尤利西斯-第16章

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　There's　a　friend　of　yours　gone　by；　Dedalus；　he　said。　
　Who　is　that？　
　Your　son　and　heir。　
　Where　is　he？　Mr　Dedalus　said；　stretching　over　across。　
The　carriage；　passing　the　open　drains　and　mounds　of　rippedup　roadway　before　the　tenement　houses；　lurched　round　the　corner　and；　swerving　back　to　the　tramtrack；　rolled　on　noisily　with　chattering　wheels。　Mr　Dedalus　fell　back；　saying：　
　Was　that　Mulligan　cad　with　him？　His　fidus　Achates？　
　No；　Mr　Bloom　said。　He　was　alone。　
　Down　with　his　aunt　Sally；　I　suppose；　Mr　Dedalus　said；　the　Goulding　faction；　the　drunken　little　cost…drawer　and　Crissie；　papa's　little　lump　of　dung；　the　wise　child　that　knows　her　own　father。　
Mr　Bloom　smiled　joylessly　on　Ringsend　road。　Wallace　Bros　the　bottleworks。　Dodder　bridge。　
Richie　Goulding　and　the　legal　bag。　Goulding；　Collis　and　Ward　he　calls　the　firm。　His　jokes　are　getting　a　bit　damp。　Great　card　he　was。　Waltzing　in　Stamer　street　with　Ignatius　Gallaher　on　a　Sunday　morning；　the　landlady's　two　hats　pinned　on　his　head。　Out　on　the　rampage　all　night。　Beginning　to　tell　on　him　now：　that　backache　of　his；　I　fear。　Wife　ironing　his　back。　Thinks　he'll　cure　it　with　pills。　All　breadcrumbs　they　are。　About　six　hundred　per　cent　profit。　
　He's　in　with　a　lowdown　crowd；　Mr　Dedalus　snarled。　That　Mulligan　is　a　contaminated　bloody　doubledyed　ruffian　by　all　accounts。　His　name　stinks　all　over　Dublin。　But　with　the　help　of　God　and　His　blessed　mother　I'Il　make　it　my　business　to　write　a　letter　one　of　those　days　to　his　mother　or　his　aunt　or　whatever　she　is　that　will　open　her　eye　as　wide　as　a　gate。　I　‘Il　tickle　his　catastrophe；　believe　you　me。　
He　cried　above　the　clatter　of　the　wheels。　
　I　won't　have　her　bastard　of　a　nephew　ruin　my　son。　A　counter…jumper's　son。　Selling　tapes　in　my　cousin；　Peter　Paul　M'Swiney's。　Not　likely。　
He　ceased。　Mr　Bloom　glanced　from　his　angry　moustache　to　Mr　Power's　mild　face　and　Martin　Cunningham's　eyes　and　beard；　gravely　shaking。　Noisy　selfwilled　man。　Full　of　his　son。　He　is　right。　Something　to　hand　on。　If　little　Rudy　had　lived。　See　him　grow　up。　Hear　his　voice　in　the　house。　Walking　beside　Molly　in　an　Eton　suit。　My　son。　Me　in　his　eyes。　Strange　feeling　it　would　be。　From　me。　Just　a　chance。　Must　have　been　that　morning　in　Raymond　terrace　she　was　at　the　window；　watching　the　two　dogs　at　it　by　the　wall　of　the　cease　to　do　evil。　And　the　sergeant　grinning　up。　She　had　that　cream　gown　on　with　the　rip　she　never　stitched。　Give　us　a　touch；　Poldy。　God；　I'm　dying　for　it。　How　life　begins。　
Got　big　then。　Had　to　refuse　the　Greystones　concert。　My　son　inside　her。　I　could　have　helped　him　on　in　life。　I　could。　Make　him　independent。　Learn　German　too。　
　Are　we　late？　Mr　Power　asked。　
　Ten　minutes；　Martin　Cunningham　said；　looking　at　his　watch　
