Портрет художника в юності
Chapter 1
Therewascoldnightairinthechapelandthemarbleswerethecolourtheseawasatnight.Theseawascolddayandnight:butitwascolderatnight.Itwascoldanddarkundertheseawallbesidehisfather’shouse.Butthekettlewouldbeonthehobtomakepunch.
Theprefectofthechapelprayedabovehisheadandhismemoryknewtheresponses:
OLordopenourlips
AndourmouthsshallannounceThypraise.
Inclineuntoouraid,OGod!
OLordmakehastetohelpus!
Therewasacoldnightsmellinthechapel.Butitwasaholysmell.ItwasnotlikethesmelloftheoldpeasantswhokneltatthebackofthechapelatSundaymass.Thatwasasmellofairandrainandturfandcorduroy.Buttheywereveryholypeasants.TheybreathedbehindhimOnhisneckandsighedastheyprayed.TheylivedinClane,afellowsaid:therewerelittlecottagesthereandhehadseenawomanstandingatthehalf-doorofacottagewithachildinherarmsasthecarshadcomepastfromSallins.Itwouldbelovelytosleepforonenightinthatcottagebeforethefireofsmokingturf,inthedarklitbythefire,inthewarmdark,breathingthesmellofthepeasants,airandrainandturfandcorduroy.ButO,theroadtherebetweenthetreeswasdark!Youwouldbelostinthedark.Itmadehimafraidtothinkofhowitwas.
Heheardthevoiceoftheprefectofthechapelsayingthelastprayers.Heprayedittooagainstthedarkoutsideunderthetrees.
