarsehairandahoyden’sfacewhohadcalledherselfhisowngirlandbeggedhishandsel,thekitchen-girlinthenexthousewhosangovertheclatterofherplates,withthedrawlofacountrysinger,thefirstbarsofBYKILLARNEY’SLAKESANDFELLS,agirlwhohadlaughedgailytoseehimstumblewhentheirongratinginthefootpathnearCorkHillhadcaughtthebrokensoleofhisshoe,agirlhehadglancedat,attractedbyhersmallripemouth,asshepassedoutofJacob’sbiscuitfactory,whohadcriedtohimoverhershoulder:

           —Doyoulikewhatyouseenofme,straighthairandcurlyeyebrows?

           Andyethefeltthat,howeverhemightrevileandmockherimage,hisangerwasalsoaformofhomage.Hehadlefttheclassroomindisdainthatwasnotwhollysincere,feelingthatperhapsthesecretofherracelaybehindthosedarkeyesuponwhichherlonglashesflungaquickshadow.Hehadtoldhimselfbitterlyashewalkedthroughthestreetsthatshewasafigureofthewomanhoodofhercountry,abat-likesoulwakingtotheconsciousnessofitselfindarknessandsecrecyandloneliness,tarryingawhile,lovelessandsinless,withhermildloverandleavinghimtowhisperofinnocenttransgressionsinthelatticedearofapriest.