Портрет художника в юності
Chapter 1
Hisheartwasbeatingfastonaccountofthesolemnplacehewasinandthesilenceoftheroom:andhelookedattheskullandattherector’skind-lookingface.
—Well,mylittleman,saidtherector,whatisit?
Stephenswalloweddownthethinginhisthroatandsaid:
—Ibrokemyglasses,sir.
Therectoropenedhismouthandsaid:
—O!
Thenhesmiledandsaid:
—Well,ifwebrokeourglasseswemustwritehomeforanewpair.
—Iwrotehome,sir,saidStephen,andFatherArnallsaidIamnottostudytilltheycome.
—Quiteright!saidtherector.
Stephenswalloweddownthethingagainandtriedtokeephislegsandhisvoicefromshaking.
—But,sir—
—Yes?
—FatherDolancameintodayandpandiedmebecauseIwasnotwritingmytheme.
Therectorlookedathiminsilenceandhecouldfeelthebloodrisingtohisfaceandthetearsabouttorisetohiseyes.
Therectorsaid:
—YournameisDedalus,isn’tit?
—Yes,sir
—Andwheredidyoubreakyourglasses?
—Onthecinder-path,sir.AfellowwascomingoutofthebicyclehouseandIfellandtheygotbroken.Idon’tknowthefellow’sname.
Therectorlookedathimagaininsilence.
