尤利西斯-第18章

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bu。　
Their　eyes　watched　him。　On　the　slow　weedy　waterway　he　had　floated　on　his　raft　coastward　over　Ireland　drawn　by　a　haulage　rope　past　beds　of　reeds；　over　slime；　mud…choked　bottles；　carrion　dogs。　Athlone；　Mullingar；　Moyvalley；　I　could　make　a　walking　tour　to　see　Milly　by　the　canal。　Or　cycle　down。　Hire　some　old　crock；　safety。　Wren　had　one　the　other　day　at　the　auction　but　a　lady's。　Developing　waterways。　James　M'Cann's　hobby　to　row　me　o'er　the　ferry。　Cheaper　transit。　By　easy　stages。　Houseboats。　Camping　out。　Also　hearses。　To　heaven　by　water。　Perhaps　I　will　without　writing。　e　as　a　surprise；　Leixlip；　Clonsilla。　Dropping　down；　lock　by　lock　to　Dublin。　With　turf　from　the　midland　bogs。　Salute。　He　lifted　his　brown　strawhat；　saluting　Paddy　Dignam。　
They　drove　on　past　Brian　Boroimhe　house。　Near　it　now。　
　I　wonder　how　is　our　friend　Fogarty　getting　on；　Mr　Power　said。　
　Better　ask　Tom　Kernan；　Mr　Dedalus　said。　
　How　is　that？　Martin　Cunningham　said。　Left　him　weeping　I　suppose。　
　Though　lost　to　sight；　Mr　Dedalus　said；　to　memory　dear。　
The　carriage　steered　left　for　Finglas　road。　
The　stonecutter's　yard　on　the　right。　　lap。　Crowded　on　the　spit　of　land　silent　shapes　appeared；　white；　sorrowful；　holding　out　calm　hands；　knelt　in　grief；　pointing。　Fragments　of　shapes；　hewn。　In　white　silence：　appealing。　The　best　obtainable。　Thos。　H。　Dennany；　monumental　builder　and　sculptor。　
Passed。　
On　the　curbstone　before　Jimmy　Geary　the　sexton's　an　old　tramp　sat；　grumbling；　emptying　the　dirt　and　stones　out　of　his　huge　dustbrown　yawning　boot。　After　life's　journey。　
Gloomy　gardens　then　went　by；　one　by　one：　gloomy　houses。　
Mr　Power　pointed。　
　That　is　where　Childs　was　murdered；　he　said。　The　last　house。　
　So　it　is；　Mr　Dedalus　said。　A　gruesome　case。　Seymour　Bushe　got　him　off。　Murdered　his　brother。　Or　so　they　said。　
　The　crown　had　no　evidence；　Mr　Power　said。　
　Only　circumstantial；　Martin　Cunningham　said。　That's　the　maxim　of　the　law。　Better　for　ninetynine　guilty　to　escape　than　for　one　innocent　person　to　be　wrongfully　condemned。　
They　looked。　Murderer's　ground。　It　passed　darkly。　Shuttered；　tenantless；　unweeded　garden。　Whole　place　gone　to　hell。　Wrongfully　condemned。　Murder。　The　murderer's　image　in　the　eye　of　the　murdered。　They　love　reading　about　it。　Man's　head　found　in　a　garden。　Her　clothing　consisted　of。　How　she　met　her　death。　Recent　outrage。　The　weapon　used。　Murderer　is　still　at　large。　Clues。　A　shoelace。　The　body　to　be　exhumed。　Murder　will　out。　
Cramped　in　this　carriage。　She　mightn't　like　me　to　e　that　way　without　letting　her　know。　Must　be　careful　about　women。　Catch　them　once　with　their　pants　down。　Never　forgive　you　after。　Fifteen。　
The　high　railings　of　Prospects　rippled　past　their　gaze。　Dark　poplars；　rare　white　forms。　Forms　more　frequent；　white　shapes　thronged　amid　the　trees；　white　forms　and　fragments　streaming　by　mutely；　sustaining　vain　gestures　on　the　air。　
