尤利西斯-第43章

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　Why　then　not　much；　Father　Cowley　said。　I'm　barricaded　up；　Simon；　with　two　men　prowling　around　the　house　trying　to　effect　an　entrance。　
　Jolly；　Mr　Dedalus　said。　Who　is　it？　
　O；　Father　Cowley　said。　A　certain　gombeen　man　of　our　acquaintance。　
　With　a　broken　back；　is　it？　Mr　Dedalus　asked。　
　The　same；　Simon；　Father　Cowley　answered。　Reuben　of　that　ilk。　I'm　just　waiting　for　Ben　Dollard。　He's　going　to　say　a　word　to　Long　John　to　get　him　to　take　those　two　men　off。　All　I　want　is　a　little　time。　
He　looked　with　vague　hope　up　and　down　the　quay；　a　big　apple　bulging　in　his　neck。　
　I　know；　Mr　Dedalus　said；　nodding。　Poor　old　bockedy　Ben！　He's　always　doing　a　good　turn　for　someone。　Hold　hard！　
He　put　on　his　glasses　and　gazed　towards　the　metal　bridge　an　instant。　
　There　he　is；　by　God；　he　said；　arse　and　pockets。　
Ben　Dollard's　loose　blue　cutaway　and　square　hat　above　large　slops　crossed　the　quay　in　full　gait　from　the　metal　bridge。　He　came　towards　them　at　an　amble；　scratching　actively　behind　his　coattails。　
As　he　came　near　Mr　Dedalus　greeted：　
　Hold　that　fellow　with　the　bad　trousers。　
　Hold　him　now；　Ben　Dollard　said。　
Mr　Dedalus　eyed　with　cold　wandering　scorn　various　points　of　Ben　Dollard's　figure。　Then；　turning　to　Father　Cowley　with　a　nod；　he　muttered　sneeringly：　
　That's　a　pretty　garment；　isn't　it；　for　a　summer's　day？　
　Why；　God　eternally　curse　your　soul；　Ben　Dollard　growled　furiously；　I　threw　out　more　clothes　in　my　time　than　you　ever　saw。　
He　stood　beside　them　beaming　on　them　first　and　on　his　roomy　clothes　from　points　of　which　Mr　Dedalus　flicked　fluff；　saying：　
　They　were　made　for　a　man　in　his　health；　Ben；　anyhow。　
　Bad　luck　to　the　jewman　that　made　them；　Ben　Dollard　said。　Thanks　be　to　God　he's　not　paid　yet。　
　And　how　is　that　basso　profondo；　Benjamin？　Father　Cowley　asked。　
Cashel　Boyle　O'Connor　Fitzmaurice　Tisdall　Farrell；　murmuring；　glasseyed；　strode　past　the　Kildare　street　club。　
Ben　Dollard　frowned　and；　making　suddenly　a　chanter's　mouth；　gave　forth　a　deep　note。　
　Aw！　he　said。　
　That's　the　style；　Mr　Dedalus　said；　nodding　to　its　drone。　
　What　about　that？　Ben　Dollard　said。　Not　too　dusty？　What？　He　turned　to　both。　
　That'll　do；　Father　Cowley　said；　nodding　also。　
The　reverend　Hugh　C。　Love　walked　from　the　old　Chapterhouse　of　saint　Mary's　abbey　past　James　and　Charles　Kennedy's；　rectifiers；　attended　by　Geraldines　tall　and　personable；　towards　the　Tholsel　beyond　the　Ford　of　Hurdles。　
Ben　Dollard　with　a　heavy　list　towards　the　shopfronts　led　them　forward；　his　joyful　fingers　in　the　air。　
　e　along　with　me　to　the　subsheriff's　office；　he　said。　I　want　to　show　you　the　new　beauty　Rock　has　for　a　bailiff。　He's　a　cross　between　Lobengula　and　Lynchehaun。　He's　well　worth　seeing；　mind　you。　e　along。　I　saw　John　Henry　Menton　casually　in　the　Bodega　just　now　and　it　will　cost　me　a　fall　if　I　don't。。。　wait　awhile。。。　We're　on　the　right　lay；　Bob；　believe　you　me。　
