A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man / Портрет художника в юности. Джеймс ДжойсЧитать онлайн книгу.

      – Yes, Stephen said.

      – Mine too, he said.

      Then he thought for a moment and said:

      – You have a queer name, Dedalus, and I have a queer name too, Athy. My name is the name of a town. Your name is like Latin.

      Then he asked:

      – Are you good at riddles?

      Stephen answered:

      – Not very good.

      Then he said:

      – Can you answer me this one? Why is the county of Kildare like the leg of a fellow's breeches?

      Stephen thought what could be the answer and then said:

      – I give it up.

      – Because there is a thigh in it, he said. Do you see the joke? Athy is the town in the county Kildare and a thigh is the other thigh.

      – Oh, I see, Stephen said.

      – That's an old riddle, he said.

      After a moment he said:

      – I say!

      – What? asked Stephen.

      – You know, he said, you can ask that riddle another way.

      – Can you? said Stephen.

      – The same riddle, he said. Do you know the other way to ask it?

      – No, said Stephen.

      – Can you not think of the other way? he said.

      He looked at Stephen over the bedclothes as he spoke. Then he lay back on the pillow and said:

      – There is another way but I won't tell you what it is.

      Why did he not tell it? His father, who kept the racehorses, must be a magistrate too like Saurin's father and Nasty Roche's father. He thought of his own father, of how he sang songs while his mother played and of how he always gave him a shilling when he asked for sixpence and he felt sorry for him that he was not a magistrate like the other boys' fathers. Then why was he sent to that place with them? But his father had told him that he would be no stranger there because his granduncle had presented an address to the Liberator there fifty years before. You could know the people of that time by their old dress. It seemed to him a solemn time: and he wondered if that was the time when the fellows in Clongowes wore blue coats with brass buttons and yellow waistcoats and caps of rabbitskin and drank beer like grownup people and kept greyhounds of their own to course the hares with.

      He looked at the window and saw that the daylight had grown weaker. There would be cloudy grey light over the playgrounds. There was no noise on the playgrounds. The class must be doing the themes or perhaps Father Arnall was reading out of the book.

      It was queer that they had not given him any medicine. Perhaps Brother Michael would bring it back when he came. They said you got stinking stuff to drink when you were in the infirmary. But he felt better now than before. It would be nice getting better slowly. You could get a book then. There was a book in the library about Holland. There were lovely foreign names in it and pictures of strangelooking cities and ships. It made you feel so happy.

      How pale the light was at the window! But that was nice. The fire rose and fell on the wall. It was like waves. Someone had put coal on and he heard voices. They were talking. It was the noise of the waves. Or the waves were talking among themselves as they rose and fell.

      He saw the sea of waves, long dark waves rising and falling, dark under the moonless night. A tiny light twinkled at the pierhead where the ship was entering: and he saw a multitude of people gathered by the waters' edge to see the ship that was entering their harbour. A tall man stood on the deck, looking out towards the flat dark land: and by the light at the pierhead he saw his face, the sorrowful face of Brother Michael.

      He saw him lift his hand towards the people and heard him say in a loud voice of sorrow over the waters:

      – He is dead. We saw him lying upon the catafalque. A wail of sorrow went up from the people.

      – Parnell! Parnell! He is dead!

      They fell upon their knees, moaning in sorrow.

      And he saw Dante in a maroon velvet dress and with a green velvet mantle hanging from her shoulders walking proudly and silently past the people who knelt by the water's edge.