BY LORRIES ALONG SIR JOHN ROGERSON'S QUAY MR BLOOM WALKED soberly, past Windmill lane, Leask's the linseed crusher's, the postal telegraph office. Could have given that address too. And past the sailors' home. He turned from the morning noises of the quayside and walked through Lime street. By Brady's cottages a boy for the skins lolled, his bucket of offal linked, smoking a chewed fagbutt. A smaller girl with scars of eczema on her forehead eyed him, listlessly holding her battered caskhoop. Tell him if he smokes he won't grow. O let him! His life isn't such a bed of roses! Waiting outside pubs to bring da home. Come home to ma, da. Slack hour: won't be many there. He crossed Townsend street, passed the frowning face of Bethel. El, yes: house of: Aleph, Beth. And past Nichols' the undertaker's. At eleven it is. Time enough. Daresay Corny Kelleher bagged that job for O'Neill's. Singing with his eyes shut. Corney. Met her once in the park. In the dark. What a lark. Police tout. Her name and address she then told with my tooraloom tooraloom tay. O, surely he bagged it. Bury him cheap in a whatyoumaycall. With my tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom.
In Westland row he halted before the window of the Belfast and Oriental Tea Company and read the legends of lead-papered packets: choice blend, finest quality, family tea. Rather warm. Tea. Must get some from Tom Kernan. Couldn't ask him at a funeral, though. While his eyes still read blandly he took off his hat quietly inhaling his hairoil and sent his right hand with slow grace over his brow and hair. Very warm morning. Under their dropped lids his eyes found the tiny bow of the leather headband inside his high grade ha. Just there. His right hand came down into the bowl of his hat. His fingers found quickly a card behind the headband and transferred it to his waistcoat pocket.

So warm. His right hand once more more slowly went over again: choice blend, made of the finest Ceylon brands. The far east. Lovely spot it must be: the garden of the world, big lazy leaves to float about on, cactuses, flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them. Wonder is it like that. Those Cinghalese lobbing around in the sun, in dolce far niente. Not doing a hand's turn all day. Sleep six months out of twelve. Too hot to quarrel. Influence of the climate. Lethargy. Flowers of idleness. The air feeds most. Azotes. Hothouse in Botanic gardens. Sensitive plants. Waterlilies. Petals too tired to. Sleeping sickness in the air. Walk on roseleaves. Imagine trying to eat tripe and cowheel. Where was the chap I saw in that picture somewhere? Ah, in the dead sea, floating on his back, reading a book with a parasol open. Couldn't sink if you tried: so thick with salt. Because the weight of the water, no, the weight of the body in the water is equal to the weight of the. Or is it the volume is equal of the weight? It's a law something like that. Vance in High school cracking his fingerjoints, teaching. The college curriculum. Cracking curriculum. What is weight really when you say the weight? Thirtytwo feet per second, per second. Law of falling bodies: per second, per second. They all fall to the ground. The earth. It's the force of gravity of the earth is the weight.

He turned away and sauntered across the road. How did she walk with her sausages? Like that something. As he walked he took the folded Freeman from his sidepocket, unfolded it, rolled it lengthwise in a baton and tapped it at each sauntering step against his trouserleg. Careless air: just drop in to see. Per second, per second. Per second for every second it means. From the curbstone he darted a keen glance through the door of the postoffice. Too late box. Post here. No-one. In.

He handed the card through the brass grill.

-- Are there any letters for me? he asked.

While the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed at the recruiting poster with soldiers of all arms on parade: and held the tip of his baton against his nostrils, smelling freshprinted rag paper. No answer probably. Went too far last time.

The postmistress handed him back through the grill his card with a letter. He thanked and glanced rapidly at the typed envelope.

Henry Flower, Esq.
c/o P. O. Westland Row,
City.
Answered anyhow. He slipped card and letter into his sidepocket, reviewing again the soldiers on parade. Where's old Tweedy's regiment? Castoff soldier. There: bearskin cap and hackle plume. No, he's a grenadier. Pointed cuffs. There he is: royal Dublin fusiliers. Redcoats. Too showy. That must be why the women go after them. Uniform. Easier to enlist and drill. Maud Gonne's letter about taking them off O'Connell street at night: disgrace to our Irish capital. Griffith's paper is on the same tack now: an army rotten with venereal disease: overseas or halfseasover empire. Half baked they look: hypnotised like. Eyes front. Mark time. Table: able. Bed: ed. The King's own. Never see him dressed up as a fireman or a bobby. A mason, yes.
He strolled out of the postoffice and turned to the right. Talk: as if that would mend matters. His hand went into his pocket and a forefinger felt its way under the flap of the envelope, ripping it open in jerks. Women will pay a lot of heed, I don't think. His fingers drew forth the letter and crumpled the envelope in his pocket. Something pinned on: photo perhaps. Hair? No.

M'Coy. Get rid of him quickly. Take me out of my way. Hate company when you.

-- Hello, Bloom. Where are you off to?

-- Hello, M'Coy. Nowhere in particular.

-- How's the body?

-- Fine. How are you?

-- Just keeping alive, M'Coy said.

His eyes on the black tie and clothes he asked with low respect:

-- Is there any... no trouble I hope? I see you're...

-- O no, Mr Bloom said. Poor Dignam, you know. The funeral is today.

-- To be sure, poor fellow. So it is. What time?

A photo it isn't. A badge maybe.

-- E... eleven, Mr Bloom answered.

-- I must try to get out there, M'Coy said. Eleven, is it? I only heard it last night. Who was telling me? Holohan. You know Hoppy?

-- I know.

Mr Bloom gazed across the road at the outsider drawn up before the door of the Grosvenor. The porter hoisted the valise up on the well. She stood still, waiting, while the man, husband, brother, like her, searched his pockets for change. Stylish kind of coat with that roll collar, warm for a day like this, looks like blanketcloth. Careless stand of her with her hands in those patch pockets. Like that haughty creature at the polo match. Women all for caste till you touch the spot. Handsome is and handsome does. Reserved about to yield. The honourable Mrs and Brutus is an honourable man. Possess her once take the starch out of her.

-- I was with Bob Doran, he's on one of his periodical bends, and what do you call him Bantam Lyons. Just down there in Conway's we were.

Doran, Lyons in Conway's. She raised a gloved hand to her hair. In came Hoppy. Having a wet. Drawing back his head and gazing far from beneath his veiled eyelids he saw the bright fawn skin shine in the glare, the braided drums. Clearly I can see today. Moisture about gives long sight perhaps. Talking of one thing or another. Lady's hand. Which side will she get up?

-- And he said: Sad thing about our poor friend Paddy! What Paddy? I said. Poor little Paddy Dignam, he said.

Off to the country: Broadstone probably. High brown boots with laces dangling. Well turned foot. What is he fostering over that change for? Sees me looking. Eye out for other fellow always. Good fallback. Two strings to her bow.

-- Why? I said. What's wrong with him? I said.

Proud: rich: silk stockings.

-- Yes, Mr Bloom said.

He moved a little to the side of M'Coy's talking head. Getting up in a minute.

-- What's wrong with him? he said. He's dead, he said. And, faith, he filled up. Is it Paddy Dignam? I said. I couldn't believe it when I heard it. I was with him no later than Friday last or Thursday was it in the Arch. Yes, he said. He's gone. He died on Monday, poor fellow.

Watch! Watch! Silk flash rich stockings white. Watch!

A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between.

Lost it. Curse your noisy pugnose. Feels locked out of it. Paradise and the peri. Always happening like that. The very moment. Girl in Eustace street hallway. Monday was it settling her garter. Her friend covering the display of. Esprit de corps. Well, what are you gaping at?

