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

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СКАЧАТЬ me, did I tell you that story about a very famous spit?

      – You did not, John, said Mr Dedalus.

      – Why then, said Mr Casey, it is a most instructive story. It happened not long ago in the county Wicklow where we are now.

      He broke off and, turning towards Dante, said with quiet indignation:

      – And I may tell you, ma'am, that I, if you mean me, am no renegade catholic. I am a catholic as my father was and his father before him and his father before him again when we gave up our lives rather than sell our faith.

      – The more shame to you now, Dante said, to speak as you do.

      – The story, John, said Mr Dedalus smiling. Let us have the story anyhow.

      – Catholic indeed! repeated Dante ironically. The blackest protestant in the land would not speak the language I have heard this evening.

      Mr Dedalus began to sway his head to and fro, crooning like a country singer.

      – I am no protestant, I tell you again, said Mr Casey, flushing.

      Mr Dedalus, still crooning and swaying his head, began to sing in a grunting nasal tone:

      O, come all you Roman catholics

      That never went to mass.

      He took up his knife and fork again in good humour and set to eating, saying to Mr Casey:

      – Let us have the story, John. It will help us to digest.

      Stephen looked with affection at Mr Casey's face which stared across the table over his joined hands. He liked to sit near him at the fire, looking up at his dark fierce face. But his dark eyes were never fierce and his slow voice was good to listen to. But why was he then against the priests? Because Dante must be right then. But he had heard his father say that she was a spoiled nun and that she had come out of the convent in the Alleghanies when her brother had got the money from the savages for the trinkets and the chainies. Perhaps that made her severe against Parnell. And she did not like him to play with Eileen because Eileen was a protestant and when she was young she knew children that used to play with protestants and the protestants used to make fun of the litany of the Blessed Virgin. Tower of Ivory, they used to say, House of Gold! How could a woman be a tower of ivory or a house of gold? Who was right then? And he remembered the evening in the infirmary in Clongowes, the dark waters, the light at the pierhead and the moan of sorrow from the people when they had heard.

      Eileen had long white hands. One evening when playing tig she had put her hands over his eyes: long and white and thin and cold and soft. That was ivory: a cold white thing. That was the meaning of Tower of Ivory.

      – The story is very short and sweet, Mr Casey said. It was one day down in Arklow, a cold bitter day, not long before the chief died. May God have mercy on him!

      He closed his eyes wearily and paused. Mr Dedalus took a bone from his plate and tore some meat from it with his teeth, saying:

      – Before he was killed, you mean.

      Mr Casey opened his eyes, sighed and went on:

      – It was down in Arklow one day. We were down there at a meeting and after the meeting was over we had to make our way to the railway station through the crowd. Such booing and baaing, man, you never heard. They called us all the names in the world. Well there was one old lady, and a drunken old harridan she was surely, that paid all her attention to me. She kept dancing along beside me in the mud bawling and screaming into my face: Priesthunter! The Paris Funds! Mr Fox! Kitty O'Shea!

      – And what did you do, John? asked Mr Dedalus.

      – I let her bawl away, said Mr Casey. It was a cold day and to keep up my heart I had (saving your presence, ma'am) a quid of Tullamore in my mouth and sure I couldn't say a word in any case because my mouth was full of tobacco juice.

      – Well, John?

      – Well. I let her bawl away, to her heart's content, Kitty O'Shea and the rest of it till at last she called that lady a name that I won't sully this Christmas board nor your ears, ma'am, nor my own lips by repeating.

      He paused. Mr Dedalus, lifting his head from the bone, asked:

      – And what did you do, John?

      – Do! said Mr Casey. She stuck her ugly old face up at me when she said it and I had my mouth full of tobacco juice. I bent down to her and Phth! says I to her like that.

      He turned aside and made the act of spitting.

      – Phth! says I to her like that, right into her eye.

      He clapped his hand to his eye and gave a hoarse scream of pain.

      – O Jesus, Mary and Joseph! says she. I'm blinded! I'm blinded and drownded!

      He stopped in a fit of coughing and laughter, repeating:

      – I'm blinded entirely.

      Mr Dedalus laughed loudly and lay back in his chair while uncle Charles swayed his head to and fro.

      Dante looked terribly angry and repeated while they laughed:

      – Very nice! Ha! Very nice!

      It was not nice about the spit in the woman's eye.

      But what was the name the woman had called Kitty O'Shea that Mr Casey would not repeat? He thought of Mr Casey walking through the crowds of people and making speeches from a wagonette. That was what he had been in prison for and he remembered that one night Sergeant O'Neill had come to the house and had stood in the hall, talking in a low voice with his father and chewing nervously at the chinstrap of his cap. And that night Mr Casey had not gone to Dublin by train but a car had come to the door and he had heard his father say something about the Cabinteely road.

      He was for Ireland and Parnell and so was his father: and so was Dante too for one night at the band on the esplanade she had hit a gentleman on the head with her umbrella because he had taken off his hat when the band played God save the Queen at the end.

      Mr Dedalus gave a snort of contempt.

      – Ah, John, he said. It is true for them. We are an unfortunate priestridden race and always were and always will be till the end of the chapter.

      Uncle Charles shook his head, saying:

      – A bad business! A bad business!

      Mr Dedalus repeated:

      – A priestridden Godforsaken race!

      He pointed to the portrait of his grandfather on the wall to his right.

      – Do you see that old chap up there, John? he said. He was a good Irishman when there was no money in the job. He was condemned to death as a whiteboy. But he had a saying about our clerical friends, that he would never let one of them put his two feet under his mahogany.

      Dante broke in angrily:

      – If we are a priestridden race we ought to be proud of it! They are the apple of God's eye. Touch them not, says Christ, for СКАЧАТЬ