尤利西斯-第11章

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begin　again　those　Sandow's　exercises。　On　the　hands　down。　Blotchy　brown　brick　houses。　Number　eighty　still　unlet。　Why　is　that？　Valuation　is　only　twenty…eight。　Towers；　Battersby；　North；　MacArthur：　parlour　windows　plastered　with　bills。　Plasters　on　a　sore　eye。　To　smell　the　gentle　smoke　of　tea；　fume　of　the　pan；　sizzling　butter。　Be　near　her　ample　bedwarmed　flesh。　Yes；　yes。　
Quick　warm　sunlight　came　running　from　Berkeley　Road；　swiftly；　in　slim　sandals；　along　the　brightening　footpath。　Runs；　she　runs　to　meet　me；　a　girl　with　gold　hair　on　the　wind。　
Two　letters　and　a　card　lay　on　the　hallfloor。　He　stopped　and　gathered　them。　Mrs　Marion　Bloom。　His　quick　heart　slowed　at　once。　Bold　hand。　Mrs　Marion。　
　Poldy！　
Entering　the　bedroom　he　halfclosed　his　eyes　and　walked　through　warm　yellow　twilight　towards　her　tousled　head。　
　Who　are　the　letters　for？　
He　looked　at　them。　Mullingar。　Milly。　
　A　letter　for　me　from　Milly；　he　said　carefully；　and　a　card　to　you。　And　a　letter　for　you。　
He　laid　her　card　and　letter　on　the　twill　bedspread　near　the　curve　of　her　knees。　
　Do　you　want　the　blind　up？　
Letting　the　blind　up　by　gentle　tugs　halfway　his　backward　eye　saw　her　glance　at　the　letter　and　tuck　it　under　her　pillow。　
　That　do？　he　asked；　turning。　
She　was　reading　the　card；　propped　on　her　elbow。　
　She　got　the　things；　she　said。　
He　waited　till　she　had　laid　the　card　aside　and　curled　herself　back　slowly　with　a　snug　sigh。　
　Hurry　up　with　that　tea；　she　said。　I'm　parched。　
　The　kettle　is　boiling；　he　said。　
But　he　delayed　to　clear　the　chair：　her　striped　petticoat；　tossed　soiled　linen：　and　lifted　all　in　an　armful　on　to　the　foot　of　the　bed。　
As　he　went　down　the　kitchen　stairs　she　called：　
　Poldy！　
　What？　
　Scald　the　teapot。　
On　the　boil　sure　enough：　a　plume　of　steam　from　the　spout。　He　scalded　and　rinsed　out　the　teapot　and　put　in　four　full　spoons　of　tea；　tilting　the　kettle　then　to　let　water　flow　in。　Having　set　it　to　draw；　he　took　off　the　kettle　and　crushed　the　pan　flat　on　the　live　coals　and　watched　the　lump　of　butter　slide　and　melt。　While　he　unwrapped　the　kidney　the　cat　mewed　hungrily　against　him。　Give　her　too　much　meat　she　won't　mouse。　Say　they　won't　eat　pork。　Kosher。　Here。　He　let　the　bloodsmeared　paper　fall　to　her　and　dropped　the　kidney　amid　the　sizzling　butter　sauce。　Pepper。　He　sprinkled　it　through　his　fingers；　ringwise；　from　the　chipped　eggcup。　
Then　he　slit　open　his　letter；　glancing　down　the　page　and　over。　Thanks：　new　tam：　Mr　Coghlan：　lough　Owel　picnic：　young　student：　Blazes　Boylan's　seaside　girls。　
The　tea　was　drawn。　He　filled　his　own　moustachecup；　sham　crown　Derby；　smiling。　Silly　Milly's　birthday　gift。　Only　five　she　was　then。　No　wait：　four。　I　gave　her　the　amberoid　necklace　she　broke。　Putting　pieces　of　folded　brown　paper　in　the　letterbox　for　her。　He　smiled；　pouring。　
