Портрет художника в юності
Chapter 4
Thiswasthecalloflifetohissoulnotthedullgrossvoiceoftheworldofdutiesanddespair,nottheinhumanvoicethathadcalledhimtothepaleserviceofthealtar.Aninstantofwildflighthaddeliveredhimandthecryoftriumphwhichhislipswithheldclefthisbrain.
—Stephaneforos!
Whatweretheynowbutcerementsshakenfromthebodyofdeath—thefearhehadwalkedinnightandday,theincertitudethathadringedhimround,theshamethathadabasedhimwithinandwithout—cerements,thelinensofthegrave?
Hissoulhadarisenfromthegraveofboyhood,spurninghergrave-clothes.Yes!Yes!Yes!Hewouldcreateproudlyoutofthefreedomandpowerofhissoul,asthegreatartificerwhosenamehebore,alivingthing,newandsoaringandbeautiful,impalpable,imperishable.
Hestartedupnervouslyfromthestone-blockforhecouldnolongerquenchtheflameinhisblood.Hefelthischeeksaflameandhisthroatthrobbingwithsong.Therewasalustofwanderinginhisfeetthatburnedtosetoutfortheendsoftheearth.On!On!hisheartseemedtocry.Eveningwoulddeepenabovethesea,nightfallupontheplains,dawnglimmerbeforethewandererandshowhimstrangefieldsandhillsandfaces.Where?
HelookednorthwardtowardsHowth.Theseahadfallenbelowthelineofseawrackontheshallowsideofthebreakwaterandalreadythetidewasrunningoutfastalongtheforeshore.