-- Yes, yes, Mr Bloom said after a dull sigh. Another gone.

-- One of the best, M'Coy said.

The tram passed. They drove off towards the Loop Line bridge, her rich gloved hand on the steel grip. Flicker, flicker: the laceflare of her hat in the sun: flicker, flick.

-- Wife well, I suppose? M'Coy's changed voice said.

-- O yes, Mr Bloom said. Tiptop, thanks.

He unrolled the newspaper baton idly and read idly:

What is home without
Plumtree's Potted Meat?
Incomplete.
With it an abode of bliss.
-- My missus has just got an engagement. At least it's not settled yet.
Valise tack again. By the way no harm. I'm off that, thanks.

Mr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty friendliness.

-- My wife too, he said. She's going to sing at a swagger affair in the Ulster hall, Belfast, on the twentyfifth.

-- That so? M'Coy said. Glad to hear that, old man. Who's getting it up?

Mrs Marion Bloom. Not up yet. Queen was in her bedroom eating bread and. No book. Blackened court cards laid along her thigh by sevens. Dark lady and fair man. Cat furry black ball. Torn strip of envelope.

Love's
Old
Sweet
Song
Comes lo-ve's old...
-- It's a kind of a tour, don't you see? Mr Bloom said thoughtfully. Sweet song. There's a committee formed. Part shares and part profits.
M'Coy nodded, picking at his moustache stubble.

-- O well, he said. That's good news.

He moved to go.

-- Well, glad to see you looking fit, he said. Meet you knocking around.

-- Yes, Mr Bloom said.

-- Tell you what, M'Coy said. You might put down my name at the funeral, will you? I'd like to go but I mightn't be able, you see. There's a drowning case at Sandycove may turn up and then the coroner and myself would have to go down if the body is found. You just shove in my name if I'm not there, will you?

-- I'll do that, Mr Bloom said, moving to get off. That'll be all right.

-- Right, M'Coy said brightly. Thanks, old man. I'd go if I possibly could. Well, tolloll. Just C. P. M'Coy will do.

-- That will be done, Mr Bloom answered firmly.

Didn't catch me napping that wheeze. The quick touch. Soft mark. I'd like my job. Valise I have a particular fancy for. Leather. Capped corners, riveted edges, double action lever lock. Bob Cowley lent him his for the Wicklow regatta concert last year and never heard tidings of it from that good day to this.

Mr Bloom, strolling towards Brunswick street, smiled. My missus has just got an. Reedy freckled soprano. Cheeseparing nose. Nice enough in its way: for a little ballad. No guts in it. You and me, don't you know? In the same boat. Softsoaping. Give you the needle that would. Can't he hear the difference? Think he's that way inclined a bit. Against my grain somehow. Thought that Belfast would fetch him. I hope that smallpox up there doesn't get worse. Suppose she wouldn't let herself be vaccinated again. Your wife and my wife.

Wonder is he pimping after me?

Mr Bloom stood at the corner, his eyes wandering over the multicoloured hoardings. Cantrell and Cochrane's Ginger Ale (Aromatic). Clery's summer sale. No, he's going on straight. Hello. Leah tonight: Mrs Bandman Palmer. Like to see her in that again. Hamlet she played last night. Male impersonator. Perhaps he was a woman. Why Ophelia committed suicide? Poor papa! How he used to talk about Kate Bateman in that! Outside the Adelphi in London waited all the afternoon to get in. Year before I was born that was: sixtyfive. And Ristori in Vienna. What is this the right name is? By Mosenthal it is. Rachel, is it? No. The scene he was always talking about where the old blind Abraham recognises the voice and puts his fingers on his face.

-- Nathan's voice! His son's voice! I hear the voice of Nathan who left his father to die of grief and misery in my arms, who left the house of his father and left the God of his father.

Every word is so deep, Leopold.

Poor papa! Poor man! I'm glad I didn't go into the room to look at his face. That day! O dear! O dear! Ffoo! Well, perhaps it was the best for him.

Mr Bloom went round the corner and passed the drooping nags of the hazard. No use thinking of it any more. Nosebag time. Wish I hadn't met that M'Coy fellow.

He came nearer and heard a crunching of gilded oats, the gently champing teeth. Their full buck eyes regarded him as he went by, amid the sweet oaten reek of horsepiss. Their Eldorado. Poor jugginses! Damn all they know or care about anything with their long noses stuck in nosebags. Too full for words. Still they get their feed all right and their doss. Gelded too: a stump of black guttapercha wagging limp between their haunches. Might be happy all the same that way. Good poor brutes they look. Still their neigh can be very irritating.

He drew the letter from his pocket and folded it into the newspaper he carried. Might just walk into her here. The lane is safer.

He passed the cabman's shelter. Curious the life of drifting cabbies, all weathers, all places, time or setdown, no will of their own. Voglio e non. Like to give them an odd cigarette. Sociable. Shout a few flying syllables as they pass. He hummed:

La ci darem la mano
La la lala la la.
He turned into Cumberland street and, going on some paces, halted in the lee of the station wall. No-one. Meade's timberyard. Piled balks. Ruins and tenements. With careful tread he passed over a hopscotch court with its forgotten pickeystone. Not a sinner. Near the timberyard a squatted child at marbles, alone, shooting the taw with a cunnythumb. A wise tabby, a blinking sphinx, watched from her warm sill. Pity to disturb them. Mohammed cut a piece out of his mantel not to wake her. Open it. And once I played marbles when I went to that old dame's school. She liked mignonette. Mrs Ellis's. And Mr? He opened the letter within the newspaper.
A flower. I think it's a. A yellow flower with flattened petals. Not annoyed then? What does she say?

Dear Henry,
I got your last letter to me and thank you very much for it. I am sorry you did not like my last letter. Why did you enclose the stamps? I am awfully angry with you. I do wish I could punish you for that. I called you naughty boy because I do not like that other world. Please tell me what is the real meaning of that word. Are you not happy in your home you poor little naughty boy? I do wish I could do something for you. Please tell me what you think of poor me. I often think of the beautiful name you have. Dear Henry, when will we meet? I think of you so often you have no idea. I have never felt myself so much drawn to a man as you. I feel so bad about. Please write me a long letter and tell me more. Remember if you do not I will punish you. So now you know what I will do to you, you naughty boy, if you do not write. O how I long to meet you. Henry dear, do not deny my request before my patience are exhausted. Then I will tell you all. Goodbye now, naughty darling. I have such a bad headache today and write by return to your longing

MARTHA.

P.S. Do tell me what kind of perfume does your wife use. I want to know.

He tore the flower gravely from its pinhold smelt its almost no smell and placed it in his heart pocket. Language of flowers. They like it because no-one can hear. Or a poison bouquet to strike him down. Then, walking slowly forward, he read the letter again, murmuring here and there a word. Angry tulips with you darling manflower punish your cactus if you don't please poor forgetmenot how I long violets to dear roses when we soon anemone meet all naughty nightstalk wife Martha's perfume. Having read it all he took it from the newspaper and put it back in his sidepocket.
Weak joy opened his lips. Changed since the first letter. Wonder did she write it herself. Doing the indignant: a girl of good family like me, respectable character. Could meet one Sunday after the rosary. Thank you: not having any. Usual love scrimmage. Then running round corners. Bad as a row with Molly. Cigar has a cooling effect. Narcotic. Go further next time. Naughty boy: punish: afraid of-words, of course. Brutal, why not? Try it anyhow. A bit at a time.

