Портрет художника в юности

           ThesoftbeautyoftheLatinwordtouchedwithanenchantingtouchthedarkoftheevening,withatouchfainterandmorepersuadingthanthetouchofmusicorofawoman’shand.Thestrifeoftheirmindswasquelled.Thefigureofawomanassheappearsintheliturgyofthechurchpassedsilentlythroughthedarkness:awhite-robedfigure,smallandslenderasaboy,andwithafallinggirdle.Hervoice,frailandhighasaboy’s,washeardintoningfromadistantchoirthefirstwordsofawomanwhichpiercethegloomandclamourofthefirstchantingofthepassion:

           ETTUCUMJESUGALILAEOERAS.

           Andallheartsweretouchedandturnedtohervoice,shininglikeayoungstar,shiningclearerasthevoiceintonedthepro-paroxytoneandmorefaintlyasthecadencedied.

           Thesingingceased.Theywentontogether,Cranlyrepeatinginstronglystressedrhythmtheendoftherefrain:

           Andwhenwearemarried,

           O,howhappywe’llbe

           ForIlovesweetRosieO’Grady

           AndRosieO’Gradylovesme.

           —There’srealpoetryforyou,hesaid.There’sreallove.

           HeglancedsidewaysatStephenwithastrangesmileandsaid:

           —Doyouconsiderthatpoetry?Ordoyouknowwhatthewordsmean?

           —IwanttoseeRosiefirst,saidStephen.

           —She’seasytofind,Cranlysaid.

           Hishathadcomedownonhisforehead.