Портрет художника в юності
Chapter 2
TheyhadsetoutearlyinthemorningfromNewcombe’scoffee-house,whereMrDedalus’scuphadrattlednoisilyagainstitssaucer,andStephenhadtriedtocoverthatshamefulsignofhisfather’sdrinkingboutofthenightbeforebymovinghischairandcoughing.Onehumiliationhadsucceededanother—thefalsesmilesofthemarketsellers,thecurvetingsandoglingsofthebarmaidswithwhomhisfatherflirted,thecomplimentsandencouragingwordsofhisfather’sfriends.TheyhadtoldhimthathehadagreatlookofhisgrandfatherandMrDedalushadagreedthathewasanuglylikeness.TheyhadunearthedtracesofaCorkaccentinhisspeechandmadehimadmitthattheLeewasamuchfinerriverthantheLiffey.Oneofthem,inordertoputhisLatintotheproof,hadmadehimtranslateshortpassagesfromDilectusandaskedhimwhetheritwascorrecttosay:TEMPORAMUTANTURNOSETMUTAMURINILLISorTEMPORAMUTANTURETNOSMUTAMURINILLIS.Another,abriskoldman,whomMrDedaluscalledJohnnyCashman,hadcoveredhimwithconfusionbyaskinghimtosaywhichwereprettier,theDublingirlsortheCorkgirls.
—He’snotthatwaybuilt,saidMrDedalus.Leavehimalone.He’salevel-headedthinkingboywhodoesn’tbotherhisheadaboutthatkindofnonsense.
—Thenhe’snothisfather’sson,saidthelittleoldman.
—Idon’tknow,I’msure,saidMrDedalus,smilingcomplacently.