Fingering still the letter in his pocket he drew the pin out of it. Common pin, eh? He threw it on the road. Out of her clothes somewhere: pinned together. Queer the number of pins they always have. No roses without thorns.

Flat Dublin voices bawled in his head. Those two sluts that night in the Coombe, linked together in the rain.

O, Mary lost the pin of her drawers.
She didn't know what to do
To keep it up
To keep it up.
It? Them. Such a bad headache. Has her roses probably. Or sitting all day typing. Eyefocus bad for stomach nerves. What perfume does your wife use? Now could you make out a thing like that?
To keep it up.

Martha, Mary. I saw that picture somewhere I forget now old master or faked for money. He is sitting in their house, talking. Mysterious. Also the two sluts in the Coombe would listen.

To keep it up.

Nice kind of evening feeling. No more wandering about. Just loll there: quiet dusk: let everything rip. Forget. Tell about places you have been, strange customs. The other one, jar on her head, was getting the supper: fruit, olives, lovely cool water out of the well stonecold like the hole in the wall at Ashtown. Must carry a paper goblet next time I go to the trottingmatches. She listens with big dark soft eyes. Tell her: more and more: all. Then a sigh: silence. Long long long rest.

Going under the railway arch he took out the envelope, tore it swiftly in shreds and scattered them towards the road. The shreds fluttered away, sank in the dank air: a white flutter then all sank.

Henry Flower. You could tear up a cheque for a hundred pounds in the same way. Simple bit of paper. Lord Iveagh once cashed a sevenfigure cheque for a million in the bank of Ireland. Shows you the money to be made out of porter. Still the other brother lord Ardilaun has to change his shirt four times a day, they say. Skin breeds lice or vermin. A million pounds, wait a moment. Twopence a pint, fourpence a quart, eightpence a gallon of porter, no, one and fourpence a gallon of porter. One and four into twenty: fifteen about. Yes, exactly. Fifteen millions of barrels of porter.

What am I saying barrels? Gallons. About a million barrels all the same.

An incoming train clanked heavily above his head, coach after coach. Barrels bumped in his head: dull porter slopped and churned inside. The bungholes sprang open and a huge dull flood leaked out, flowing together, winding through mudflats all over the level land, a lazy pooling swirl of liquor bearing along wideleaved flowers of its froth.

He had reached the open backdoor of All Hallows. Stepping into the porch he doffed his hat, took the card from his pocket and tucked it again behind the leather headband. Damn it. I might have tried to work M'Coy for a pass to Mullingar.

Same notice on the door. Sermon by the very reverend John Conmee S. J. on saint Peter Claver and the African mission. Save China's millions. Wonder how they explain it to the heathen Chinee. Prefer an ounce of opium. Celestials. Rank heresy for them. Prayers for the conversion of Gladstone they had too when he was almost unconscious. The protestants the same. Convert Dr. William J. Walsh D. D. to the true religion. Buddha their god lying on his side in the museum. Taking it easy with hand under his cheek. Josssticks burning. Not like Ecce Homo. Crown of thorns and cross. Clever idea Saint Patrick the shamrock. Chopsticks? Conmee: Martin Cunningham knows him: distinguished looking. Sorry I didn't work him about getting Molly into the choir instead of that Father Farley who looked a fool but wasn't. They're taught that. He's not going out in bluey specs with the sweat rolling off him to baptise blacks, is he? The glasses would take their fancy, flashing. Like to see them sitting round in a ring with blub lips, entranced, listening. Still life. Lap it up like milk, I suppose.

The cold smell of sacred stone called him. He trod the worn steps, pushed the swingdoor and entered softly by the rere.

Something going on: some sodality. Pity so empty. Nice discreet place to be next some girl. Who is my neighbour? Jammed by the hour to slow music. That woman at midnight mass. Seventh heaven. Women knelt in the benches with crimson halters round their necks, heads bowed. A batch knelt at the altar rails. The priest went along by them, murmuring, holding the thing in his hands. He stopped at each, took out a communion, shook a drop or two (are they in water?) off it and put it neatly into her mouth. Her hat and head sank. Then the next one: a small old woman. The priest bent down to put it into her mouth, murmuring all the time. Latin. The next one. Shut your eyes and open your mouth. What? Corpus. Body. Corpse. Good idea the Latin. Stupefies them first. Hospice for the dying. They don't seem to chew it; only swallow it down. Rum idea: eating bits of a corpse why the cannibals cotton to it.

He stood aside watching their blind masks pass down the aisle, one by one, and seek their places. He approached a bench and seated himself in its corner, nursing his hat and newspaper. These pots we have to wear. We ought to have hats modelled on our heads. They were about him here and there, with heads still bowed in their crimson halters, waiting for it to melt in their stomachs. Something like those mazzoth: it's that sort of bread: unleavened shewbread. Look at them. Now I bet it makes them feel happy. Lollipop. It does. Yes, bread of angels it's called. There's a big idea behind it, kind of kingdom of God is within you feel. First communicants. Hokypoky penny a lump. Then feel all like one family party, same in the theatre, all in the same swim. They do. I'm sure of that. Not so lonely. In our confraternity. Then come out a big spreeish. Let off steam. Thing is if you really believe in it. Lourdes cure, waters of oblivion, and the Knock apparition, statues bleeding. Old fellow asleep near that confession box. Hence those snores. Blind faith. Safe in the arms of Kingdom come. Lulls all pain. Wake this time next year.

He saw the priest stow the communion cup away, well in, and kneel an instant before it, showing a large grey bootsole from under the lace affair he had on. Suppose he lost the pin of his. He wouldn't know what to do to. Bald spot behind. Letters on his back I. N. R. I.? No: I. H. S. Molly told me one time I asked her. I have sinned: or no: I have suffered, it is. And the other one? Iron nails ran in.

Meet one Sunday after the rosary. Do not deny my request. Turn up with a veil and black bag. Dusk and the light behind her. She might be here with a ribbon round her neck and do the other thing all the same on the sly. Their character. That fellow that turned queen's evidence on the invincibles he used to receive the, Carey was his name, the communion every morning. This very church. Peter Carey. No, Peter Claver I am thinking of. Denis Carey. And just imagine that. Wife and six children at home. And plotting that murder all the time. Those crawthumpers, now that's a good name for them, there's always something shiftylooking about them. They're not straight men of business either. O no she's not here: the flower: no, no. By the way did I tear up that envelope? Yes: under the bridge.

The priest was rinsing out the chalice: then he tossed off the dregs smartly. Wine. Makes it more aristocratic than for example if he drank what they are used to Guinness's porter or some temperance beverage Wheatley's Dublin hop bitters or Cantrell and Cochrane's ginger ale (aromatic). Doesn't give them any of it: shew wine: only the other. Cold comfort. Pious fraud but quite right: otherwise they'd have one old booser worse than another coming along, cadging for a drink. Queer the whole atmosphere of the. Quite right. Perfectly right that is.

Mr Bloom looked back towards the choir. Not going to be any music. Pity. Who has the organ here I wonder? Old Glynn he knew how to make that instrument talk, the vibrato: fifty pounds a year they say he had in Gardiner street. Molly was in fine voice that day, the Stabat Mater of Rossini. Father Bernard Vaughan's sermon first. Christ or Pilate? Christ, but don't keep us all night over it. Music they wanted. Footdrill stopped. Could hear a pin drop. I told her to pitch her voice against that corner. I could feel the thrill in the air, the full, the people looking up:

Quis est homo!