Molly。　Milly。　Same　thing　watered　down。　Her　tomboy　oaths。　O　jumping　Jupiter！　Ye　gods　and　little　fishes！　Still；　she's　a　dear　girl。　Soon　be　a　woman。　Mullingar。　Dearest　Papli。　Young　student。　Yes；　yes：　a　woman　too。　Life。　Life。　
The　carriage　heeled　over　and　back；　their　four　trunks　swaying。　
　Corny　might　have　given　us　a　more　modious　yoke；　Mr　Power　said。　
　He　might；　Mr　Dedalus　said；　if　he　hadn't　that　squint　troubling　him。　Do　you　follow　me？　
He　closed　his　left　eye。　Martin　Cunningham　began　to　brush　away　crustcrumbs　from　under　his　thighs。　
　What　is　this；　he　said；　in　the　name　of　God？　Crumbs？　
　Someone　seems　to　have　been　making　a　picnic　party　here　lately；　Mr　Power　said。　
All　raised　their　thighs；　eyed　with　disfavour　the　mildewed　buttonless　leather　of　the　seats。　Mr　Dedalus；　twisting　his　nose；　frowned　downward　and　said：　
　Unless　I'm　greatly　mistaken。　What　do　you　think；　Martin？　
　It　struck　me　too；　Martin　Cunningham　said。　
Mr　Bloom　set　his　thigh　down。　Glad　I　took　that　bath。　Feel　my　feet　quite　clean。　But　I　wish　Mrs　Fleming　had　darned　these　socks　better。　
Mr　Dedalus　sighed　resignedly。　
　After　all；　he　said；　it's　the　most　natural　thing　in　the　world。　
　Did　Tom　Kernan　turn　up？　Martin　Cunningham　asked；　twirling　the　peak　of　his　beard　gently。　
　Yes；　Mr　Bloom　answered。　He's　behind　with　Ned　Lambert　and　Hynes。　
　And　Corny　Kelleher　himself？　Mr　Power　asked。　
　At　the　cemetery；　Martin　Cunningham　said。　
　I　met　M'Coy　this　morning；　Mr　Bloom　said。　He　said　he'd　try　to　e。　
The　carriage　halted　short。　
　What's　wrong？　
　We're　stopped。　
　Where　are　we？　
Mr　Bloom　put　his　head　out　of　the　window。　
　The　grand　canal；　he　said。　
Gasworks。　Whooping　cough　they　say　it　cures。　Good　job　Milly　never　got　it。　Poor　children！　Doubles　them　up　black　and　blue　in　convulsions。　Shame　really。　Got　off　lightly　with　illness　pared。　Only　measles。　Flaxseed　tea。　Scarlatina；　influenza　epidemics。　Canvassing　for　death。　Don't　miss　this　chance。　Dogs'　home　over　there。　Poor　old　Athos！　Be　good　to　Athos；　Leopold；　is　my　last　wish。　Thy　will　be　done。　We　obey　them　in　the　grave。　A　dying　scrawl。　He　took　it　to　heart；　pined　away。　Quiet　brute。　Old　men's　dogs　usually　are。　
A　raindrop　spat　on　his　hat。　He　drew　back　and　saw　an　instant　of　shower　spray　dots　over　the　grey　flags。　Apart。　Curious。　Like　through　a　colander。　I　thought　it　would。　My　boots　were　creaking　I　remember　now。　
　The　weather　is　changing；　he　said　quietly。　
　A　pity　it　did　not　keep　up　fine；　Martin　Cunningham　said。　
　Wanted　for　the　country；　Mr　Power　said。　There's　the　sun　again　ing　out。　
Mr　Dedalus；　peering　through　his　glasses　towards　the　veiled　sun；　hurled　a　mute　curse　at　the　sky。　
　It's　as　uncertain　as　a　child's　bottom；　he　said。　
　We're　off　again。　
The　carriage　turned　again　its　stiff　wheels　and　their　trunks　swayed　gently。　Martin　Cunningham　twirled　more　quickly　the　peak　of　his　beard。　
　Tom　Kernan　was　immense　last　night；　he　said。　And　Paddy　Leonard　taking　him　off　to　his　face。　
