Портрет художника в юності
Chapter 1
Hismotherkissedhim.Wasthatright?Hisfatherwasamarshalnow:higherthanamagistrate.Welcomehome,Stephen!
Noises...
Therewasanoiseofcurtain-ringsrunningbackalongtherods,ofwaterbeingsplashedinthebasins.Therewasanoiseofrisinganddressingandwashinginthedormitory:anoiseofclappingofhandsastheprefectwentupanddowntellingthefellowstolooksharp.Apalesunlightshowedtheyellowcurtainsdrawnback,thetossedbeds.Hisbedwasveryhotandhisfaceandbodywereveryhot.
Hegotupandsatonthesideofhisbed.Hewasweak.Hetriedtopullonhisstocking.Ithadahorridroughfeel.Thesunlightwasqueerandcold.
Flemingsaid:
—Areyounotwell?
Hedidnotknow;andFlemingsaid:
—Getbackintobed.I’lltellMcGladeyou’renotwell.
—He’ssick.
—Whois?
—TellMcGlade.
—Getbackintobed.
—Ishesick?
Afellowheldhisarmswhileheloosenedthestockingclingingtohisfootandclimbedbackintothehotbed.
Hecroucheddownbetweenthesheets,gladoftheirtepidglow.Heheardthefellowstalkamongthemselvesabouthimastheydressedformass.Itwasameanthingtodo,toshoulderhimintothesquareditch,theyweresaying.—Thentheirvoicesceased;theyhadgone.
