尤利西斯-第5章

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lips　and　on　mine。　It　lies　upon　their　eager　faces　who　offered　him　a　coin　of　the　tribute。　To　Caesar　what　is　Caesar's；　to　God　what　is　God's。　A　long　look　from　dark　eyes；　a　riddling　sentence　to　be　woven　on　the　church's　looms。　Ay。　
Riddle　me；　riddle　me；　randy　ro。
My　father　gave　me　seeds　to　sow。
Talbot　slid　his　closed　book　into　his　satchel。　
　Have　I　heard　all？　Stephen　asked。　
　Yes；　sir。　Hockey　at　ten；　sir。　
　Half　day；　sir。　Thursday。　
　Who　can　answer　a　riddle？　Stephen　asked。　
They　bundled　their　books　away；　pencils　clacking；　pages　rustling。　Crowding　together　they　strapped　and　buckled　their　satchels；　all　gabbling　gaily：　
　A　riddle；　sir？　Ask　me；　sir。　
　O；　ask　me；　sir。　
　A　hard　one；　sir。　
　This　is　the　riddle；　Stephen　said。　
The　cock　crew
The　sky　was　blue：
The　bells　in　heaven
Were　striking　eleven。
Tis　time　for　this　poor　soul
To　go　to　heaven。
　What　is　that？　
　What；　sir？　
　Again；　sir。　We　didn't　hear。　
Their　eyes　grew　bigger　as　the　lines　were　repeated。　After　a　silence　Cochrane　said：　
　What　is　it；　sir？　We　give　it　up。　
Stephen；　his　throat　itching；　answered：　
　The　fox　burying　his　grandmother　under　a　hollybush。　
He　stood　up　and　gave　a　shout　of　nervous　laughter　to　which　their　cries　echoed　dismay。　
A　stick　struck　the　door　and　a　voice　in　the　corridor　called：　
　Hockey！　
They　broke　asunder；　sidling　out　of　their　benches；　leaping　them。　Quickly　they　were　gone　and　from　the　lumberroom　came　the　rattle　of　sticks　and　clamour　of　their　boots　and　tongues。　
Sargent　who　alone　had　lingered　came　forward　slowly；　showing　an　open　copybook。　His　tangled　hair　and　scraggy　neck　gave　witness　of　unreadiness　and　through　his　misty　glasses　weak　eyes　looked　up　pleading。　On　his　cheek；　dull　and　bloodless；　a　soft　stain　of　ink　lay；　dateshaped；　recent　and　damp　as　a　snail's　bed。　
He　held　out　his　copybook。　The　word　Sums　was　written　on　the　headline。　Beneath　were　sloping　figures　and　at　the　foot　a　crooked　signature　with　blind　loops　and　a　blot。　Cyril　Sargent：　his　name　and　seal。　
　Mr　Deasy　told　me　to　write　them　out　all　again；　he　said；　and　show　them　to　you；　sir。　
Stephen　touched　the　edges　of　the　book。　Futility。　
　Do　you　understand　how　to　do　them　now？　he　asked。　
　Numbers　eleven　to　fifteen；　Sargent　answered。　Mr　Deasy　said　I　was　to　copy　them　off　the　board；　sir。　
　Can　you　do　them　yourself？　Stephen　asked。　
　No；　sir。　
Ugly　and　futile：　lean　neck　and　tangled　hair　and　a　stain　of　ink；　a　snail's　bed。　Yet　someone　had　loved　him；　borne　him　in　her　arms　and　in　her　heart。　But　for　her　the　race　of　the　world　would　have　trampled　him　under　foot；　a　squashed　boneless　snail。　She　had　loved　his　weak　watery　blood　drained　from　her　own。　Was　that　then　real？　The　only　true　thing　in　life？　His　mother's　prostrate　body　the　fiery　Columbanus　in　holy　zeal　bestrode。　She　was　no　more：　the　trembling　skeleton　of　a　twig　burnt　in　the　fire；　an　odour　of　rosewood　and　wetted　ashes。　She　had　saved　him　from　being　trampled　under　foot　and　had　gone；　scarcely　having　been。　A　poor　soul　gone　to　heaven：　and　on　a　heath　beneath　winking　stars　a　fox；　red　reek　of　rapine　in　his　fur；　with　merciless　bright　eyes　scraped　in　the　earth；　listened；　scraped　up　the　earth；　listened；　scraped　and　scraped。　
Sitting　at　his　side　Stephen　solved　out　the　problem。　He　proves　by　algebra　that　Shakespeare's　ghost　is　Hamlet's　grandfather。　Sargent　peered　askance　through　his　slanted　glasses。　Hockeysticks　rattled　in　the　lumberroom：　the　hollow　knock　of　a　ball　and　calls　from　the　field。　