　For　a　few　days　tell　him；　Father　Cowley　said　anxiously。　
Ben　Dollard　halted　and　stared；　his　loud　orifice　open；　a　dangling　button　of　his　coat　wagging　brightbacked　from　its　thread　as　he　wiped　away　the　heavy　shraums　that　clogged　his　eyes　to　hear　aright。　
　What　few　days？　he　boomed。　Hasn't　your　landlord　distrained　for　rent？　
　He　has；　Father　Cowley　said。　
　Then　our　friend's　writ　is　not　worth　the　paper　it's　printed　on；　Ben　Dollard　said。　The　landlord　has　the　prior　claim。　I　gave　him　all　the　particulars。　29　Windsor　avenue。　Love　is　the　name？　
　That's　right；　Father　Cowley　said。　The　reverend　Mr　Love。　He's　a　minister　in　the　country　somewhere。　But　are　you　sure　of　that？　
　You　can　tell　Barabbas　from　me；　Ben　Dollard　said；　that　he　can　put　that　writ　where　Jacko　put　the　nuts。　
He　led　Father　Cowley　boldly　forward　linked　to　his　bulk。　
　Filberts　I　believe　they　were；　Mr　Dedalus　said；　as　he　dropped　his　glasses　on　his　coatfront；　following　them。　
　The　youngster　will　be　all　right；　Martin　Cunningham　said；　as　they　passed　out　of　the　Castleyard　gate。　
The　policeman　touched　his　forehead。　
　God　bless　you；　Martin　Cunningham　said；　cheerily。　
He　signed　to　the　waiting　jarvey　who　chucked　at　the　reins　and　set　on　towards　Lord　Edward　street。　
Bronze　by　gold；　Miss　Kennedy's　head　by　Miss　Douce's　head；　appeared　above　the　crossblind　of　the　Ormond　hotel。　
Yes；　Martin　Cunningham　said；　fingering　his　beard。　I　wrote　to　Father　Conmee　and　laid　the　whole　case　before　him。　
　You　could　try　our　friend；　Mr　Power　suggested　backward。　
　Boyd？　Martin　Cunningham　said　shortly。　Touch　me　not。　
John　Wyse　Nolan；　lagging　behind；　reading　the　list；　came　after　them　quickly　down　Cork　hill。　
On　the　steps　of　the　City　hall　Councillor　Nannetti；　descending；　hailed　Alderman　Cowley　and　Councillor　Abraham　Lyon　ascending。　
The　castle　car　wheeled　empty　into　upper　Exchange　street。　
　Look　here　Martin；　John　Wyse　Nolan　said；　overtaking　them　at　the　Mail　office。　I　see　Bloom　put　his　name　down　for　five　shillings。　
　Quite　right；　Martin　Cunningham　said；　taking　the　list。　And　put　down　the　five　shillings　too。　
　Without　a　second　word　either；　Mr　Power　said。　
　Strange　but　true；　Martin　Cunningham　added。　
John　Wyse　Nolan　opened　wide　eyes。　
　I'll　say　there　is　much　kindness　in　the　jew；　he　quoted　elegantly。　
They　went　down　Parliament　street。　
　There's　Jimmy　Henry；　Mr　Power　said；　just　heading　for　Kavanagh's。　
　Righto；　Martin　Cunningham　said。　Here　goes。　
Outside　la　Maison　Claire　Blazes　Boylan　waylaid　Jack　Mooney's　brother…in…law；　humpy；　tight；　making　for　the　liberties。　
John　Wyse　Nolan　fell　back　with　Mr　Power；　while　Martin　Cunningham　took　the　elbow　of　a　dapper　little　man　in　a　shower　of　hail　suit　who　walked　uncertainly　with　hasty　steps　past　Micky　Anderson's　watches。　
