尤利西斯-第34章

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　Aztec　logos；　functioning　on　astral　levels；　their　oversoul；　mahamahatma。　The　faithful　hermetists　await　the　light；　ripe　for　chelaship；　ringroundabout　him。　Louis　H。　Victory。　T。　Caulfield　Irwin。　Lotus　ladies　tend　them　i'the　eyes；　their　pineal　glands　aglow。　Filled　with　his　god　he　thrones；　Buddh　under　plantain。　Gulfer　of　souls；　engulfer。　Hesouls；　shesouls；　shoals　of　souls。　Engulfed　with　wailing　creecries；　whirled；　whirling；　they　bewail。　
In　quintessential　triviality
For　years　in　this　fleshcase　a　shesoul　dwelt。
　They　say　we　are　to　have　a　literary　surprise；　the　quaker　librarian　said；　friendly　and　earnest。　Mr　Russell；　rumour　has　it；　is　gathering　together　a　sheaf　of　our　younger　poets'　verses。　We　are　all　looking　forward　anxiously。　
Anxiously　he　glanced　in　the　cone　of　lamplight　where　three　faces；　lighted；　shone。　
See　this。　Remember。　
Stephen　looked　down　on　a　wide　headless　caubeen；　hung　on　his　ashplanthandle　over　his　knee。　My　casque　and　sword。　Touch　lightly　with　two　index　fingers。　Aristotle's　experiment。　One　or　two？　Necessity　is　that　in　virtue　of　which　it　is　impossible　that　one　can　be　otherwise。　Argai；　one　hat　is　one　hat。　
Listen。　
Young　Colum　and　Starkey。　George　Roberts　is　doing　the　mercial　part。　Longworth　will　give　it　a　good　puff　in　the　Express。　O；　will　he？　I　liked　Colum's　Drover。　Yes；　I　think　he　has　that　queer　thing；　genius。　Do　you　think　he　has　genius　really？　Yeats　admired　his　line：　As　in　wild　earth　a　Grecian　vase。　Did　he？　I　hope　you'll　be　able　to　e　tonight。　Malachi　Mulligan　is　ing　too。　Moore　asked　him　to　bring　Haines。　Did　you　hear　Miss　Mitchell's　joke　about　Moore　and　Martyn？　That　Moore　is　Martyn's　wild　oats？　Awfully　clever；　isn't　it？　They　remind　one　of　don　Quixote　and　Sancho　Panza。　Our　national　epic　has　yet　to　be　written；　Dr　Sigerson　says。　Moore　is　the　man　for　it。　A　knight　of　the　rueful　countenance　here　in　Dublin。　With　a　saffron　kilt？　O'Neill　Russell？　O；　yes；　he　must　speak　the　grand　old　tongue。　And　his　Dulcinea？　James　Stephens　is　doing　some　clever　sketches。　We　are　being　important；　it　seems。　
Cordelia。　Cordoglio。　Lir's　loneliest　daughter。　
Nookshotten。　Now　your　best　French　polish。　
　Thank　you　very　much；　Mr　Russell；　Stephen　said；　rising。　If　you　will　be　so　kind　as　to　give　the　letter　to　Mr　Norman。。。　
　O；　yes。　If　he　considers　it　important　it　will　go　in。　We　have　so　much　correspondence。　
　I　understand；　Stephen　said。　Thanks。　
Good　ild　you。　The　pigs'　paper。　Bullockbefriending。　
　Synge　has　promised　me　an　article　for　Dana　too。　Are　we　going　to　be　read？　I　feel　we　are。　The　Gaelic　league　wants　something　in　Irish。　I　hope　you　will　e　round　tonight。　Bring　Starkey。　
Stephen　sat　down。　
The　quaker　librarian　came　from　the　leavetakers。　Blushing　his　mask　said：　
　Mr　Dedalus；　your　views　are　most　illuminating。　
