Портрет художника в юности

           TheessaywasforhimthechieflabourofhisweekandeveryTuesday,ashemarchedfromhometotheschool,hereadhisfateintheincidentsoftheway,pittinghimselfagainstsomefigureaheadofhimandquickeninghispacetooutstripitbeforeacertaingoalwasreachedorplantinghisstepsscrupulouslyinthespacesofthepatchworkofthepathwayandtellinghimselfthathewouldbefirstandnotfirstintheweeklyessay.

           OnacertainTuesdaythecourseofhistriumphswasrudelybroken.MrTate,theEnglishmaster,pointedhisfingerathimandsaidbluntly:

           —Thisfellowhasheresyinhisessay.

           Ahushfellontheclass.MrTatedidnotbreakitbutdugwithhishandbetweenhisthighswhilehisheavilystarchedlinencreakedabouthisneckandwrists.Stephendidnotlookup.Itwasarawspringmorningandhiseyeswerestillsmartingandweak.Hewasconsciousoffailureandofdetection,ofthesqualorofhisownmindandhome,andfeltagainsthisnecktherawedgeofhisturnedandjaggedcollar.

           AshortloudlaughfromMrTatesettheclassmoreatease.

           —Perhapsyoudidn’tknowthat,hesaid.

           —Where?askedStephen.

           MrTatewithdrewhisdelvinghandandspreadouttheessay.

           —Here.It’sabouttheCreatorandthesoul.RrmrrmrrmAh!WITHOUTAPOSSIBILITYOFEVERAPPROACHINGNEARER.That’sheresy.