Some of that old sacred music is splendid. Mercadante: seven last words. Mozart's twelfth mass: the Gloria in that. Those old popes were keen on music, on art and statues and pictures of all kinds. Palestrina for example too. They had a gay old time while it lasted. Healthy too chanting, regular hours, then brew liqueurs. Benedictine. Green Chartreuse. Still, having eunuchs in their choir that was coming it a bit thick. What kind of voice is it? Must be curious to hear after their own strong basses. Connoisseurs. Suppose they wouldn't feel anything after. Kind of a placid. No worry. Fall into flesh don't they? Gluttons, tall, long legs. Who knows? Eunuch. One way out of it.

He saw the priest bend down and kiss the altar and then face about and bless all the people. All crossed themselves and stood up. Mr Bloom glanced about him and then stood up, looking over the risen hats. Stand up at the gospel of course. Then all settled down on their knees again and he sat back quietly in his bench. The priest came down from the altar, holding the thing out from him, and he and the massboy answered each other in Latin. Then the priest knelt down and began to read off a card:

-- O God, our refuge and our strength.

Mr Bloom put his face forward to catch the words. English. Throw them the bone. I remember slightly. How long since your last mass? Gloria and immaculate virgin. Joseph her spouse. Peter and Paul. More interesting if you understood what it was all about. Wonderful organisation certainly, goes like clockwork. Confession. Everyone wants to. Then I will tell you all. Penance. Punish me, please. Great weapon In their hands. More than doctor or solicitor. Woman dying to. And I schschschschschsch. And did you chachachachacha? And why did you? Look down at her ring to find an excuse. Whispering gallery walls have ears. Husband learn to his surprise. God's little joke. Then out she comes. Repentance skindeep. Lovely shame. Pray at an altar. Hail Mary and Holy Mary. Flowers, incense, candles melting. Hide her blushes. Salvation army blatant imitation. Reformed prostitute will address the meeting. How I found the Lord. Squareheaded chaps those must be in Rome: they work the whole show. And don't they rake in the money too? Bequests also: to the P. P. for the time being in his absolute discretion. Masses for the repose of my soul to be said publicly with open doors. Monasteries and convents. The priest in the Fermanagh will case in the witness box. No browbeating him. He had his answer pat for everything. Liberty and exaltation of our holy mother the church. The doctors of the church: they mapped out the whole theology of it.

The priest prayed:

-- Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the hour of conflict. Be our safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the devil (may God restrain him, we humbly pray): and do thou, O prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God thrust Satan down to hell and with him those other wicked spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls.

The priest and the massboy stood up and walked off. All over. The women remained behind: thanksgiving.

Better be shoving along. Brother Buzz. Come around with the plate perhaps. Pay your Easter duty.

He stood up. Hello. Were those two buttons of my waistcoat open all the time. Women enjoy it. Annoyed if you don't. Why-didn't you tell me before. Never tell you. But we. Excuse, miss, there's a (whh!) just a (whh!) fluff. Or their skirt behind, placket unhooked. Glimpses of the moon. Still like you better untidy. Good job it wasn't farther south. He passed, discreetly buttoning, down the aisle and out through the main door into the light. He stood a moment unseeing by the cold black marble bowl while before him and behind two worshippers dipped furtive hands in the low tide of holy water. Trams: a car of Prescott's dyeworks: a widow in her weeds. Notice because I'm in mourning myself. He covered himself. How goes the time? Quarter past. Time enough yet. Better get that lotion made up. Where is this? Ah yes, the last time. Sweny's in Lincoln place. Chemists rarely move. Their green and gold beaconjars too heavy to stir. Hamilton Long's, founded in the year of the flood. Huguenot churchyard near there. Visit some day.

He walked southward along Westland row. But the recipe is in the other trousers. O, and I forgot that latchkey too. Bore this funeral affair. O well, poor fellow, it's not his fault. When was it I got it made up last? Wait. I changed a sovereign I remember. First of the month it must have been or the second. O he can look it up in the prescriptions book.

The chemist turned back page after page. Sandy shrivelled smell he seems to have. Shrunken skull. And old. Quest for the philosopher's stone. The alchemists. Drugs age you after mental excitement. Lethargy then. Why? Reaction. A lifetime in a night. Gradually changes your character. Living all the day among herbs, ointments, disinfectants. All his alabaster lilypots. Mortar and pestle. Aq. Dist. Fol. Laur. Te Virid. Smell almost cure you like the dentist's doorbell. Doctor whack. He ought to physic himself a bit. Electuary or emulsion. The first fellow that picked an herb to cure himself had a bit of pluck. Simples. Want to be careful. Enough stuff here to chloroform you. Test: turns blue litmus paper red. Chloroform. Overdose of laudanum. Sleeping draughts. Lovephiltres. Paragoric poppysyrup bad for cough. Clogs the pores or the phlegm. Poisons the only cures. Remedy where you least expect it. Clever of nature.

-- About a fortnight ago, sir?

-- Yes, Mr Bloom said.

He waited by the counter, inhaling the keen reek of drugs, the dusty dry smell of sponges and loofahs. Lot of time taken up telling your aches and pains.

-- Sweet almond oil and tincture of benzoin, Mr Bloom said, and then orangeflower water...

It certainly did make her skin so delicate white like wax.

-- And white wax also, he said.

Brings out the darkness of her eyes. Looking at me, the sheet up to her eyes, Spanish, smelling herself, when I was fixing the links in my cuffs. Those homely recipes are often the best: strawberries for the teeth: nettles and rainwater: oatmeal they say steeped in buttermilk. Skinfood. One of the old queen's sons, duke of Albany was it? had only one skin. Leopold yes. Three we have. Warts, bunions and pimples to make it worse. But you want a perfume too. What perfume does your? Peau d'Espagne. That orangeflower. Pure curd soap. Water is so fresh. Nice smell these soaps have. Time to get a bath round the corner. Hammam. Turkish. Massage. Dirt gets rolled up in your navel. Nicer if a nice girl did it. Also I think I. Yes I. Do it in the bath. Curious longing I. Water to water. Combine business with pleasure. Pity no time for massage. Feel fresh then all day. Funeral be rather glum.

-- Yes, sir, the chemist said. That was two and nine. Have you brought a bottle?

-- No, Mr Bloom said. Make it up, please. I'll call later in the day and I'll take one of those soaps. How much are they?

-- Fourpence, sir.

Mr Bloom raised a cake to his nostrils. Sweet lemony wax.

-- I'll take this one, he said. That makes three and a penny.

-- Yes, sir, the chemist said. You can pay all together, sir, when you come back.

-- Good, Mr Bloom said.

He strolled out of the shop, the newspaper baton under his armpit, the coolwrappered soap in his left hand.

At his armpit Bantam Lyons' voice and hand said:

-- Hello, Bloom, what's the best news? Is that today's? Show us a minute.

Shaved off his moustache again, by Jove! Long cold upper lip. To look younger. He does look balmy. Younger than I am.

Bantam Lyons' yellow blacknailed fingers unrolled the baton. Wants a wash too. Take off the rough dirt. Good morning, have you used Pears' soap? Dandruff on his shoulders. Scalp wants oiling.

-- I want to see about that French horse that's running today, Bantam Lyons said. Where the bugger is it?

He rustled the pleated pages, jerking his chin on his high collar. Barber's itch. Tight collar he'll lose his hair. Better leave him the paper and get shut of him.

-- You can keep it, Mr Bloom said.

-- Ascot. Gold cup. Wait, Bantam Lyons muttered. Half a mo. Maximum the second.

-- I was just going to throw it away, Mr Bloom said.

Bantam Lyons raised his eyes suddenly and leered weakly.

-- What's that? his sharp voice said.

-- I say you can keep it, Mr Bloom answered. I was going to throw it away that moment.

