Портрет художника в юності
Chapter 1
Avoiceathisbedsaid:
—Dedalus,don’tspyonus,sureyouwon’t?
Wells’sfacewasthere.HelookedatitandsawthatWellswasafraid.
—Ididn’tmeanto.Sureyouwon’t?
Hisfatherhadtoldhim,whateverhedid,nevertopeachonafellow.Heshookhisheadandanswerednoandfeltglad.
Wellssaid:
—Ididn’tmeanto,honourbright.Itwasonlyforcod.I’msorry.
Thefaceandthevoicewentaway.Sorrybecausehewasafraid.Afraidthatitwassomedisease.Cankerwasadiseaseofplantsandcanceroneofanimals:oranotherdifferent.Thatwasalongtimeagothenoutontheplaygroundsintheeveninglight,creepingfrompointtopointonthefringeofhisline,aheavybirdflyinglowthroughthegreylight.LeicesterAbbeylitup.Wolseydiedthere.Theabbotsburiedhimthemselves.
ItwasnotWells’sface,itwastheprefect’s.Hewasnotfoxing.No,no:hewassickreally.Hewasnotfoxing.Andhefelttheprefect’shandonhisforehead;andhefelthisforeheadwarmanddampagainsttheprefect’scolddamphand.Thatwasthewayaratfelt,slimyanddampandcold.Everyrathadtwoeyestolookoutof.Sleekslimycoats,littlelittlefeettuckeduptojump,blackslimyeyestolookoutof.Theycouldunderstandhowtojump.Butthemindsofratscouldnotunderstandtrigonometry.Whentheyweredeadtheylayontheirsides.Theircoatsdriedthen.Theywereonlydeadthings.