He　creaked　to　and　fro；　tiptoing　up　nearer　heaven　by　the　altitude　of　a　chopine；　and；　covered　by　the　noise　of　outgoing；　said　low：　
　Is　it　your　view；　then；　that　she　was　not　faithful　to　the　poet？　
Alarmed　face　asks　me。　Why　did　he　e？　Courtesy　or　an　inward　light？　
　Where　there　is　a　reconciliation；　Stephen　said；　there　must　have　been　first　a　sundering。　
　Yes。　
Christfox　in　leather　trews；　hiding；　a　runaway　in　blighted　treeforks　from　hue　and　cry。　Knowing　no　vixen；　walking　lonely　in　the　chase。　Women　he　won　to　him；　tender　people；　a　whore　of　Babylon；　ladies　of　justices；　bully　tapsters'　wives。　Fox　and　geese。　And　in　New　Place　a　slack　dishonoured　body　that　once　was　ely；　once　as　sweet；　as　fresh　as　cinnamon；　now　her　leaves　falling；　all；　bare；　frighted　of　the　narrow　grave　and　unforgiven。　
　Yes。　So　you　think。　
The　door　closed　behind　the　outgoer。　
Rest　suddenly　possessed　the　discreet　vaulted　cell；　rest　of　warm　and　brooding　air。　
A　vestal's　lamp。　
Here　he　ponders　things　that　were　not：　what　Caesar　would　have　lived　to　do　had　he　believed　the　soothsayer：　what　might　have　been：　possibilities　of　the　possible　as　possible：　things　not　known：　what　name　Achilles　bore　when　he　lived　among　women。　
Coffined　thoughts　around　me；　in　mummycases；　embalmed　in　spice　of　words。　Thoth；　god　of　libraries；　a　birdgod；　moonycrowned。　And　I　heard　the　voice　of　that　Egyptian　highpriest。　In　painted　chambers　loaded　with　tilebooks。　
They　are　still。　Once　quick　in　the　brains　of　men。　Still：　but　an　itch　of　death　is　in　them；　to　tell　me　in　my　ear　a　maudlin　tale；　urge　me　to　wreak　their　will。　
　Certainly；　John　Eglinton　mused；　of　all　great　men　he　is　the　most　enigmatic。　We　know　nothing　but　that　he　lived　and　suffered。　Not　even　so　much。　Others　abide　our　question。　A　shadow　hangs　over　all　the　rest。　
　But　Hamlet　is　so　personal；　isn't　it？　Mr　Best　pleaded。　I　mean；　a　kind　of　private　paper；　don't　you　know；　of　his　private　life。　I　mean　I　don't　care　a　button；　don't　you　know；　who　is　killed　or　who　is　guilty。。。　
He　rested　an　innocent　book　on　the　edge　of　the　desk；　smiling　his　defiance。　His　private　papers　in　the　original。　Ta　an　bad　ar　an　tir。　Taim　imo　shagart。　Put　beurla　on　it；　littlejohn。　
Quoth　littlejohn　Eglinton：　
　I　was　prepared　for　paradoxes　from　what　Malachi　Mulligan　told　us　but　I　may　as　well　warn　you　that　if　you　want　to　shake　my　belief　that　Shakespeare　is　Hamlet　you　have　a　stern　task　before　you。　
Bear　with　me。　
Stephen　withstood　the　bane　of　miscreant　eyes；　glinting　stern　under　wrinkled　brows。　A　basilisk。　E　quando　vede　l'uomo　l'attosca。　Messer　Brunetto；　I　thank　thee　for　the　word。　
　As　we；　or　mother　Dana；　weave　and　unweave　our　bodies；　Stephen　said；　from　day　to　day；　their　molecules　shuttled　to　and　fro；　so　does　the　artist　weave　and　unweave　his　image。　And　as　the　mole　on　my　right　breast　is　where　it　was　when　I　was　born；　though　all　my　body　has　been　woven　of　new　stuff　time　after　time；　so　through　the　ghost　of　the　unquiet　father　the　image　of　the　unliving　son　looks　forth。　In　the　intense　instant　of　imagination；　when　the　mind；　Shelley　says；　is　a　fading　coal；　that　which　I　was　is　that　which　I　am　and　that　which　in　possibility　I　may　e　to　be。　So　in　the　future；　the　sister　of　the　past；　I　may　see　myself　as　I　sit　here　now　but　by　reflection　from　that　which　then　I　shall　be。　