Bantam Lyons doubted an instant, leering: then thrust the outspread sheets back on Mr Bloom's arms.

-- I'Il risk it, he said. Here, thanks.

He sped off towards Conway's corner. God speed scut.

Mr Bloom folded the sheets again to a neat square and lodged the soap in it, smiling. Silly lips of that chap. Betting. Regular hotbed of it lately. Messenger boys stealing to put on sixpence. Raffle for large tender turkey. Your Christmas dinner for threepence. Jack Fleming embezzling to gamble then smuggled off to America. Keeps a hotel now. They never come back. Fleshpots of Egypt.

He walked cheerfully towards the mosque of the baths. Remind you of a mosque, redbaked bricks, the minarets. College sports today I see. He eyed the horseshoe poster over the gate of college park: cyclist doubled up like a cod in a pot. Damn bad ad. Now if they had made it round like a wheel. Then the spokes: sports, sports, sports: and the hub big: college. Something to catch the eye.

There's Hornblower standing at the porter's lodge. Keep him on hands: might take a turn in there on the nod. How do you do, Mr Hornblower? How do you do, sir?

Heavenly weather really. If life was always like that. Cricket weather. Sit around under sunshades. Over after over. Out. They can't play it here. Duck for six wickets. Still Captain Buller broke a window in the Kildare street club with a slog to square leg. Donnybrook fair more in their line. And the skulls we were acracking when M'Carthy took the floor. Heatwave. Won't last. Always passing, the stream of life, which in the stream of life we trace is dearer than them all.

Enjoy a bath now: clean trough of water, cool enamel, the gentle tepid stream. This is my body.

He foresaw his pale body reclined in it at full, naked, in a womb of warmth, oiled by scented melting soap, softly laved. He saw his trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow: his navel, bud of flesh: and saw the dark tangled curls of his bush floating, floating hair of the stream around the limp father of thousands, a languid floating flower.

布卢姆先生沿着停在约翰·罗杰森爵士码头上的一排货车稳重地走去，一路经过风车巷、利斯克亚麻籽榨油厂和邮政局。要是把这个地址也通知她就好了。走过了水手之家。他避开了早晨码头上的噪音，取道利穆街。一个拾破烂的少年在布雷迪公寓[1]旁闲荡，臂上挎了一篮子(提梁是用绳子绑的)碎肉，吸着人家嚼剩的烟头。比他年纪小、额上留有湿疹疤痕的女孩朝他望着，懒洋洋地擦着个压扁了的桶箍。告诉他，吸烟可就长不高了。算啦，随他去吧!他这辈子反正也享不到什么荣华富贵。在酒店外面等着，好把爹领回家去。爹，回家找妈去吧。酒馆已经冷清下来，剩不下几位主顾啦。他横过汤森德街，打绷了面孔的伯特厄尔前面走过。厄尔，对，“之家”。阿列夫、伯特[2]。接着又走过尼科尔斯殡仪馆。葬礼十一点才举行，时间还从容。我敢说准是科尼·凯莱赫[3]替奥尼尔殡仪馆揽下今天这档子葬事的。科尼这家伙总是闭着眼睛唱歌，“有一回在公园里，我和她不期相遇，摸着黑儿真有趣。给警察盯上了哩，问她姓名和住址，她就哼唱了一通：我的吐啦噜，吐啦噜，呔。”哦，肯定是他兜揽下来的。随便找个地方花不几个钱把他埋掉算啦。“我的吐啦噜，吐啦噜，吐啦噜，吐啦噜。”

他在韦斯特兰横街的贝尔法斯特与东方茶叶公司的橱窗前停了下来，读着包装货物的锡纸上的商标说明：精选配制，优良品种，家用红茶。天气怪热的。红茶嘛，得到汤姆·克南[4]那儿去买一些。不过，在葬礼上不便跟他提。他那双眼茫然地继续读着，同时摘下帽子，安详地吸着自己那发油的气味，并且斯文地慢慢伸出右手去抚摩前额和头发。这是个炎热的早晨。他垂下眼皮，瞅了瞅这顶高级帽子衬里上绷着的那圈鞋皮的小小帽花。在这儿哪。他的右手从头上落下来，伸到帽壳里。手指麻利地掏出鞣皮圈后面的名片，将它挪到背心兜里。

真热啊，他再一次更缓慢地伸出有手，摸摸前额和头发，然后又戴上帽子，松了口气。他又读了一遍，精选配制，用最优良的锡兰[5]品种配制而成。远东。那准是个可爱的地方，不啻是世界的乐园;慵懒的宽叶，简直可以坐在上面到处漂浮。仙人掌，鲜花盛开的草原，还有那他们称作蛇蔓的。难道真是那样的吗?僧伽罗人在阳光下闲荡，什么也不干是美妙的。成天连手都不动弹一下。一年十二个月，睡上六个月。炎热得连架都懒得吵。这是气候的影响。嗜眠症。怠惰之花。主要是靠空气来滋养。氮。植物园中的温室。含羞草。睡莲。花瓣发蔫了。大气中含有瞌睡病。在玫瑰花瓣上踱步。想想看，炖牛肚和牛蹄吃起来该是什么味道。我在什么地方看到过一个人的照片，是在哪儿拍的呢?对啦，他仰卧在死海上，撑着一把阳伞，还在看书哪。盐分太重，你就是想沉也沉不下去。因为水的重量，不，浮在水面上的身体的重量，等于什么东西的重量来着?要么是容积和重量相等吧?横竖是诸如此类的定律。万斯在高中边教着书，边打着榧子。大学课程，紧张的课程[6]。提起重量，说真的，重量究竟是什么?每秒三十二英尺，每秒钟。落体的规律，每秒钟，每秒钟。它们统统都落到地面上。地球。重量乃是地球引力。

他掉转方向，溜溜达达地横过马路。她拿着香肠，一路怎样走来着?是照这样走的吧。他边走边从侧兜里掏出折叠起来的《自由人报》，打开来又把它竖着卷成棍状。每踱一步便隔着裤子用它拍一下小腿，做出一副漫不经心的样子，像是只不过顺路进去看看而已。每秒钟，每秒钟。每秒钟的意思就是每一秒钟。他从人行道的边石那儿朝邮政局门口投了锐利的一瞥。迟投函件的邮筒。倒可以在这儿投邮。一个人也没有。进去吧。

他隔着黄铜格栅把名片递过去。

“有没有给我的信?”他问。

当那位女邮政局长在分信箱里查找的时候，他盯着那征募新兵的招贴。上面是各兵种的士兵在列队行进。他把报纸卷的一端举起来按在鼻孔上，嗅着那刚印刷好的糙纸的气味。兴许没有回信。上一次说得过火了。

女邮政局长隔着黄铜格栅把他的名片连同一封信递了过来。他向她道了谢，赶快朝那打了字的信封瞟上一眼：

亨利·弗罗尔先生

本市

韦斯特兰横街邮政局转交

总算来了回信。他把名片和信塞到侧兜里，又望了望行进中的士兵。老特威迫的团队在哪儿?被抛弃的兵。在那儿，戴着插有鸟颈毛的熊皮帽。不，那是个掷弹兵。尖袖口。他在那儿哪。都柏林近卫步兵连队。红上衣。太显服了。所以女人才追他们呢。穿军装。不论对入伍还是操练来说，这样的军服都更便当些。莫德·冈内来信提出，他们给咱们爱尔兰首都招来耻辱，夜间应当禁止他们上奥康内尔大街去。格里菲思的报纸如今也在唱同一个调子。这支军队长了杨梅大疮，已经糜烂不堪了。海外的或醉醺醺的帝国。他们看上去半生不熟，像是处于昏睡状态。向前看!原地踏步!贴勃儿：艾勃儿。贝德：艾德。[7]这就是近卫军。他从来也没穿过消防队员或警察的制服。可不是嘛，还加入过共济会哩。[8]

他慢慢腾腾地踱出邮政居，向右转去。难道靠饶舌就能把事情办好吗!他把手伸进兜里，一只食指摸索到信封的口盖，分几截把信扯开了。我不认为女人有多么慎重。他用指头把信拽出，并在兜里将信封揉成一团。信上用饰针别着什么东西，兴许是照片吧。头发吗?不是。

麦科伊走过来了。赶紧把他甩掉吧。碍我的事。就讨厌在这种时刻遇上人。

“喂，布卢姆。你到哪儿去呀?”