O　Milly　Bloom；　you　are　my　darling。
You　are　my　looking　glass　from　night　to　morning。　
I'd　rather　have　you　without　a　farthing
Than　Katey　Keogh　with　her　ass　and　garden。
Poor　old　professor　Goodwin。　Dreadful　old　case。　Still　he　was　a　courteous　old　chap。　Oldfashioned　way　he　used　to　bow　Molly　off　the　platform。　And　the　little　mirror　in　his　silk　hat。　The　night　Milly　brought　it　into　the　parlour。　O；　look　what　I　found　in　professor　Goodwin's　hat！　All　we　laughed。　Sex　breaking　out　even　then。　Pert　little　piece　she　was。　
He　prodded　a　fork　into　the　kidney　and　slapped　it　over：　then　fitted　the　teapot　on　the　tray。　Its　hump　bumped　as　he　took　it　up。　Everything　on　it？　Bread　and　butter；　four；　sugar；　spoon；　her　cream。　Yes。　He　carried　it　upstairs；　his　thumb　hooked　in　the　teapot　handle。　
Nudging　the　door　open　with　his　knee　he　carried　the　tray　in　and　set　it　on　the　chair　by　the　bedhead。　
　What　a　time　you　were；　she　said。　
She　set　the　brasses　jingling　as　she　raised　herself　briskly；　an　elbow　on　the　pillow。　He　looked　calmly　down　on　her　bulk　and　between　her　large　soft　bubs；　sloping　within　her　nightdress　like　a　shegoat's　udder。　The　warmth　of　her　couched　body　rose　on　the　air；　mingling　with　the　fragrance　of　the　tea　she　poured。　
A　strip　of　torn　envelope　peeped　from　under　the　dimpled　pillow。　In　the　act　of　going　he　stayed　to　straighten　the　bedspread。　
　Who　was　the　letter　from？　he　asked。　
Bold　hand。　Marion。　
　O；　Boylan；　she　said。　He's　bringing　the　programme。　
　What　are　you　singing？　
　La　ci　darem　with　J。　C。　Doyle；　she　said；　and　Love's　Old　Sweet　Song。　
Her　full　lips；　drinking；　smiled。　Rather　stale　smell　that　incense　leaves　next　day。　Like　foul　flowerwater。　
　Would　you　like　the　window　open　a　little？　
She　doubled　a　slice　of　bread　into　her　mouth；　asking：　
　What　time　is　the　funeral？　
　Eleven；　I　think；　he　answered。　I　didn't　see　the　paper。　
Following　the　pointing　of　her　finger　he　took　up　a　leg　of　her　soiled　drawers　from　the　bed。　No？　Then；　a　twisted　grey　garter　looped　round　a　stocking：　rumpled；　shiny　sole。　
　No：　that　book。　
Other　stocking。　Her　petticoat。　
　It　must　have　fell　down；　she　said。　
He　felt　here　and　there。　Voglio　e　non　vorvez。　Wonder　if　she　pronounces　that　right：　voglio。　Not　in　the　bed。　Must　have　slid　down。　He　stooped　and　lifted　the　valance。　The　book；　fallen；　sprawled　against　the　bulge　of　the　orange…keyed　chamberpot。　
　Show　here；　she　said。　I　put　a　mark　in　it。　There's　a　word　I　wanted　to　ask　you。　
She　swallowed　a　draught　of　tea　from　her　cup　held　by　nothandle　and；　having　wiped　her　fingertips　smartly　on　the　blanket；　began　to　search　the　text　with　the　hairpin　till　she　reached　the　word。　
　Met　him　what？　he　asked。　
　Here；　she　said。　What　does　that　mean？　
He　leaned　downwards　and　read　near　her　polished　thumbnail。　
　Metempsychosis？　
　Yes。　Who's　he　when　he's　at　home？　
　Metempsychosis；　he　said；　frowning。　It's　Greek：　from　the　Greek。　That　means　the　transmigration　of　souls。　