Drummond　of　Hawthornden　helped　you　at　that　stile。　
　Yes；　Mr　Best　said　youngly；　I　feel　Hamlet　quite　young。　The　bitterness　might　be　from　the　father　but　the　passages　with　Ophelia　are　surely　from　the　son。　
Has　the　wrong　sow　by　the　lug。　He　is　in　my　father。　I　am　in　his　son。　
　That　mole　is　the　last　to　go；　Stephen　said；　laughing。　
John　Eglinton　made　a　nothing　pleasing　mow。　
　If　that　were　the　birthmark　of　genius；　he　said；　genius　would　be　a　drug　in　the　market。　The　plays　of　Shakespeare's　later　years　which　Renan　admired　so　much　breathe　another　spirit。　
　The　spirit　of　reconciliation；　the　quaker　librarian　breathed。　
　There　can　be　no　reconciliation；　Stephen　said；　if　there　has　not　been　a　sundering。　
Said　that。　
　If　you　want　to　know　what　are　the　events　which　cast　their　shadow　over　the　hell　of　time　of　King　Lear；　Othello；　Hamlet；　Troilus　and　Cressida；　look　to　see　when　and　how　the　shadow　lifts。　What　softens　the　heart　of　a　man；　Shipwrecked　in　storms　dire；　Tried；　like　another　Ulysses；　Pericles；　prince　of　Tyre？　
Head；　redconecapped；　buffeted；　brineblinded。　
　A　child；　a　girl　placed　in　his　arms；　Marina。　
　The　leaning　of　sophists　towards　the　bypaths　of　apocrypha　is　a　constant　quantity；　John　Eglinton　detected。　The　highroads　are　dreary　but　they　lead　to　the　town。　
Good　Bacon：　gone　musty。　Shakespeare　Bacon's　wild　oats。　Cypherjugglers　going　the　highroads。　Seekers　on　the　great　quest。　What　town　good　masters？　Mummed　in　names：　A。　E。；　eon：　Magee；　John　Eglinton。　East　of　the　sun；　west　of　the　moon：　Tir　na　n…og。　Booted　the　twain　and　staved。　
How　many　miles　to　Dublin？
Three　score　and　ten；　sir。
Will　we　be　there　by　candlelight？
　Mr　Brandes　accepts　it；　Stephen　said；　as　the　first　play　of　the　closing　period。　
　Does　he？　What　does　Mr　Sidney　Lee；　or　Mr　Simon　Lazarus；　as　some　aver　his　name　is；　say　of　it？　
　Marina；　Stephen　said；　a　child　of　storm；　Miranda；　a　wonder；　Perdita；　that　which　was　lost。　What　was　lost　is　given　back　to　him：　his　daughter's　child。　My　dearest　wife；　Pericles　says；　was　like　this　maid。　Will　any　man　love　the　daughter　it　he　has　not　loved　the　mother？　
　The　art　of　being　a　grandfather；　Mr　Best　gan　murmur。　L'art　d'être　grand。。。　
　His　own　image　to　a　man　with　that　queer　thing　genius　is　the　standard　of　all　experience；　material　and　moral。　Such　an　appeal　will　touch　him。　The　images　of　other　males　of　his　blood　will　repel　him。　He　will　see　in　them　grotesque　attempts　of　nature　to　foretell　or　repeat　himself。　
The　benign　forehead　of　the　quaker　librarian　enkindled　rosily　with　hope。　
