Портрет художника в юності
Chapter 2
Itwasthesignalfortheironset.NashpinionedhisarmsbehindwhileBolandseizedalongcabbagestumpwhichwaslyinginthegutter.StrugglingandkickingunderthecutsofthecaneandtheblowsoftheknottystumpStephenwasbornebackagainstabarbedwirefence.
—AdmitthatByronwasnogood.
—No.
—Admit.
—No.
—Admit.
—No.No.
Atlastafterafuryofplungeshewrenchedhimselffree.HistormentorssetofftowardsJones’sRoad,laughingandjeeringathim,whilehe,halfblindedwithtears,stumbledon,clenchinghisfistsmadlyandsobbing.
WhilehewasstillrepeatingtheCONFITEORamidtheindulgentlaughterofhishearersandwhilethescenesofthatmalignantepisodewerestillpassingsharplyandswiftlybeforehismindhewonderedwhyheborenomalicenowtothosewhohadtormentedhim.Hehadnotforgottenawhitoftheircowardiceandcrueltybutthememoryofitcalledforthnoangerfromhim.Allthedescriptionsoffierceloveandhatredwhichhehadmetinbookshadseemedtohimthereforeunreal.EventhatnightashestumbledhomewardsalongJones’sRoadhehadfeltthatsomepowerwasdivestinghimofthatsudden-wovenangeraseasilyasafruitisdivestedofitssoftripepeel.
Heremainedstandingwithhistwocompanionsattheendoftheshedlisteningidlytotheirtalkortotheburstsofapplauseinthetheatre.
