Портрет художника в юності
Chapter 1
OJohnny!
Hetwistedhisfeaturesintoagrimaceofheavybestialityandmadealappingnoisewithhislips.
—Really,Simon,youshouldnotspeakthatwaybeforeStephen.It’snotright.
—O,he’llrememberallthiswhenhegrowsup,saidDantehotly—thelanguageheheardagainstGodandreligionandpriestsinhisownhome.
—Lethimremembertoo,criedMrCaseytoherfromacrossthetable,thelanguagewithwhichthepriestsandthepriests’pawnsbrokeParnell’sheartandhoundedhimintohisgrave.Lethimrememberthattoowhenhegrowsup.
—Sonsofbitches!criedMrDedalus.Whenhewasdowntheyturnedonhimtobetrayhimandrendhimlikeratsinasewer.Low-liveddogs!Andtheylookit!ByChrist,theylookit!
—Theybehavedrightly,criedDante.Theyobeyedtheirbishopsandtheirpriests.Honourtothem!
—Well,itisperfectlydreadfultosaythatnotevenforonedayintheyear,saidMrsDedalus,canwebefreefromthesedreadfuldisputes!
UncleCharlesraisedhishandsmildlyandsaid:
—Comenow,comenow,comenow!Canwenothaveouropinionswhatevertheyarewithoutthisbadtemperandthisbadlanguage?Itistoobadsurely.
MrsDedalusspoketoDanteinalowvoicebutDantesaidloudly:
—Iwillnotsaynothing.Iwilldefendmychurchandmyreligionwhenitisinsultedandspitonbyrenegadecatholics.
