Портрет художника в юности
Chapter 1
Thenhesaidsecretly:
—Youknowthealtarwinetheykeepinthepressinthesacristy?
—Yes.
—Well,theydrankthatanditwasfoundoutwhodiditbythesmell.Andthat’swhytheyranaway,ifyouwanttoknow.
Andthefellowwhohadspokenfirstsaid:
—Yes,that’swhatIheardtoofromthefellowinthehigherline.
Thefellowsallweresilent.Stephenstoodamongthem,afraidtospeak,listening.Afaintsicknessofawemadehimfeelweak.Howcouldtheyhavedonethat?Hethoughtofthedarksilentsacristy.Thereweredarkwoodenpressestherewherethecrimpedsurpliceslayquietlyfolded.Itwasnotthechapelbutstillyouhadtospeakunderyourbreath.Itwasaholyplace.Herememberedthesummereveninghehadbeentheretobedressedasboatbearer,theeveningoftheProcessiontothelittlealtarinthewood.Astrangeandholyplace.Theboythatheldthecenserhadswungitliftedbythemiddlechaintokeepthecoalslighting.Thatwascalledcharcoal:andithadburnedquietlyasthefellowhadswungitgentlyandhadgivenoffaweaksoursmell.Andthenwhenallwerevestedhehadstoodholdingouttheboattotherectorandtherectorhadputaspoonfulofincenseinitandithadhissedontheredcoals.
Thefellowsweretalkingtogetherinlittlegroupshereandthereontheplayground.
