Page 106 - a-portrait-of-the-artist-as-a-young-man

however, that his father’s property was going to be sold by
auction, and in the manner of his own dispossession he felt
the world give the lie rudely to his phantasy.
At Maryborough he fell asleep. When he awoke the
train had passed out of Mallow and his father was stretched
asleep on the other seat. The cold light of the dawn lay over
the country, over the unpeopled fields and the closed cot-
tages. The terror of sleep fascinated his mind as he watched
the silent country or heard from time to time his father’s
deep breath or sudden sleepy movement. The neighbour-
hood of unseen sleepers filled him with strange dread, as
though they could harm him, and he prayed that the day
might come quickly. His prayer, addressed neither to God
nor saint, began with a shiver, as the chilly morning breeze
crept through the chink of the carriage door to his feet, and
ended in a trail of foolish words which he made to fit the in-
sistent rhythm of the train; and silently, at intervals of four
seconds, the telegraph-poles held the galloping notes of the
music between punctual bars. This furious music allayed
his dread and, leaning against the windowledge, he let his
eyelids close again.
They drove in a jingle across Cork while it was still ear-
ly morning and Stephen finished his sleep in a bedroom of
the Victoria Hotel. The bright warm sunlight was streaming
through the window and he could hear the din of traffic.
His father was standing before the dressing-table, examin-
ing his hair and face and moustache with great care, craning
his neck across the water-jug and drawing it back sideways
to see the better. While he did so he sang softly to himself

106 A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man