Портрет художника в юності
Chapter 5
Likealevite’srobeofplainlinenthefadedwornsoutanedrapedthekneelingfigureofonewhomthecanonicalsorthebell-borderedephodwouldirkandtrouble.HisverybodyhadwaxedoldinlowlyserviceoftheLord—intendingthefireuponthealtar,inbearingtidingssecretly,inwaitinguponworldlings,instrikingswiftlywhenbidden—andyethadremainedungracedbyaughtofsaintlyorofprelaticbeauty.Nay,hisverysoulhadwaxedoldinthatservicewithoutgrowingtowardslightandbeautyorspreadingabroadasweetodourofhersanctity—amortifiedwillnomoreresponsivetothethrillofitsobediencethanwastothethrillofloveorcombathisageingbody,spareandsinewy,greyedwithasilver-pointeddown.
Thedeanrestedbackonhishunkersandwatchedthestickscatch.Stephen,tofillthesilence,said:
—IamsureIcouldnotlightafire.
—Youareanartist,areyounot,MrDedalus?saidthedean,glancingupandblinkinghispaleeyes.Theobjectoftheartististhecreationofthebeautiful.Whatthebeautifulisisanotherquestion.
Herubbedhishandsslowlyanddrilyoverthedifficulty.
—Canyousolvethatquestionnow?heasked.
—Aquinas,answeredStephen,saysPULCRASUNTQUAEVISAPLACENT.
—Thisfirebeforeus,saidthedean,willbepleasingtotheeye.
