Page 170 - a-portrait-of-the-artist-as-a-young-man

He flung the blankets from him madly to free his face
and neck. That was his hell. God had allowed him to see the
hell reserved for his sins: stinking, bestial, malignant, a hell
of lecherous goatish fiends. For him! For him!
He sprang from the bed, the reeking odour pouring
down his throat, clogging and revolting his entrails. Air!
The air of heaven! He stumbled towards the window, groan-
ing and almost fainting with sickness. At the washstand a
convulsion seized him within; and, clasping his cold fore-
head wildly, he vomited profusely in agony.
When the fit had spent itself he walked weakly to the win-
dow and, lifting the sash, sat in a corner of the embrasure
and leaned his elbow upon the sill. The rain had drawn off;
and amid the moving vapours from point to point of light
the city was spinning about herself a soft cocoon of yellow-
ish haze. Heaven was still and faintly luminous and the air
sweet to breathe, as in a thicket drenched with showers; and
amid peace and shimmering lights and quiet fragrance he
made a covenant with his heart.
He prayed:
—HE ONCE HAD MEANT TO COME ON EARTH IN
HEAVENLY GLORY BUT WE SINNED; AND THEN HE
COULD NOT SAFELY VISIT US BUT WITH A SHROUD-
ED MAJESTY AND A BEDIMMED RADIANCE FOR HE
WAS GOD. SO HE CAME HIMSELF IN WEAKNESS
NOT IN POWER AND HE SENT THEE, A CREATURE
IN HIS STEAD, WITH A CREATURES COMELINESS
AND LUSTRE SUITED TO OUR STATE. AND NOW
THY VERY FACE AND FORM, DEAR MOTHER SPEAK

170 A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man