Page 174 - a-portrait-of-the-artist-as-a-young-man

She shifted the can to her other hand and directed him;
and, as she held out her reeking withered right hand under
its fringe of shawl, he bent lower towards her, saddened and
soothed by her voice.
—Thank you.
—You are quite welcome, sir.
The candles on the high altar had been extinguished but
the fragrance of incense still floated down the dim nave.
Bearded workmen with pious faces were guiding a cano-
py out through a side door, the sacristan aiding them with
quiet gestures and words. A few of the faithful still lin-
gered praying before one of the side-altars or kneeling in
the benches near the confessionals. He approached timid-
ly and knelt at the last bench in the body, thankful for the
peace and silence and fragrant shadow of the church. The
board on which he knelt was narrow and worn and those
who knelt near him were humble followers of Jesus. Jesus
too had been born in poverty and had worked in the shop of
a carpenter, cutting boards and planing them, and had first
spoken of the kingdom of God to poor fishermen, teaching
all men to be meek and humble of heart.
He bowed his head upon his hands, bidding his heart be
meek and humble that he might be like those who knelt be-
side him and his prayer as acceptable as theirs. He prayed
beside them but it was hard. His soul was foul with sin and
he dared not ask forgiveness with the simple trust of those
whom Jesus, in the mysterious ways of God, had called first
to His side, the carpenters, the fishermen, poor and simple
people following a lowly trade, handling and shaping the

174 A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man