Портрет художника в юності

           Youwouldn’tseethesignofachristianhousealongtheroadorhearasound.Itwaspitchdarkalmost.OnceortwiceIstoppedbythewayunderabushtoreddenmypipeandonlyforthedewwasthickI’dhavestretchedoutthereandslept.Atlast,afterabendoftheroad,Ispiedalittlecottagewithalightinthewindow.Iwentupandknockedatthedoor.AvoiceaskedwhowasthereandIansweredIwasoveratthematchinButtevantandwaswalkingbackandthatI’dbethankfulforaglassofwater.Afterawhileayoungwomanopenedthedoorandbroughtmeoutabigmugofmilk.ShewashalfundressedasifshewasgoingtobedwhenIknockedandshehadherhairhangingandIthoughtbyherfigureandbysomethinginthelookofhereyesthatshemustbecarryingachild.Shekeptmeintalkalongwhileatthedoor,andIthoughtitstrangebecauseherbreastandhershoulderswerebare.SheaskedmewasItiredandwouldIliketostopthenightthere.ShesaidshewasallaloneinthehouseandthatherhusbandhadgonethatmorningtoQueenstownwithhissistertoseeheroff.Andallthetimeshewastalking,Stevie,shehadhereyesfixedonmyfaceandshestoodsoclosetomeIcouldhearherbreathing.WhenIhandedherbackthemugatlastshetookmyhandtodrawmeinoverthethresholdandsaid:‘COMEINANDSTAYTHENIGHTHERE.YOU’VENOCALLTOBEFRIGHTENED.THERE’SNOONEINITBUTOURSELVES.’Ididn’tgoin,Stevie.Ithankedherandwentonmywayagain,allinafever.