A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 253 pages of information about A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.

It would be a gloomy secret night.  After early nightfall the yellow lamps would light up, here and there, the squalid quarter of the brothels.  He would follow a devious course up and down the streets, circling always nearer and nearer in a tremor of fear and joy, until his feet led him suddenly round a dark corner.  The whores would be just coming out of their houses making ready for the night, yawning lazily after their sleep and settling the hairpins in their clusters of hair.  He would pass by them calmly waiting for a sudden movement of his own will or a sudden call to his sin-loving soul from their soft perfumed flesh.  Yet as he prowled in quest of that call, his senses, stultified only by his desire, would note keenly all that wounded or shamed them; his eyes, a ring of porter froth on a clothless table or a photograph of two soldiers standing to attention or a gaudy playbill; his ears, the drawling jargon of greeting: 

—­Hello, Bertie, any good in your mind?

—­Is that you, pigeon?

—­Number ten.  Fresh Nelly is waiting on you.

—­Good night, husband!  Coming in to have a short time?

The equation on the page of his scribbler began to spread out a widening tail, eyed and starred like a peacock’s; and, when the eyes and stars of its indices had been eliminated, began slowly to fold itself together again.  The indices appearing and disappearing were eyes opening and closing; the eyes opening and closing were stars being born and being quenched.  The vast cycle of starry life bore his weary mind outward to its verge and inward to its centre, a distant music accompanying him outward and inward.  What music?  The music came nearer and he recalled the words, the words of Shelley’s fragment upon the moon wandering companionless, pale for weariness.  The stars began to crumble and a cloud of fine stardust fell through space.

The dull light fell more faintly upon the page whereon another equation began to unfold itself slowly and to spread abroad its widening tail.  It was his own soul going forth to experience, unfolding itself sin by sin, spreading abroad the bale-fire of its burning stars and folding back upon itself, fading slowly, quenching its own lights and fires.  They were quenched:  and the cold darkness filled chaos.

A cold lucid indifference reigned in his soul.  At his first violent sin he had felt a wave of vitality pass out of him and had feared to find his body or his soul maimed by the excess.  Instead the vital wave had carried him on its bosom out of himself and back again when it receded:  and no part of body or soul had been maimed but a dark peace had been established between them.  The chaos in which his ardour extinguished itself was a cold indifferent knowledge of himself.  He had sinned mortally not once but many times and he knew that, while he stood in danger of eternal damnation for the first sin alone, by every succeeding sin he multiplied his

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