　O；　rocks！　she　said。　Tell　us　in　plain　words。　
He　smiled；　glancing　askance　at　her　mocking　eye。　The　same　young　eyes。　The　first　night　after　the　charades。　Dolphin's　Barn。　He　turned　over　the　smudged　pages。　Ruby：　the　Pride　of　the　Ring。　Hello。　Illustration。　Fierce　Italian　with　carriagewhip。　Must　be　Ruby　pride　of　the　on　the　floor　naked。　Sheet　kindly　lent。　The　monster　Maffei　desisted　and　flung　his　victim　from　him　with　an　oath。　Cruelty　behind　it　all。　Doped　animals。　Trapeze　at　Hengler's。　Had　to　look　the　other　way。　Mob　gaping。　Break　your　neck　and　we'll　break　our　sides。　Families　of　them。　Bone　them　young　so　they　metempsychosis。　That　we　live　after　death。　Our　souls。　That　a　man's　soul　after　he　dies。　Dignam's　soul。。。　
　Did　you　finish　it？　he　asked。　
　Yes；　she　said。　There's　nothing　smutty　in　it。　Is　she　in　love　with　the　first　fellow　all　the　time？　
　Never　read　it。　Do　you　want　another？　
　Yes。　Get　another　of　Paul　de　Kock's。　Nice　name　he　has。　
She　poured　more　tea　into　her　cup；　watching　its　flow　sideways。　
Must　get　that　Capel　street　library　book　renewed　or　they'll　write　to　Kearney；　my　guarantor。　Reincarnation：　that's　the　word。　
　Some　people　believe；　he　said；　that　we　go　on　living　in　another　body　after　death；　that　we　lived　before。　They　call　it　reincarnation。　That　we　all　lived　before　on　the　earth　thousands　of　years　ago　or　some　other　planet。　They　say　we　have　forgotten　it。　Some　say　they　remember　their　past　lives。　
The　sluggish　cream　wound　curdling　spirals　through　her　tea。　Better　remind　her　of　the　word：　metempsychosis。　An　example　would　be　better。　An　example。　
The　Bath　of　the　Nymph　over　the　bed。　Given　away　with　the　Easter　number　of　Photo　Bits：　Splendid　masterpiece　in　art　colours。　Tea　before　you　put　milk　in。　Not　unlike　her　with　her　hair　down：　slimmer。　Three　and　six　I　gave　for　the　frame。　She　said　it　would　look　nice　over　the　bed。　Naked　nymphs：　Greece：　and　for　instance　all　the　people　that　lived　then。　
He　turned　the　pages　back。　
　Metempsychosis；　he　said；　is　what　the　ancient　Greeks　called　it。　They　used　to　believe　you　could　be　changed　into　an　animal　or　a　tree；　for　instance。　What　they　called　nymphs；　for　example。　
Her　spoon　ceased　to　stir　up　the　sugar。　She　gazed　straight　before　her；　inhaling　through　her　arched　nostrils。　
　There's　a　smell　of　burn；　she　said。　Did　you　leave　anything　on　the　fire？　
　The　kidney！　he　cried　suddenly。　
He　fitted　the　book　roughly　into　his　inner　pocket　and；　stubbing　his　toes　against　the　broken　mode；　hurried　out　towards　the　smell；　stepping　hastily　down　the　stairs　with　a　flurried　stork's　legs。　Pungent　smoke　shot　up　in　an　angry　Jet　from　a　side　of　the　pan。　By　prodding　a　prong　of　the　fork　under　the　kidney　he　detached　it　and　turned　it　turtle　on　its　back。　Only　a　little　burned。　He　tossed　it　off　the　pan　on　to　a　plate　and　let　the　scanty　brown　gravy　trickle　over　it。　