　I　hope　Mr　Dedalus　will　work　out　his　theory　for　the　enlightenment　of　the　public。　And　we　ought　to　mention　another　Irish　mentator；　Mr　George　Bernard　Shaw。　Nor　should　we　forget　Mr　Frank　Harris。　His　articles　on　Shakespeare　in　the　Saturday　Review　were　surely　brilliant。　Oddly　enough　he　too　draws　for　us　an　unhappy　relation　with　the　dark　lady　of　the　sonnets。　The　favoured　rival　is　William　Herbert；　earl　of　Pembroke。　I　own　that　if　the　poet　must　be　rejected；　such　a　rejection　would　seem　more　in　harmony　with　…　what　shall　I　say？　…　our　notions　of　what　ought　not　to　have　been。　
Felicitously　he　ceased　and　held　a　meek　head　among　them；　auk's　egg；　prize　of　their　fray。　
He　thous　and　thees　her　with　grave　husbandwords。　Dost　love；　Miriam？　Dost　love　thy　man？　
　That　may　be　too；　Stephen　said。　There　is　a　saying　of　Goethe's　which　Mr　Magee　likes　to　quote。　Beware　of　what　you　wish　for　in　youth　because　you　will　get　it　in　middle　life。　Why　does　he　send　to　one　who　is　a　buonaroba；　a　bay　where　all　men　ride；　a　maid　of　honour　with　a　scandalous　girlhood；　a　lordling　to　woo　for　him？　He　was　himself　a　lord　of　language　and　had　made　himself　a　coistrel　gentleman　and　had　written　Romeo　and　Juliet。　Why？　Belief　in　himself　has　been　untimely　killed。　He　was　overborne　in　a　cornfield　first　（ryefield；　I　should　say）　and　he　will　never　be　a　victor　in　his　own　eyes　after　nor　play　victoriously　the　game　of　laugh　and　lie　down。　Assumed　dongiovannism　will　not　save　him。　No　later　undoing　will　undo　the　first　undoing。　The　tusk　of　the　boar　has　wounded　him　there…where　love　lies　ableeding。　If　the　shrew　is　worsted　yet　there　remains　to　her　woman's　invisible　weapon。　There　is；　I　feel　in　the　words；　some　goad　of　the　flesh　driving　him　into　a　new　passion；　a　darker　shadow　of　the　first；　darkening　even　his　own　understanding　of　himself。　A　life　fate　awaits　him　and　the　two　rages　mingle　in　a　whirlpool。　
They　list。　And　in　the　porches　of　their　ears　I　pour。　
　The　soul　has　been　before　stricken　mortally；　a　poison　poured　in　the　porch　of　a　sleeping　ear。　But　those　who　are　done　to　death　in　sleep　cannot　know　the　manner　of　their　quell　unless　their　Creator　endow　their　souls　with　that　knowledge　in　the　life　to　e。　The　poisoning　and　the　beast　with　two　backs　that　urged　it　king　Hamlet's　ghost　could　not　know　of　were　he　not　endowed　with　knowledge　by　his　creator。　That　is　why　the　speech　（his　lean　unlovely　English）　is　always　turned　elsewhere；　backward。　Ravisher　and　ravished；　what　he　would　but　would　not；　go　with　him　from　Lucrece's　bluecircled　ivory　globes　to　Imogen's　breast；　bare；　with　its　mole　cinquespotted。　He　goes　back；　weary　of　the　creation　he　has　piled　up　to　hide　him　from　himself；　an　old　dog　licking　an　old　sore。　But；　because　loss　is　his　gain；　he　passes　on　towards　eternity　in　undiminished　personality；　untaught　by　the　wisdom　he　has　written　or　by　the　laws　he　has　revealed。　His　beaver　is　up。　He　is　a　ghost；　a　shadow　now；　the　w