“啊，麦科伊。随便溜溜。”

“身体好吗?”

“好。你呢?”

“凑合活着呗，”麦科伊说。

他盯着那黑色领带和衣服，关切地低声问道，

“有什么……我希望没什么麻烦事儿吧。我看到你……”

“啊，没有，”布卢姆先生说，“是这样的，可怜的迪格纳穆，今天他出殡。”

“真的，可怜的家伙。原来是这样。几点钟呀?”

那不是相片。也许是一枚会徽[9]吧。

“十一点钟，”布卢姆先生回答说。

“我得想办法去参加一下，”麦科伊说，“十一点钟吗?昨天晚上我才听说。谁告诉我来着?霍罗翰。你认识‘独脚’吧?”[10]

“认识。”

布卢姆先生朝着停在马路对面格罗夫纳饭店门前的那辆座位朝外的双轮马车望去。脚行举起旅行手提箱，把它放到行李槽里。当那个男人——她的丈夫，也许是兄弟，因为长得像她——摸索兜里的零钱时，她静静地站在那儿等候着。款式新颖的大衣还带那种翻领，看上去像是绒的。今天这样的天气，显得太热了些。她把双手揣在明兜里，漫不经心地站在那儿，活像是在马球赛场上见过的那一位高傲仕女。女人们满脑子都是身份地位，直到你触着她的要害部位。品德优美才算真美。为了屈就才那么矜持。那位可敬的夫人……而布鲁图是个可敬的人[11]。一旦占有了她，就能够使她服贴就范。

“我跟鲍勃·多兰在一块儿来着，他犯了老毛病，又喝得醉醺醺的了，还有那个名叫班塔姆·莱昂斯[12]的家伙。我们就在那边的康韦酒吧间。”

多兰和莱昂斯在康韦酒吧间。她把一只戴着手套的手举到头发那儿。“独脚”进来了，喝上一通。他仰着脸，眯起眼睛，看见颜色鲜艳的鹿皮手套在强烈的阳光下闪烁着，也看见镶在手套背上的饰钮。今天我可以看得一清二楚了。兴许周围的湿气使人能望到远处。这家伙还在东拉西扯。她有着一双贵夫人的手。到底要从哪边上车呢?

“他说:‘咱们那个可怜的朋友帕狄真是可惜呀!’‘哪个帕狄?’我说。‘可怜的小帕狄·迪格纳穆。’他说。”

要到乡间去，说不定是布罗德斯通[13]吧。棕色长统靴，饰带晃来晃去。脚的曲线很美。他没事儿摆弄那些零钱干什么?她发觉了我在瞅着她，那眼神儿仿佛老是在物色着旁的男人——一个好靠山。弓上总多着一根弦。

“‘怎么啦?’我说。‘他出了什么事?’我说。”

高傲而华贵，长统丝袜。

“晤，”布卢姆先生说。

他把头略微偏过去一点，好躲开麦科伊那张谈兴正浓的脸。马上就要上车了。

“‘他出了什么事?’他说。‘他死啦，’他说。真的，他就泪汪汪的了。‘是帕狄·迪格纳穆吗?’我说。乍一听，我不能相信。至少直到上星期五或星期四，我还在阿奇酒店见到了他呢。‘是的，’他说，‘他走啦。他是星期一去世的，可怜的人儿。’”

瞧哇!瞧哇!华贵雪白的长袜，丝光闪闪!瞧啊!

一辆沉甸甸的电车，叮叮噹噹地拉响警笛，拐过来，遮住了他的视线。

马车没影儿了。这吵吵闹闹的狮子鼻真可恶。觉得像是吃了闭门羹似的。“天堂与妖精”。[14]事情总是这样的。就在关键时刻。那是星期一，一个少女在尤斯塔斯街[15]的甬道里整理她的吊袜带来着。她的朋友替她遮住了那露出的部位。互助精神[16]。喂，你张着嘴呆看什么呀?

“是啊，是啊，”布卢姆先生无精打彩地叹了口气说，“又走了一个。”

“最好的一个，”麦科伊说。

电车开过去了。他们的马车驰向环道桥[17]，她用戴着考究的手套的手握着那钢质栏杆。闪烁，闪烁，她帽子上那丝质飘带在阳光下闪烁着，飘荡着。

“你太太好吧?”麦科伊换了换语气说。

“啊，好，”布卢姆先生说，“好极了，谢谢。”

他随手打开那卷成棍状的报纸，不经意地读着，

倘若你家里没有，

李树[18]商标肉罐头，

那就是美中不足，

有它才算幸福窝。

“我太太刚刚接到一份聘约，不过还没有谈妥哪。”

又来耍这套借手提箱的把戏[19]了。倒也不碍事。谢天谢地，这套手法对我已经不灵啦。

布卢姆先生心怀友谊慢悠悠地将那眼睑厚厚的眼睛移向他。

“我太太也一样，”他说，“二十五号那天，贝尔法斯特的阿尔斯特会堂举办一次排场很大的音乐会，她将去演唱。”

“是吗?”麦科伊说，“那太好啦，老伙计。谁来主办?”

玛莉恩·布卢姆太太。还没起床哪。王后在寝室里，吃面包和。[20]没有书。她的大腿旁并放着七张肮脏的宫廷纸牌。黑发夫人和金发先生[21]。来信。猫蜷缩成一团毛茸茸的黑球。从信封口上撕下来的碎片。

古老

甜蜜的

情

歌，

听见了古老甜蜜的……

“这是一种巡回演出，明白吧，”布卢姆先生若有所思地说，“甜蜜的情歌。成立了一个委员会，按照股份来分红。”

麦科伊点点头，一边揪了揪他那胡子茬儿。

“唔，好，”他说，“这可是个好消息。”

他移步要走开。

“喏，你看上去蛮健康，真高兴，”他说，“咱们说不定在什么地方又能碰见哩。”

“是啊，”布卢姆先生说。

“话又说回来啦，”麦科伊说，“在葬礼上，你能不能替我把名字也签上?我很想去，可是也许去不成哩。瞧，沙湾出了一档子淹死人的事件，也许会浮上来。尸体假若找到了，验尸官和我就得去一趟。我要是没到场，就请你把我的名字给塞上好不好?”