　The　assistant　town　clerk's　corns　are　giving　him　some　trouble；　John　Wyse　Nolan　told　Mr　Power。　
They　followed　round　the　corner　towards　James　Kavanagh's　winerooms。　The　empty　castle　car　fronted　them　at　rest　in　Essex　gate。　Martin　Cunningham；　speaking　always；　showed　often　the　list　at　which　Jimmy　Henry　did　not　glance。　
　And　Long　John　Fanning　is　here　too；　John　Wyse　Nolan　said；　as　large　as　life。　
The　tall　form　of　Long　John　Fanning　filled　the　doorway　where　he　stood。　
　Good　day；　Mr　Subsheriff；　Martin　Cunningham　said；　as　all　halted　and　greeted。　
Long　John　Fanning　made　no　way　for　them。　He　removed　his　large　Henry　Clay　decisively　and　his　large　fierce　eyes　scowled　intelligently　over　all　their　faces。　
　Are　the　conscript　fathers　pursuing　their　peaceful　deliberations？　he　said；　with　rich　acrid　utterance　to　the　assistant　town　clerk。　
Hell　open　to　christians　they　were　having；　Jimmy　Henry　said　pettishly；　about　their　damned　Irish　language。　Where　was　the　marshal；　he　wanted　to　know；　to　keep　order　in　the　council　chamber。　And　old　Barlow　the　macebearer　laid　up　with　asthma；　no　mace　on　the　table；　nothing　in　order；　no　quorum　even　and　Hutchinson；　the　lord　mayor；　in　Llandudno　and　little　Lorcan　Sherlock　doing　locum　tenens　for　him。　Damned　Irish　language；　of　our　forefathers。　
Long　John　Fanning　blew　a　plume　of　smoke　from　his　lips。　
Martin　Cunningham　spoke　by　turns；　twirling　the　peak　of　his　beard；　to　the　assistant　town　clerk　and　the　subsheriff；　while　John　Wyse　Nolan　held　his　peace。　
　What　Dignam　was　that？　Long　John　Fanning　asked。　
Jimmy　Henry　made　a　grimace　and　lifted　his　left　foot。　
　O；　my　corns！　he　said　plaintively。　e　upstairs　for　goodness'　sake　till　I　sit　down　somewhere。　Uff！　Ooo！　Mind！　
Testily　he　made　room　for　himself　beside　Long　John　Fanning's　flank　and　passed　in　and　up　the　stairs。　
　e　on　up；　Martin　Cunningham　said　to　the　subsheriff。　I　don't　think　you　knew　him　or　perhaps　you　did；　though。　
With　John　Wyse　Nolan　Mr　Power　followed　them　in。　
　Decent　little　soul　he　was；　Mr　Power　said　to　the　stalwart　back　of　Long　John　Fanning　ascending　towards　Long　John　Fanning　in　the　mirror。　
　Rather　lowsized；　Dignam　of　Menton's　office　that　was；　Martin　Cunningham　said。　
Long　John　Fanning　could　not　remember　him。　
Clatter　of　horsehoofs　sounded　from　the　air。　
　What's　that？　Martin　Cunningham　said。　
All　turned　where　they　stood；　John　Wyse　Nolan　came　down　again。　From　the　cool　shadow　of　the　doorway　he　saw　the　horses　pass　Parliament　street；　harness　and　glossy　pasterns　in　sunlight　shimmering。　Gaily　they　went　past　before　his　cool　unfriendly　eyes；　not　quickly。　In　saddles　of　the　leaders；　leaping　leaders；　rode　outriders。　
　What　was　it？　Martin　Cunningham　asked；　as　they　went　on　up　the　staircase。　
　The　lord　lieutenant　general　and　general　governor　of　Ireland；　John　Wyse　Nolan　answered　from　the　stairfoot。　
As　they　trod　across　the　thick　carpet　Buck　Mulligan　whispered　behind　his　panama　to　Haines。　