Cup　of　tea　now。　He　sat　down；　cut　and　buttered　a　slice　of　the　loaf。　He　shore　away　the　burnt　flesh　and　flung　it　to　the　cat。　Then　he　put　a　forkful　into　his　mouth；　chewing　with　discernment　the　toothsome　pliant　meat。　Done　to　a　turn。　A　mouthful　of　tea。　Then　he　cut　away　dies　of　bread；　sopped　one　in　the　gravy　and　put　it　in　his　mouth。　What　was　that　about　some　young　student　and　a　picnic？　He　creased　out　the　letter　at　his　side；　reading　it　slowly　as　he　chewed；　sopping　another　die　of　bread　in　the　gravy　and　raising　it　to　his　mouth。　
Dearest　Papli；
Thanks　ever　so　much　for　the　lovely　birthday　present。　It　suits　me　splendid。　Everyone　says　I'm　quite　the　belle　in　my　new　tam。　I　got　mummy's　lovely　box　of　creams　and　am　writing。　They　are　lovely。　I　am　getting　on　swimming　in　the　photo　business　now。　Mr　Coghlan　took　one　of　me　and　Mrs　will　send　when　developed。　We　did　great　biz　yesterday。　Fair　day　and　all　the　beef　to　the　heels　were　in。　We　are　going　to　lough　Owel　on　Monday　with　a　few　friends　to　make　a　scrap　picnic。　Give　my　love　to　mummy　and　to　yourself　a　big　kiss　and　thanks。　I　hear　them　at　the　piano　downstairs。　There　is　to　be　a　concert　in　the　Greville　Arms　on　Saturday。　There　is　a　young　student　es　here　some　evenings　named　Bannon　his　cousins　or　something　are　big　swells　he　sings　Boylan's　（I　was　on　the　pop　of　writing　Blazes　Boylan's）　song　about　those　seaside　girls。　Tell　him　silly　Milly　sends　my　best　respects。　Must　now　close　with　fondest　love。
Your　fond　daughter；　MILLY。
P。S。　Excuse　bad　writing；　am　in　a　hurry。　Byby。
M。
Fifteen　yesterday。　Curious；　fifteenth　of　the　month　too。　Her　first　birthday　away　from　home。　Separation。　Remember　the　summer　morning　she　was　born；　running　to　knock　up　Mrs　Thornton　in　Denzille　street。　Jolly　old　woman。　Lots　of　babies　she　must　have　helped　into　the　world。　She　knew　from　the　first　poor　little　Rudy　wouldn't　live。　Well；　God　is　good；　sir。　She　knew　at　once。　He　would　be　eleven　now　if　he　had　lived。　
His　vacant　face　stared　pitying　at　the　postscript。　Excuse　bad　writing。　Hurry。　Piano　downstairs。　ing　out　of　her　shell。　Row　with　her　in　the　XL　Café　about　the　bracelet。　Wouldn't　eat　her　cakes　or　speak　or　look。　Saucebox。　He　sopped　other　dies　of　bread　in　the　gravy　and　ate　piece　after　piece　of　kidney。　Twelve　and　six　a　week。　Not　much。　Still；　she　might　do　worse。　Music　hall　stage。　Young　student。　He　drank　a　draught　of　cooler　tea　to　wash　down　his　meal。　Then　he　read　the　letter　again：　twice。　
O　well：　she　knows　how　to　mind　herself。　But　if　not？　No；　nothing　has　happened。　Of　course　it　might。　Wait　in　any　case　till　it　does。　A　wild　piece　of　goods。　Her　slim　legs　running　up　the　staircase。　Destiny。　Ripening　now。　Vain：　very。　
He　smiled　with　troubled　affection　at　the　kitchen　window。　
Day　I　caught　her　in　the　street　pinching　her　cheeks　to　make　them　red。　An&Aelig；mic　a　little。　Was　given　milk　too　long。　On　the　Erin's　King　that　day　round　the　Kish。　Damned　old　t