Портрет художника в юности

           Hisheartwasbeatingfastonaccountofthesolemnplacehewasinandthesilenceoftheroom:andhelookedattheskullandattherector’skind-lookingface.

           —Well,mylittleman,saidtherector,whatisit?

           Stephenswalloweddownthethinginhisthroatandsaid:

           —Ibrokemyglasses,sir.

           Therectoropenedhismouthandsaid:

           —O!

           Thenhesmiledandsaid:

           —Well,ifwebrokeourglasseswemustwritehomeforanewpair.

           —Iwrotehome,sir,saidStephen,andFatherArnallsaidIamnottostudytilltheycome.

           —Quiteright!saidtherector.

           Stephenswalloweddownthethingagainandtriedtokeephislegsandhisvoicefromshaking.

           —But,sir—

           —Yes?

           —FatherDolancameintodayandpandiedmebecauseIwasnotwritingmytheme.

           Therectorlookedathiminsilenceandhecouldfeelthebloodrisingtohisfaceandthetearsabouttorisetohiseyes.

           Therectorsaid:

           —YournameisDedalus,isn’tit?

           —Yes,sir

           —Andwheredidyoubreakyourglasses?

           —Onthecinder-path,sir.AfellowwascomingoutofthebicyclehouseandIfellandtheygotbroken.Idon’tknowthefellow’sname.

           Therectorlookedathimagaininsilence.