The　felly　harshed　against　the　curbstone：　stopped。　Martin　Cunningham　put　out　his　arm　and；　wrenching　back　the　handle；　shoved　the　door　open　with　his　knee。　He　stepped　out。　Mr　Power　and　Mr　Dedalus　followed。　
Change　that　soap　now。　Mr　Bloom's　hand　unbuttoned　his　hip　pocket　swiftly　and　transferred　the　paperstuck　soap　to　his　inner　handkerchief　pocket。　He　stepped　out　of　the　carriage；　replacing　the　newspaper　his　other　hand　still　held。　
Paltry　funeral：　coach　and　three　carriages。　It's　all　the　same。　Pallbearers；　gold　reins；　requiem　mass；　firing　a　volley。　Pomp　of　death。　Beyond　the　hind　carriage　a　hawker　stood　by　his　barrow　of　cakes　and　fruit。　Simnel　cakes　those　are；　stuck　together：　cakes　for　the　dead。　Dogbiscuits。　Who　ate　them？　Mourners　ing　out。　
He　followed　his　panions。　Mr　Kernan　and　Ned　Lambert　followed；　Hynes　walking　after　them。　Corny　Kelleher　stood　by　the　opened　hearse　and　took　out　the　two　wreaths。　He　handed　one　to　the　boy。　
Where　is　that　child's　funeral　disappeared　to？　
A　team　of　horses　passed　from　Finglas　with　toiling　plodding　tread；　dragging　through　the　funereal　silence　a　creaking　waggon　on　which　lay　a　granite　block。　The　waggoner　marching　at　their　head　saluted。　
Coffin　now。　Got　here　before　us；　dead　as　he　is。　Horse　looking　round　at　it　with　his　plume　skeowways。　Dull　eye：　collar　tight　on　his　neck；　pressing　on　a　bloodvessel　or　something。　Do　they　know　what　they　cart　out　here　every　day？　Must　be　twenty　or　thirty　funerals　every　day。　Then　Mount　Jerome　for　the　protestants。　Funerals　all　over　the　world　everywhere　every　minute。　Shovelling　them　under　by　the　cartload　doublequick。　Thousands　every　hour。　Too　many　in　the　world。　
Mourners　came　out　through　the　gates：　woman　and　a　girl。　Leanjawed　harpy；　hard　woman　at　a　bargain；　her　bonnet　awry。　Girl's　face　stained　with　dirt　and　tears；　holding　the　woman's　arm　looking　up　at　her　for　a　sign　to　cry。　Fish's　face；　bloodless　and　livid。　
The　mutes　shouldered　the　coffin　and　bore　it　in　through　the　gates。　So　much　dead　weight。　Felt　heavier　myself　stepping　out　of　that　bath。　First　the　stiff：　then　the　friends　of　the　stiff。　Corny　Kelleher　and　the　boy　followed　with　their　wreaths。　Who　is　that　beside　them？　Ah；　the　brother…in…law。　
All　walked　after。　
Martin　Cunningham　whispered：　
　I　was　in　mortal　agony　with　you　talking　of　suicide　before　Bloom。　
　What？　Mr　Power　whispered。　How　so？　
　His　father　poisoned　himself；　Martin　Cunningham　whispered。　Had　the　Queen's　hotel　in　Ennis。　You　heard　him　say　he　was　going　to　Clare。　Anniversary。　
　O　God！　Mr　Power　whispered。　First　I　heard　of　it。　Poisoned　himself！　
He　glanced　behind　him　to　where　a　face　with　dark　thinking　eyes　followed　towards　the　cardinal's　mausoleum。　Speaking。　
　Was　he　insured？　Mr　Bloom　asked。　
　I　believe　so；　Mr　Kernan　answered；　but　the　policy　was　heavily　mortgaged。　Martin　is　trying　to　get　the　youngster　into　Artane。　
