Портрет художника в юності
Chapter 3
Theywerenotbeautifultoseeastheycrouchedinthemire.ButtheirsoulswereseenbyGod;andiftheirsoulswereinastateofgracetheywereradianttosee:andGodlovedthem,seeingthem.
Awastingbreathofhumiliationblewbleaklyoverhissoultothinkofhowhehadfallen,tofeelthatthosesoulsweredearertoGodthanhis.ThewindblewoverhimandpassedontothemyriadsandmyriadsofothersoulsonwhomGod’sfavourshonenowmoreandnowless,starsnowbrighterandnowdimmersustainedandfailing.Andtheglimmeringsoulspassedaway,sustainedandfailing,mergedinamovingbreath.Onesoulwaslost;atinysoul:his.Itflickeredonceandwentout,forgotten,lost.Theend:black,cold,voidwaste.
Consciousnessofplacecameebbingbacktohimslowlyoveravasttractoftimeunlit,unfelt,unlived.Thesqualidscenecomposeditselfaroundhim;thecommonaccents,theburninggas-jetsintheshops,odoursoffishandspiritsandwetsawdust,movingmenandwomen.Anoldwomanwasabouttocrossthestreet,anoilcaninherhand.Hebentdownandaskedherwasthereachapelnear.
—Achapel,sir?Yes,sir.ChurchStreetchapel.
—Church?
Sheshiftedthecantoherotherhandanddirectedhim;and,assheheldoutherreekingwitheredrighthandunderitsfringeofshawl,hebentlowertowardsher,saddenedandsoothedbyhervoice.
—Thankyou.
—Youarequitewelcome,sir.