“好的，”布卢姆先生说着就走开了。“就这么办吧。”

“好吧，”麦科伊喜形于色地说，“谢谢你啦，老伙计。只要能去，我是会去的。喏，应付一下，写上C·P·麦科伊就行啦。”

“一准办到，”布卢姆先生坚定地说。

那个花招没能使我上当。敏捷地脱了身。笨人就容易上当。我可不是什么冤大头。何况那又是我特别心爱的一只手提箱，皮制的。角上加了护皮，边沿还用铆钉护起，并且装上了双锁。去年举办威克洛[22]艇赛音乐会时，鲍勃·考利把自己那只借给了他。打那以后，就一直没下文啦。

布卢姆先生边朝布伦斯威克街溜达，边漾出微笑。“我太太刚刚接到一份。”满脸雀斑、嗓音像芦笛的女高音。用干酪削成的鼻子。唱一支民间小调嘛，倒还凑合。没有气势。你和我，你晓得吗，咱们的处境相同。这是奉承话。那声音刺耳。难道他就听不出其中的区别来吗?想来那样的才中他的意哩。不知怎地却不合我的胃口。我认为贝尔法斯特那场音乐会会把他吸引住的。我希望那里的天花不至于越闹越厉害。她恐怕是不肯重新种牛痘了。你的老婆和我的老婆。

不晓得他会不会在盯梢?

布卢姆先生在街角停下脚步，两眼瞟着那些五颜六色的广告牌。坎特雷尔与科克伦姜麦酒(加了香料的)。克勒利[23]的夏季大甩卖。不，他笔直地走下去了。嘿，今晚上演班德曼·帕默夫人的《丽亚》[24]哩。 巴不得再看一遍她扮演这个角色。昨晚她演的是哈姆莱特[25]。女扮男装。说不定他本来就是个女的哩。所以奥菲利娅才自杀了。可怜的爸爸!他常提起凯特·贝特曼[26]扮演的这个角色。他在伦敦的阿德尔菲剧场外面足足等了一个下午才进去的。那是一八六五年——我出生前一年的事。还有里斯托里[27]在维也纳的演出。剧目该怎么叫来着?作者是莫森索尔。是《蕾洁》吧?不是的。[28]他经常谈到的场景是，又老又瞎的亚伯拉罕[29]听出了那声音，就把手指放在他的脸上。

拿单的声音!他儿子的声音!我听到了拿单的声音，他离开了自己的父亲，任他悲惨忧伤地死在我的怀抱里。他就这样离开了父亲的家，并且离开了父亲的上帝[30]。

每句话都讲得那么深沉，利奥波德。

可怜的爸爸!可怜的人!幸而我不曾进屋去瞻仰他的遗容。那是怎样的一天啊!哎呀，天哪!哎呀，天哪!嗬!喏，也许这样对他最好不过。

布卢姆先生拐过街角，从出租马车停车场那些耷拉着脑袋的驽马跟前走边。到了这般地步，再想那档子事也是白搭。这会子该给马套上秣囊了。要是没遇上麦科伊这家伙就好了。

他走近了一些，听到牙齿咀嚼着金色燕麦的嘎吱嘎吱声，轻轻地咀嚼着的牙齿。当他从带股子燕麦清香的马尿气味中走过时，那些马用公羊般的圆鼓鼓的眼睛望着他。这才是它们的理想天地。可怜的傻瓜们!它们一无所知，对什么也漠不关心，只管把长鼻头扎进秣囊里。嘴里塞得那么满，连叫都叫不出来了。好歹能填饱肚子，也不缺睡的地方。而且被阉割过，一片黑色杜仲胶在腰腿之间软软地耷拉下来，摆动着。就那样，它们可能还是蛮幸福的哩。一看就是些善良而可怜的牲口。不过，它们嘶鸣起来也会令人恼火。

他从兜里掏出信来，将它卷在带来的报纸里。说不定会在这儿撞上她。巷子里更安全一些。

他从出租马车夫的车棚前走边。马车夫那种流浪生活真妙。不论什么样的天气，也不管什么地点、时间或距离，都由不得自己的意愿。我要，又不[31]。我喜欢偶尔给他们支香烟抽。交际一下。他们驾车路过的时候，大声嚷出一言半语。他哼唱着：

咱们将手拉着手前往。[32]

啦啦啦啦啦啦。

他拐进坎伯兰街，往前赶了几步，就在车站围墙的背风处停下了。周围一个人也没有。米德木材堆放场。堆积起来的梁木。废墟和公寓。他小心翼翼地踱过“跳房子”游戏的场地，上面还有遗忘下的跳石子儿。我没犯规[33]。一个娃娃孤零零地蹲在木材堆放场附近弹珠儿玩，用灵巧的大拇指弹着球。一只明察秋毫的母花猫，伊然是座眨巴着眼睛的斯芬克斯[34]，呆在暖洋洋的窗台上朝这边望着，不忍心打搅他们。据说穆罕默德曾为了不把猫弄醒，竟然将斗篷剪掉一块。把信打开吧。当我在那位年迈的女老师开的学校就读时，也曾玩过弹珠儿，她喜爱木樨草。埃利斯太太的学校[35]。她丈夫叫什么名字来着?用报纸遮着，他打开了那封信。

信里夹的是花。我想是。一朵瓣儿已经压瘪了的黄花。那么，她没生我的气喽?信上怎么说?

亲爱的亨利：

我收到了你的上一封信，很是感谢。遗憾的是，你不喜

欢我上次的信。你为什么要附邮票呢?我非常生气。 我多么

希望能够为这件事惩罚你一下啊。我曾称你作淘气鬼，因为

我不喜欢那另一个世界[36]。请告诉我那另一个字真正的含

意。你在自己家里不幸福吗?你这可怜的小淘气鬼? 我巴不

得能替你做点什么。请告诉我，你对我这个可怜虫有什么看

法。我时常想起你这个名字有多么可爱。亲爱的亨利，咱们

什么时候能见面呢?你简直无法想像我多么经常地想念你。我

从来没有被一个男人像被你这么吸引过。弄得我心慌意乱。请

给我写一封长信，告诉我更多的事情。不然的话我可要惩罚

你啦，你可要记住。你这淘气鬼，现在你晓得了，假若你不

写信，我会怎样对付你。哦，我多么盼望跟你见面啊。亲爱

的亨利，请别拒绝我的要求，否则我的耐心就要耗尽了。到

那时候我就一古脑儿告诉你。现在，再见吧，心爱的淘气鬼。

今天我的头疼得厉害，所以一定要立即回信给苦苦思念你的

玛莎

附言：一定告诉我，你太太使用哪一种香水。我想知道。

他神情严肃地扯下那朵用饰针别着的花儿，嗅了嗅几乎消失殆尽的香气，将它放在胸兜里。花的语言。[37]人们喜欢它，因为谁也听不见。要么就用一束毒花将对方击倒。于是，他慢慢地往前踱着，把信重读一遍，东一个字、西一个词地念出声来。对你郁金香 生气 亲爱的 男人花 惩罚 你的 仙人掌 假若你不 请 可怜虫 勿忘草 我多么盼望 紫罗兰 给亲爱的 玫瑰 当我们快要 银莲花 见面 一古脑儿 淘气鬼 夜茎[38] 太太 玛莎的香水。读完之后，他把信从报纸卷里取出来，又放回到侧兜里。

他心中略有喜意，咧开了嘴。这封信不同于第一封。不知道是不是她亲笔写的。装出一副生气的样子：像我这样的良家少女，品行端正的。随便哪个星期天，等诵完玫瑰经，不妨见见。谢谢你，没什么。谈恋爱时候通常会发生的那种小别扭。然后你追我躲的。就跟同摩莉吵架的时候那么麻烦。抽支雪茄烟能起点镇静作用，总算是麻醉剂嘛。一步步地来。淘气鬼。惩罚。当然喽，生怕措词不当。粗暴吗，为什么不?反正不妨试它一试，一步步地来。

他依然用指头在兜里摆弄着那封信，并且把饰针拔下。这不是根普通的饰针吗?他把它扔在街上。是从她衣服的什么地方取下来的，好几根饰针都别在一起。真奇怪，女人身上总有那么多饰针!没有不带刺的玫瑰。

单调的都柏林口音在他的头脑里响着。那天晚上在库姆[39]，两个娘子淋着雨，互相挽着臂在唱：

哦，玛丽亚丢了衬裤的饰针。

她不知道怎么办，

才能不让它脱落，

才能不让它脱落。

饰针?衬裤。头疼得厉害。也许她刚好赶上玫瑰期间[40]。要么就是成天坐着打字的关系。眼睛老盯着，对胃神经不利。你太太使用哪一种香水?谁闹得清这是怎么回事!