　O　draw　him　out；　Martin；　Mr　Power　said　eagerly。　Wait　till　you　hear　him；　Simon；　on　Ben　Dollard's　singing　of　The　Croppy　Boy。　
　Immense；　Martin　Cunningham　said　pompously。　His　singing　of　that　simple　ballad；　Martin；　is　the　most　trenchant　rendering　I　ever　heard　in　the　whole　course　of　my　experience。　
　Trenchant；　Mr　Power　said　laughing。　He's　dead　nuts　on　that。　And　the　retrospective　arrangement。　
　Did　you　read　Dan　Dawson's　speech？　Martin　Cunningham　asked。　
　I　did　not　then；　Mr　Dedalus　said。　Where　is　it？　
　In　the　paper　this　morning。　
Mr　Bloom　took　the　paper　from　his　inside　pocket。　That　book　I　must　change　for　her。　
　No；　no；　Mr　Dedalus　said　quickly。　Later　on；　please。　
Mr　Bloom's　glance　travelled　down　the　edge　of　the　paper；　scanning　the　deaths。　Callan；　Coleman；　Dignam；　Fawcett；　Lowry；　Naumann；　Peake；　what　Peake　is　that？　is　it　the　chap　was　in　Crosbie　and　Alleyne's？　no；　Sexton；　Urbright。　Inked　characters　fast　fading　on　the　frayed　breaking　paper。　Thanks　to　the　Little　Flower。　Sadly　missed。　To　the　inexpressible　grief　of　his。　Aged　88　after　a　long　and　tedious　illness。　Month's　mind。　Quinlan。　On　whose　soul　Sweet　Jesus　have　mercy。　
It　is　now　a　month　since　dear　Henry　fled　
To　his　home　up　above　in　the　sky
While　his　family　weeps　and　mourns　his　loss　
Hoping　some　day　to　meet　him　on　high。
I　tore　up　the　envelope？　Yes。　Where　did　I　put　her　letter　after　I　read　it　in　the　bath？　He　patted　his　waistcoat　pocket。　There　all　right。　Dear　Henry　fled。　Before　my　patience　are　exhausted。　
National　school。　Meade's　yard。　The　hazard。　Only　two　there　now。　Nodding。　Full　as　a　tick。　Too　much　bone　in　their　skulls。　The　other　trotting　round　with　a　fare。　An　hour　ago　I　was　passing　there。　The　jarvies　raised　their　hats。　
A　pointsman's　back　straightened　itself　upright　suddenly　against　a　tramway　standard　by　Mr　Bloom's　window。　Couldn't　they　invent　something　automatic　so　that　the　wheel　itself　much　handler？　Well　but　that　fellow　would　lose　his　job　then？　Well　but　then　another　fellow　would　get　a　job　making　the　new　invention？　
Antient　concert　rooms。　Nothing　on　there。　A　man　in　a　buff　suit　with　a　crape　armlet。　Not　much　grief　there。　Quarter　mourning。　People　in　law；　perhaps。　
They　went　past　the　bleak　pulpit　of　Saint　Mark's；　under　the　railway　bridge；　past　the　Queen's　theatre：　in　silence。　Hoardings。　Eugene　Stratton。　Mrs　Bandman　Palmer。　Could　I　go　to　see　Leah　tonight；　I　wonder。　I　said　I。　Or　the　Lily　of　Killarney？　Elster　Grimes　Opera　pany。　Big　powerful　change。　Wet　bright　bills　for　next　week。　Fun　on　the　Bristol。　Martin　Cunningham　could　work　a　pass　for　the　Gaiety。　Have　to　stand　a　drink　or　two。　As　broad　as　it's　long。　
He's　ing　in　the　afternoon。　Her　songs。　
Plasto's。　Sir　Philip　Crampton's　memorial　fountain　bust。　Who　was　he？　
　How　do　you　do？　Martin　Cunningham　said；　raising　his　palm　to　his　brow　in　salute。　
　He　doesn't　see　us；　Mr　Power　said。　Yes；　he　does。　How　do　you　do？　