　How　many　children　did　he　leave？　
　Five。　Ned　Lambert　says　he'll　try　to　get　one　of　the　girls　into　Todd's。　
　A　sad　case；　Mr　Bloom　said　gently。　Five　young　children。　
　A　great　blow　to　the　poor　wife；　Mr　Kernan　added。　
　Indeed　yes；　Mr　Bloom　agreed。　
Has　the　laugh　at　him　now。　
He　looked　down　at　the　boots　he　had　blacked　and　polished。　She　had　outlived　him；　lost　her　husband。　More　dead　for　her　than　for　me。　One　must　outlive　the　other。　Wise　men　say。　There　are　more　women　than　men　in　the　world。　Condole　with　her。　Your　terrible　loss。　I　hope　you'll　soon　follow　him。　For　Hindu　widows　only。　She　would　marry　another。　Him？　No。　Yet　who　knows　after？　Widowhood　not　the　thing　since　the　old　queen　died。　Drawn　on　a　guncarriage。　Victoria　and　Albert。　Frogmore　memorial　mourning。　But　in　the　end　she　put　a　few　violets　in　her　bonnet。　Vain　in　her　heart　of　hearts。　All　for　a　shadow。　Consort　not　even　a　king。　Her　son　was　the　substance。　Something　new　to　hope　for　not　like　the　past　she　wanted　back；　waiting。　It　never　es。　One　must　go　first：　alone　under　the　ground：　and　lie　no　more　in　her　warm　bed。　
　How　are　you；　Simon？　Ned　Lambert　said　softly；　clasping　hands。　Haven't　seen　you　for　a　month　of　Sundays。　
　Never　better。　How　are　all　in　Cork's　own　town？　
　I　was　down　there　for　the　Cork　park　races　on　Easter　Monday；　Ned　Lambert　said。　Same　old　six　and　eightpence。　Stopped　with　Dick　Tivy。　
　And　how　is　Dick；　the　solid　man？　
　Nothing　between　himself　and　heaven；　Ned　Lambert　answered。　
　By　the　holy　Paul！　Mr　Dedalus　said　in　subdued　wonder。　Dick　Tivy　bald？　
　Martin　is　going　to　get　up　a　whip　for　the　youngsters；　Ned　Lambert　said；　pointing　ahead。　A　few　bob　a　skull。　Just　to　keep　them　going　till　the　insurance　is　cleared　up。　
　Yes；　yes；　Mr　Dedalus　said　dubiously。　Is　that　the　eldest　boy　in　front？　
　Yes；　Ned　Lambert　said；　with　the　wife's　brother。　John　Henry　Menton　is　behind。　He　put　down　his　name　for　a　quid。　
　I'll　engage　he　did；　Mr　Dedalus　said。　I　often　told　poor　Paddy　he　ought　to　mind　that　job。　John　Henry　is　not　the　worst　in　the　world。　
　How　did　he　lose　it？　Ned　Lambert　asked。　Liquor；　what？　
　Many　a　good　man's　fault；　Mr　Dedalus　said　with　a　sigh。　
They　halted　about　the　door　of　the　mortuary　chapel。　Mr　Bloom　stood　behind　the　boy　with　the　wreath；　looking　down　at　his　sleek　bed　hair　and　the　slender　furrowed　neck　inside　his　brandnew　collar。　Poor　boy！　Was　he　there　when　the　father？　Both　unconscious。　Lighten　up　at　the　last　moment　and　recognise　for　the　last　time。　All　he　might　have　done。　I　owe　three　shillings　to　O'Grady。　Would　he　understand？　The　mutes　bore　the　coffin　into　the　chapel。　Which　end　is　his　head。　