才能不让它脱落。

玛莎，玛丽亚。如今我已忘记是在哪儿看到那幅画了。是出自古老大师之手呢，还是为赚钱而制出的赝品?他[41]坐在她们家里，谈着话。挺神秘的。库姆街的那两个姨子也乐意听的。

才能不让它脱落。

傍晚的感觉良好。再也不用到处流浪了。只消懒洋洋地享受这宁静的黄昏，一切全听其自然。忘记一切吧。说说你都去过哪些地方和当地的奇风异俗。另一位头上顶着水罐，在准备晚饭：水果，橄榄，从井里打采的沁凉可口的水。那井像石头一样冰冷，像煞阿什汤的墙壁上的洞[42]。下次去参加小马驾车赛[43]，我得带上个纸杯子。她倾听着，一双大眼睛温柔而且乌黑。告诉她，尽情地说吧。什么也别保留。然后一声叹息，接着是沉默。漫长、漫长、漫长的休息。

他在铁道的拱形陆桥底下走着，一路掏出信封，赶忙把它撕成碎片，朝马路丢去。碎片纷纷散开来，在潮湿的空气中飘零。白茫茫的一片，随后就统统沉落下去了。

亨利·弗罗尔。你蛮可以把一张一百英镑的支票也这么撕掉哩。也不过是一小片纸而已。据说有一回艾弗勋爵[44]在爱尔兰银行就用一张七位数的支票兑换成百万英镑现款。这说明黑啤酒的赚头有多大，可是人家说，他的胞兄阿迪劳恩勋爵[45]依然得每天换四次衬衫，因为他的皮肤上总繁殖虱子或跳蚤。百万英镑，且慢。两便士能买一品脱黑啤酒，四便士能买一夸脱，八便士就是一加仑。不，一加仑得花一先令四便士。二十先令是一先令四便士的多少倍呢?大约十五倍吧。对，正好是十五倍。那就是一千五百万桶黑啤酒喽。

我怎么说起桶来啦?应该说加仑。总归约莫有一百万桶吧。

入站的列车在他的头顶上沉重地响着，车厢一节接着一节。在他的脑袋里，酒桶也在相互碰撞着，黏糊糊的黑啤酒在桶里迸溅着，翻腾着。桶塞一个个地崩掉了，大量混浊的液体淌出来，汇聚在一起，迂回曲折地穿过泥滩，浸漫整个大地。酒池缓缓地打着漩涡，不断地冒起有着宽叶的泡沫花。

他来到诸圣教堂那敞着的后门跟前。边迈进门廊，边摘下帽子，并且从兜里取出名片，塞回到鞣皮帽圈后头。唉呀，我本可以托麦科伊给弄张去穆林加尔的免费车票呢。

门上贴的还是那张告示。十分可敬的耶稣会会士约翰·库米布道，题目是：耶稣会传教士圣彼得·克莱佛尔[46]及非洲传道事业。当格莱斯顿[47]几乎已人事不醒之后，他们仍为他皈依天主教而祷告。新教徒也是一样。要使神学博士威廉·詹·沃尔什[48]皈依真正的宗教。要拯救中国的芸芸众生。不知道他们怎样向中国异教徒宣讲。宁肯要一两鸦片。天朝的子民。对他们而言，这一切是十足的异端邪说。他们的神是如来佛，手托腮帮，安详地侧卧在博物馆里。香烟缭绕。不同于头戴荆冠、钉在十字架上的。“瞧!这个人!”[49]关于三叶苜蓿，圣帕特里克想出的主意太妙了。[50]筷子[51]?康米。马丁·坎宁翰[52]认识他。他气度不凡。可惜我不曾在他身上下过功夫，没托他让摩莉参加唱诗班，我却托了法利神父。那位神父看上去像个傻瓜，其实不然。他们就是被那么培养出来的。他总不至于戴上蓝眼镜，汗水涔涔地去给黑人施洗礼吧，他会吗?太阳镜闪闪发光，会把他们吸引住。这些厚嘴唇的黑人围成一圈坐着，听得入了迷。这副样子倒蛮有看头哩，活像是一幅静物画。我想，他们准是把他传的道当作牛奶那么舐掉了。

圣石发出的冰冷气息呼唤着他。他踏着磨损了的台阶，推开旋转门，悄悄地从祭坛背后走进去。

正在进行着什么活动，教友的聚会吧。可惜这么空空荡荡的。要是找个不显眼的位子，旁边有个少女倒不赖。谁是我的邻人呢?[53]听着悠扬的音乐，挤在一起坐上一个钟头。就是望午夜弥撒时遇见的那个女人，使人觉得仿佛上了七重天。妇女们跪在长凳上，脖间系着深红色圣巾[54]，低看头。有几个跪在祭坛的栏杆那儿。神父嘴里念念有词，双手捧着那东西，从她们前边走过。他在每个人面前都停下来，取出一枚圣体。甩上一两下(难道那是浸泡在水里的不成?[55])，利利索索地送到她嘴里。她的帽子和头耷拉下去。接着就是第二个。她的帽子也立即垂下来。随后是旁边的那个：矮个子的老妪。神父弯下腰，把圣体送进她的嘴里，她不断地咕哝着。那是拉丁文。下一个。闭上眼，张开嘴。是什么来着?Corpus[56]: body。 Corpse[57]。用拉丁文可是个高明的主意。首先，那就会使这些女人感到茫然。收容垂死者的救济院[58]。她们好像并不咀嚼:只是把圣体吞咽下去。吃尸体的碎片，可谓异想天开，正投食人族之所好。

他站在一旁，望着蒙起面纱的她们，沿着过道顺序走来，寻找各自的座位。他走到一条长凳跟前，靠边儿坐下，帽子和报纸捧在怀里。我们还得戴那种活像是一口口深锅的帽子。我们理应照着头型缝制帽子。这儿，那儿，周围那些系着深红色圣巾的女人们依然低看头，等待圣体在她们的胃里融化。真有点像是无酵饼[59]，那种上供用的没有发酵的饼。瞧瞧她们。这会子我敢说圣体使她们感到幸福。就像是吃了棒糖似的。可不是嘛。对，人们管它叫作天使的饼子。这背后还有个宏大的联想，你觉得，心里算是有了那么一种神的王国。初领圣体者[60]。那其实只不过是一便士一撮的骗人的玩艺儿。可这下子她们就都感到是家族大团聚。觉得像是在同一座剧场里，同一道溪流中。我相信她们是这样感觉的，因而也就不大孤独了。因为大家都属于“咱们的教团”了。多余的精力发泄个够，然后，像是狂欢了一场般地走了出来。问题在于，你得真心笃信它。卢尔德[61]的治疗，忘却的河流，诺克[62]的显圣，淌血的圣像[63]。一位老人在那个忏悔阁子旁边打盹儿哪，所以才鼾声不断。盲目的信仰。安然呆在那即将降临的天国怀抱里[64]，一切痛苦都止息了。明年这个时候将会苏醒。

他望到神父把圣体杯收好，放回尽里边，对着它跪了片刻，身上那镶有花边的衣裙下边，露