Портрет художника в юності

           Whentheenamelledbasinhadbeenfittedintothewellofthesinkandtheoldwashinggloveflungonthesideofitheallowedhismothertoscrubhisneckandrootintothefoldsofhisearsandintotheintersticesatthewingsofhisnose.

           —Well,it’sapoorcase,shesaid,whenauniversitystudentissodirtythathismotherhastowashhim.

           —Butitgivesyoupleasure,saidStephencalmly.

           Anear-splittingwhistlewasheardfromupstairsandhismotherthrustadampoverallintohishands,saying:

           —Dryyourselfandhurryoutfortheloveofgoodness.

           Asecondshrillwhistle,prolongedangrily,broughtoneofthegirlstothefootofthestaircase.

           —Yes,father?

           —Isyourlazybitchofabrothergoneoutyet?

           —Yes,father.

           —Sure?

           —Yes,father.

           —Hm!

           Thegirlcameback,makingsignstohimtobequickandgooutquietlybytheback.Stephenlaughedandsaid:

           —Hehasacuriousideaofgendersifhethinksabitchismasculine.

           —Ah,it’sascandalousshameforyou,Stephen,saidhismother,andyou’lllivetoruethedayyousetyourfootinthatplace.Iknowhowithaschangedyou.

           —Goodmorning,everybody,saidStephen,smilingandkissingthetipsofhisfingersinadieu.