Портрет художника в юности

           THEBRIDEOFLAMMERMOOR?—IloveoldScott,theflexiblelipssaid,Ithinkhewritessomethinglovely.ThereisnowritercantouchsirWalterScott.

           Hemovedathinshrunkenbrownhandgentlyintheairintimetohispraiseandhisthinquickeyelidsbeatoftenoverhissadeyes.

           SaddertoStephen’searwashisspeech:agenteelaccent,lowandmoist,marredbyerrors,and,listeningtoit,hewonderedwasthestorytrueandwasthethinbloodthatflowedinhisshrunkenframenobleandcomeofanincestuouslove?

           Theparktreeswereheavywithrain;andrainfellstillandeverinthelake,lyinggreylikeashield.Agameofswansflewthereandthewaterandtheshorebeneathwerefouledwiththeirgreen-whiteslime.Theyembracedsoftly—impelledbythegreyrainylight,thewetsilenttrees,theshield-likewitnessinglake,theswans.Theyembracedwithoutjoyorpassion,hisarmabouthissister’sneck.Agreywoollencloakwaswrappedathwartherfromhershouldertoherwaistandherfairheadwasbentinwillingshame.Hehadloosered-brownhairandtendershapelystrongfreckledhands.Face?Therewasnofaceseen.Thebrother’sfacewasbentuponherfairrain-fragranthair.ThehandfreckledandstrongandshapelyandcaressingwasDavin’shand.

           Hefrownedangrilyuponhisthoughtandontheshrivelledmannikinwhohadcalleditforth.Hisfather’sjibesattheBantrygangleapedoutofhismemory.