　Parnell's　brother。　There　in　the　corner。　
They　chose　a　small　table　near　the　window　opposite　a　long…faced　man　whose　beard　and　gaze　hung　intently　down　on　a　chessboard。　
　Is　that　he？　Haines　asked；　twisting　round　in　his　seat。　
　Yes；　Mulligan　said。　That's　John　Howard；　his　brother；　our　city　marshal。　
John　Howard　Parnell　translated　a　white　bishop　quietly　and　his　grey　claw　went　up　again　to　his　forehead　whereat　it　rested。　
An　instant　after；　under　its　screen；　his　eyes　looked　quickly；　ghostbright；　at　his　foe　and　fell　once　more　upon　a　working　corner。　
　I'll　take　a　mélange；　Haines　said　to　the　waitress。　
　Two　mélanges；　Buck　Mulligan　said。　And　bring　us　some　scones　and　butter　and　some　cakes　as　well。　
When　she　had　gone　he　said；　laughing：　
　We　call　it　D。　B。　C。　because　they　have　damn　bad　cakes。　O；　but　you　missed　Dedalus　on　Hamlet。　
Haines　opened　his　newbought　book。　
　I'm　sorry；　he　said。　Shakespeare　is　the　happy　huntingground　of　all　minds　that　have　lost　their　balance。　
The　onelegged　sailor　growled　at　the　area　of　14　Nelson　street：　
　England　expects。。。　
Buck　Mulligan's　primrose　waistcoat　shook　gaily　to　his　laughter。　
　You　should　see　him；　he　said；　when　his　body　loses　its　balance。　Wandering　&Aelig；ngus　I　call　him。　
　I　am　sure　he　has　an　idée　fixe；　Haines　said；　pinching　his　chin　thoughtfully　with　thumb　and　forefinger。　Now　I　am　speculating　what　it　would　be　likely　to　be。　Such　persons　always　have。　
Buck　Mulligan　bent　across　the　table　gravely。　
　They　drove　his　wits　astray；　he　said；　by　visions　of　hell。　He　will　never　capture　the　Attic　note。　The　note　of　Swinburne；　of　all　poets；　the　white　death　and　the　ruddy　birth。　That　is　his　tragedy。　He　can　never　be　a　poet。　The　joy　of　creation。　
　Eternal　punishment；　Haines　said；　nodding　curtly。　I　see。　I　tackled　him　this　morning　on　belief。　There　was　something　on　his　mind；　I　saw。　It's　rather　interesting　because　Professor　Pokorny　of　Vienna　makes　an　interesting　point　out　of　that。　
Buck　Mulligan's　watchful　eyes　saw　the　waitress　e。　He　helped　her　to　unload　her　tray。　
　He　can　find　no　trace　of　hell　in　ancient　Irish　myth；　Haines　said；　amid　the　cheerful　cups。　The　moral　idea　seems　lacking；　the　sense　of　destiny；　of　retribution。　Rather　strange　he　should　have　just　that　fixed　idea。　Does　he　write　anything　for　your　movement？　
He　sank　two　lumps　of　sugar　deftly　longwise　through　the　whipped　cream。　Buck　Mulligan　slit　a　steaming　scone　in　two　and　plastered　butter　over　its　smoking　pith。　He　bit　off　a　soft　piece　hungrily。　
　Ten　years；　he　said；　chewing　and　laughing。　He　is　going　to　write　something　in　ten　years。　
　Seems　a　long　way　off；　Haines　said；　thoughtfully　lifting　his　spoon。　Still；　I　shouldn't　wonder　if　he　did　after　all。　
He　tasted　a　spoonful　from　the　creamy　cone　of　his　cup。　
　This　is　real　Irish　cream　I　take　it；　he　said　with　forbearance。　I　don't　want　to　be　imposed　on。　
Elijah；