　Who？　Mr　Dedalus　asked。　
　Blazes　Boylan；　Mr　Power　said。　There　he　is　airing　his　quiff。　
Just　that　moment　I　was　thinking。　
Mr　Dedalus　bent　across　to　salute。　From　the　door　of　the　Red　Bank　the　white　disc　of　a　straw　hat　flashed　reply：　passed。　
Mr　Bloom　reviewed　the　nails　of　his　left　hand；　then　those　of　his　right　hand。　The　nails；　yes。　Is　there　anything　more　in　him　that　they　she　sees？　Fascination。　Worst　man　in　Dublin。　That　keeps　him　alive。　They　sometimes　feel　what　a　person　Is。　Instinct。　But　a　type　like　that。　My　nails。　I　am　just　looking　at　them：　well　pared。　And　after：　thinking　alone。　Body　getting　a　bit　softy。　I　would　notice　that　from　remembering。　What　causes　that　I　suppose　the　skin　can't　contract　quickly　enough　when　the　flesh　falls　off。　But　the　shape　is　there。　The　shape　is　there　still。　Shoulders。　Hips。　Plump。　Night　of　the　dance　dressing。　Shift　stuck　between　the　cheeks　behind。　
He　clasped　his　hands　between　his　knees　and；　satisfied；　sent　his　vacant　glance　over　their　faces。　
Mr　Power　asked：　
　How　is　the　concert　tour　getting　on；　Bloom？　
　O　very　well；　Mr　Bloom　said。　I　hear　great　accounts　of　it。　It's　a　good　idea；　you　see　。　
　Are　you　going　yourself？　
　Well　no；　Mr　Bloom　said。　In　point　of　fact　I　have　to　go　down　to　the　county　Clare　on　some　private　business。　You　see　the　idea　is　to　tour　the　chief　towns。　What　you　lose　on　one　you　can　make　up　on　the　other。　
　Quite　so；　Martin　Cunningham　said。　Mary　Anderson　is　up　there　now。　
　Have　you　good　artists？　
　Louis　Werner　is　touring　her；　Mr　Bloom　said。　O　yes；　we'll　have　all　topnobbers。　J。　C。　Doyle　and　John　MacCormack　I　hope　and。　The　best；　in　fact。　
　And　Madame；　Mr　Power　said；　smiling。　　but　not　least。　
Mr　Bloom　unclasped　his　hands　in　a　gesture　of　soft　politeness　and　clasped　them。　Smith　O'Brien。　Someone　has　laid　a　bunch　of　flowers　there。　Woman。　Must　be　his　deathday。　For　many　happy　returns。　The　carriage　wheeling　by　Farrell's　statue　united　noiselessly　their　unresisting　knees。　
Oot：　a　dullgarbed　old　man　from　the　curbstone　tendered　his　wares；　his　mouth　opening：　oot。　
　Four　bootlaces　for　a　penny。　
Wonder　why　he　was　struck　off　the　rolls。　Had　his　office　in　Hume　street。　Same　house　as　Molly's　namesake。　Tweedy；　crown　solicitor　for　Waterford。　Has　that　silk　hat　ever　since。　Relics　of　old　decency。　Mourning　too。　Terrible　edown；　poor　wretch！　kicked　about　like　snuff　at　a　wake。　O'Callaghan　on　his　last　legs。　
And　Madame。　Twenty　past　eleven。　Up。　Mrs　Fleming　is　in　to　clean。　Doing　her　hair；　humming：　voglio　e　non　vorrei。　No：　vorrei　e　non。　Looking　at　the　tips　of　her　hairs　to　see　if　they　are　split。　Mi　trema　un　poco　il。　Beautiful　on　that　tre　her　voice　is：　weeping　tone。　A　thrust。　A　throstle。　There　is　a　word　throstle　that　expressed　that。　
His　eyes　passed　lightly　over　Mr　Power's　goodlooking　face。　Greyish　over　the　ears。　Madame：　smiling。　I　smiled　back。　A　smile　does　a　long　way。　Only　politen