After　a　moment　he　followed　the　others　in；　blinking　in　the　screened　light。　The　coffin　lay　on　its　bier　before　the　chancel；　four　tall　yellow　candles　at　its　corners。　Always　in　front　of　us。　Corny　Kelleher；　laying　a　wreath　at　each　fore　corner；　beckoned　to　the　boy　to　kneel。　The　mourners　knelt　here　and　there　in　praying　desks。　Mr　Bloom　stood　behind　near　the　font　and；　when　all　had　knelt　dropped　carefully　his　unfolded　newspaper　from　his　pocket　and　knelt　his　right　knee　upon　it。　He　fitted　his　black　hat　gently　on　his　left　knee　and；　holding　its　brim；　bent　over　piously。　
A　server；　bearing　a　brass　bucket　with　something　in　it；　came　out　through　a　door。　The　whitesmocked　priest　came　after　him　tidying　his　stole　with　one　hand；　balancing　with　the　other　a　little　book　against　his　toad's　belly。　Who'll　read　the　book？　I；　said　the　rook。　
They　halted　by　the　bier　and　the　priest　began　to　read　out　of　his　book　with　a　fluent　croak。　
Father　Coffey。　I　knew　his　name　was　like　a　coffin。　Dominenamine。　Bully　about　the　muzzle　he　looks。　Bosses　the　show。　Muscular　christian。　Woe　betide　anyone　that　looks　crooked　at　him：　priest。　Thou　art　Peter。　Burst　sideways　like　a　sheep　in　clover　Dedalus　says　he　will。　With　a　belly　on　him　like　a　poisoned　pup。　Most　amusing　expressions　that　man　finds。　Hhhn：　burst　sideways。　
　Non　intres　in　judicium　cum　servo　tuo；　Domine。　
Makes　them　feel　more　important　to　be　prayed　over　in　Latin。　Requiem　mass。　Crape　weepers。　Blackedged　notepaper。　Your　name　on　the　altarlist。　Chilly　place　this。　Want　to　feed　well；　sitting　in　there　all　the　morning　in　the　gloom　kicking　his　heels　waiting　for　the　next　please。　Eyes　of　a　toad　too。　What　swells　him　up　that　way？　Molly　gets　swelled　after　cabbage。　Air　of　the　place　maybe。　Looks　full　up　of　bad　gas。　Must　be　an　infernal　lot　of　baa　gas　round　the　place。　Butchers　for　instance：　they　get　like　raw　beefsteaks。　Who　was　telling　me？　Mervyn　Brown。　Down　in　the　vaults　of　saint　Werburgh's　lovely　old　organ　hundred　and　fifty　they　have　to　bore　a　hole　in　the　coffins　sometimes　to　let　out　the　bad　gas　and　burn　it。　Out　it　rushes：　blue。　One　whiff　of　that　and　you're　a　goner。　
My　kneecap　is　hurting　me。　Ow。　That's　better。　
The　priest　took　a　stick　with　a　knob　at　the　end　of　it　out　of　the　boy's　bucket　and　shook　it　over　the　coffin。　Then　he　walked　to　the　other　end　and　shook　it　again。　Then　he　came　back　and　put　it　back　in　the　bucket。　As　you　were　before　you　rested。　It's　all　written　down：　he　has　to　do　it。　
　Et　ne　nos　inducas　in　tentationem。　
The　server　piped　the　answers　in　the　treble。　I　often　thought　it　would　be　better　to　have　boy　servants。　Up　to　fifteen　or　so。　After　that　of　course。　
Holy　water　that　was；　I　expect。　Shaking　sleep　out　of　it。　He　must　be　fed　up　with　that　job；　shaking　that　thing　over　all　the　corpses　they　trot　up。　What　harm　if　he　could　see　what　he　was　shaking　it　over。　Every　mortal　day　a　fresh　batch：　middleaged　men；　old　women；　children；　women　dead　in　childbirth；　men　with　beards；　baldheaded　business　men；　consumptive　girls　with　little　sparrow's　breasts。　All　the　year　round　he　prayed　the　same　thing　over　them　all　ad　shook　water　on　top　of