A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 312 pages of information about A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.

He had wandered into a maze of narrow and dirty streets.  From the foul laneways he heard bursts of hoarse riot and wrangling and the drawling of drunken singers.  He walked onward, dismayed, wondering whether he had strayed into the quarter of the Jews.  Women and girls dressed in long vivid gowns traversed the street from house to house.  They were leisurely and perfumed.  A trembling seized him and his eyes grew dim.  The yellow gas-flames arose before his troubled vision against the vapoury sky, burning as if before an altar.  Before the doors and in the lighted halls groups were gathered arrayed as for some rite.  He was in another world:  he had awakened from a slumber of centuries.

He stood still in the middle of the roadway, his heart clamouring against his bosom in a tumult.  A young woman dressed in a long pink gown laid her hand on his arm to detain him and gazed into his face.  She said gaily: 

—­Good night, Willie dear!

Her room was warm and lightsome.  A huge doll sat with her legs apart in the copious easy-chair beside the bed.  He tried to bid his tongue speak that he might seem at ease, watching her as she undid her gown, noting the proud conscious movements of her perfumed head.

As he stood silent in the middle of the room she came over to him and embraced him gaily and gravely.  Her round arms held him firmly to her and he, seeing her face lifted to him in serious calm and feeling the warm calm rise and fall of her breast, all but burst into hysterical weeping.  Tears of joy and relief shone in his delighted eyes and his lips parted though they would not speak.

She passed her tinkling hand through his hair, calling him a little rascal.

—­Give me a kiss, she said.

His lips would not bend to kiss her.  He wanted to be held firmly in her arms, to be caressed slowly, slowly, slowly.  In her arms he felt that he had suddenly become strong and fearless and sure of himself.  But his lips would not bend to kiss her.

With a sudden movement she bowed his head and joined her lips to his and he read the meaning of her movements in her frank uplifted eyes.  It was too much for him.  He closed his eyes, surrendering himself to her, body and mind, conscious of nothing in the world but the dark pressure of her softly parting lips.  They pressed upon his brain as upon his lips as though they were the vehicle of a vague speech; and between them he felt an unknown and timid pressure, darker than the swoon of sin, softer than sound or odour.

Chapter 3

The swift December dusk had come tumbling clownishly after its dull day and, as he stared through the dull square of the window of the schoolroom, he felt his belly crave for its food.  He hoped there would be stew for dinner, turnips and carrots and bruised potatoes and fat mutton pieces to be ladled out in thick peppered flour-fattened sauce.  Stuff it into you, his belly counselled him.

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A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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