Портрет художника в юності
Chapter 3
Hissinstrickledfromhislips,onebyone,trickledinshamefuldropsfromhissoul,festeringandoozinglikeasore,asqualidstreamofvice.Thelastsinsoozedforth,sluggish,filthy.Therewasnomoretotell.Hebowedhishead,overcome.
ThePriestwassilent.Thenheasked:
—Howoldareyou,mychild?
—Sixteen,father.
Thepriestpassedhishandseveraltimesoverhisface.Then,restinghisforeheadagainsthishand,heleanedtowardsthegratingand,witheyesstillaverted,spokeslowly.Hisvoicewaswearyandold.
—Youareveryyoung,mychild,hesaid,andletmeimploreofyoutogiveupthatsin.Itisaterriblesin.Itkillsthebodyanditkillsthesoul.Itisthecauseofmanycrimesandmisfortunes.Giveitup,mychild,forGod’ssake.Itisdishonourableandunmanly.Youcannotknowwherethatwretchedhabitwillleadyouorwhereitwillcomeagainstyou.Aslongasyoucommitthatsin,mypoorchild,youwillneverbeworthonefarthingtoGod.PraytoourmotherMarytohelpyou.Shewillhelpyou,mychild.PraytoOurBlessedLadywhenthatsincomesintoyourmind.Iamsureyouwilldothat,willyounot?Yourepentofallthosesins.Iamsureyoudo.AndyouwillpromiseGodnowthatbyHisholygraceyouwillneveroffendHimanymorebythatwickedsin.YouwillmakethatsolemnpromisetoGod,willyounot?
—Yes,father.
