A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (Wisehouse Classics Edition). James JoyceЧитать онлайн книгу.
Mr Casey struggled up from his chair and bent across the table towards her, scraping the air from before his eyes with one hand as though he were tearing aside a cobweb.
— No God for Ireland! — he cried. — We have had too much God in Ireland. Away with God!
— Blasphemer! Devil! — screamed Dante, starting to her feet and almost spitting in his face.
Uncle Charles and Mr Dedalus pulled Mr Casey back into his chair again, talking to him from both sides reasonably. He stared before him out of his dark flaming eyes, repeating:
— Away with God, I say!
Dante shoved her chair violently aside and left the table, upsetting her napkin-ring which rolled slowly along the carpet and came to rest against the foot of an easy-chair. Mrs Dedalus rose quickly and followed her towards the door. At the door Dante turned round violently and shouted down the room, her cheeks flushed and quivering with rage:
— Devil out of hell! We won! We crushed him to death! Fiend!
The door slammed behind her.
Mr Casey, freeing his arms from his holders, suddenly bowed his head on his hands with a sob of pain.
— Poor Parnell! — he cried loudly. — My dead king!
He sobbed loudly and bitterly.
Stephen, raising his terror-stricken face, saw that his father’s eyes were full of tears.
,
The fellows talked together in little groups.
One fellow said:
— They were caught near the Hill of Lyons.
— Who caught them?
— Mr Gleeson and the minister. They were on a car. The same fellow added:
— A fellow in the higher line told me. Fleming asked:
— But why did they run away, tell us?
— I know why — Cecil Thunder said. — Because they had fecked cash out of the rector’s room.
— Who fecked it?
— Kickham’s brother. And they all went shares in it.
— But that was stealing. How could they have done that?
— A fat lot you know about it, Thunder! — Wells said. — I know why they scut.
— Tell us why.
— I was told not to — Wells said.
— O, go on, Wells — all said. — You might tell us. We won’t let it out.
Stephen bent forward his head to hear. Wells looked round to see if anyone was coming. Then he said secretly:
— You know the altar wine they keep in the press in the sacristy?
— Yes.
— Well, they drank that and it was found out who did it by the smell. And that’s why they ran away, if you want to know.
And the fellow who had spoken first said:
— Yes, that’s what I heard too from the fellow in the higher line.
The fellows all were silent. Stephen stood among them, afraid to speak, listening. A faint sickness of awe made him feel weak. How could they have done that? He thought of the dark silent sacristy. There were dark wooden presses there where the crimped surplices lay quietly folded. It was not the chapel but still you had to speak under your breath. It was a holy place. He remembered the summer evening he had been there to be dressed as boatbearer, the evening of the Procession to the little altar in the wood. A strange and holy place. The boy that held the censer had swung it lifted by the middle chain to keep the coals lighting. That was called charcoal: and it had burned quietly as the fellow had swung it gently and had given off a weak sour smell. And then when all were vested he had stood holding out the boat to the rector and the rector had put a spoonful of incense in it and it had hissed on the red coals.
The fellows were talking together in little groups here and there on the playground. The fellows seemed to him to have grown smaller: that was because a sprinter had knocked him down the day before, a fellow out of second of grammar. He had been thrown by the fellow’s machine lightly on the cinder path and his spectacles had been broken in three pieces and some of the grit of the cinders had gone into his mouth.
That was why the fellows seemed to him smaller and farther away and the goalposts so thin and far and the soft grey sky so high up. But there was no play on the football grounds for cricket was coming: and some said that Barnes would be prof and some said it would be Flowers. And all over the playgrounds they were playing rounders and bowling twisters and lobs. And from here and from there came the sounds of the cricket bats through the soft grey air. They said: pick, pack, pock, puck: little drops of water in a fountain slowly falling in the brimming bowl.
Athy, who had been silent, said quietly:
— You are all wrong.
All turned towards him eagerly.
— Why?
— Do you know?
— Who told you?
— Tell us, Athy.
Athy pointed across the playground to where Simon Moonan was walking by himself kicking a stone before him.
— Ask him — he said.
The fellows looked there and then said:
— Why him?
— Is he in it?
Athy lowered his voice and said:
— Do you know why those fellows scut? I will tell you but you must not let on you know.
— Tell us, Athy. Go on. You might if you know.
He paused for a moment and then said mysteriously:
— They were caught with Simon Moonan and Tusker Boyle in the square one night.
The fellows looked at him and asked:
— Caught?
— What doing?
Athy said:
— Smugging.
All the fellows were silent: and Athy said:
— And that’s why.
Stephen looked at the faces of the fellows but they were all looking across the playground. He wanted to ask somebody about it. What did that mean about the smugging in the square? Why did the five fellows out of the higher line run away for that? It was a joke, he thought. Simon Moonan had nice clothes and one night he had shown him a ball of creamy sweets that the fellows of the football fifteen had rolled down to him along the carpet in the middle of the refectory when he was at the door. It was the night of the match against the Bective Rangers; and the ball was made just like a red and green apple only it opened and it was full of the creamy sweets. And one day Boyle had said that art elephant had two tuskers instead of two tusks and that was why he was called Tusker Boyle but some fellows called him Lady Boyle because he was always at his nails, paring them.
Eileen had long thin cool white hands too because she was a girl. They were like ivory; only soft. That was the meaning of Tower of Ivory but protestants could not understand it and made fun of it. One day he had stood beside her looking into the hotel grounds. A waiter was running up a trail of bunting on the flagstaff and a fox terrier was scampering to and fro on the sunny lawn. She had put her hand into his pocket where his hand was and he had felt how cool and thin and soft her hand was. She had said that pockets were funny things to have: and then all of a sudden she had broken away and had run laughing down the sloping curve of the path. Her fair hair had streamed out behind her like gold in the sun. Tower of Ivory. House of Gold. By thinking of things you could understand them.
But why in the square? You