Across　the　page　the　symbols　moved　in　grave　morrice；　in　the　mummery　of　their　letters；　wearing　quaint　caps　of　squares　and　cubes。　Give　hands；　traverse；　bow　to　partner：　so：　imps　of　fancy　of　the　Moors。　Gone　too　from　the　world；　Averroes　and　Moses　Maimonides；　dark　men　in　mien　and　movement；　flashing　in　their　mocking　mirrors　the　obscure　soul　of　the　world；　a　darkness　shining　in　brightness　which　brightness　could　not　prehend。　
　Do　you　understand　now？　Can　you　work　the　second　for　yourself？　
　Yes；　sir。　
In　long　shady　strokes　Sargent　copied　the　data。　Waiting　always　for　a　word　of　help　his　hand　moved　faithfully　the　unsteady　symbols；　a　faint　hue　of　shame　flickering　behind　his　dull　skin。　Amor　matris：　subjective　and　objective　genitive。　With　her　weak　blood　and　wheysour　milk　she　had　fed　him　and　hid　from　sight　of　others　his　swaddling　bands。　
Like　him　was　I；　these　sloping　shoulders；　this　gracelessness。　My　childhood　bends　beside　me。　Too　far　for　me　to　lay　a　hand　there　once　or　lightly。　Mine　is　far　and　his　secret　as　our　eyes。　Secrets；　silent；　stony　sit　in　the　dark　palaces　of　both　our　hearts：　secrets　weary　of　their　tyranny：　tyrants　willing　to　be　dethroned。　
The　sum　was　done。　
　It　is　very　simple；　Stephen　said　as　he　stood　up。　
　Yes；　sir。　Thanks；　Sargent　answered。　
He　dried　the　page　with　a　sheet　of　thin　blottingpaper　and　carried　his　copybook　back　to　his　desk。　
　You　had　better　get　your　stick　and　go　out　to　the　others；　Stephen　said　as　he　followed　towards　the　door　the　boy's　graceless　form。　
　Yes；　sir。　
In　the　corridor　his　name　was　heard；　called　from　the　playfield。　
　Sargent！　
　Run　on；　Stephen　said。　Mr　Deasy　is　calling　you。　
He　stood　in　the　porch　and　watched　the　laggard　hurry　towards　the　scrappy　field　where　sharp　voices　were　in　strife。　They　were　sorted　in　teams　and　Mr　Deasy　came　stepping　over　wisps　of　grass　with　gaitered　feet。　When　he　had　reached　the　schoolhouse　voices　again　contending　called　to　him。　He　turned　his　angry　white　moustache。　
　What　is　it　now？　he　cried　continually　without　listening。　
　Cochrane　and　Halliday　are　on　the　same　side；　sir；　Stephen　cried。　
　Will　you　wait　in　my　study　for　a　moment；　Mr　Deasy　said；　till　I　restore　order　here。　
And　as　he　stepped　fussily　back　across　the　field　his　old　man's　voice　cried　sternly：　
　What　is　the　matter？　What　is　it　now？　
Their　sharp　voices　cried　about　him　on　all　sides：　their　many　forms　closed　round　him；　the　garish　sunshine　bleaching　the　honey　of　his　illdyed　head。　
Stale　smoky　air　hung　in　the　study　with　the　smell　of　drab　abraded　leather　of　its　chairs。　As　on　the　first　day　he　bargained　with　me　here。　As　it　was　in　the　beginning；　is　now。　On　the　sideboard　the　tray　of　Stuart　coins；　base　treasure　of　a　bog：　and　ever　shall　be。　And　snug　in　their　spooncase　of　purple　plush；　faded；　the　twelve　apostles　having　preached　to　all　the　gentiles：　world　without　end。　
A　hasty　step　over　the　stone　porch　and　in　the　corridor。　Blowing　out　his　rare　moustache　Mr　Deasy　halted　at　the　table。　
　First；　our　little　financial　settlement；　he　said。　
He　brought　out　of　his　coat　a　pocketbook　bound　by　a　leather　thong。　It　slapped　open　and　he　took　from　it　two　notes；　one　of　joined　halves；　and　laid　them　carefully　on　the　table。　
　Two；　he　said；　strapping　and　stowing　his　pocketbook　away。　
And　now　his　strongroom　for　the　gold。　Stephen's　embarrassed　hand　moved　over　the　shells　heaped　in　the　cold　stone　mortar：　whelks　and　money；　cowries　and　leopard　shells：　and　this；　whorled　as　an　emir's　turban；　and　this；　the　scallop　of　Saint　James。　An　old　pilgrim's　hoard；　dead　treasure；　hollow　shells。　
A　sovereign　fell；　bright　and　new；　on　the　soft　pile　of　the　tablecloth。　
　Three；　Mr　Deasy　said；　turning　his　little　savingsbox　about　in　his　hand。　These　are　handy　things　to　have。　See。　This　is　for　sovereigns。　This　is　for　shillings；　sixpences；　halfcrowns。　And　here　crowns。　See。　
He　shot　from　it　two　crowns　and　two　shillings。　
　Three　twelve；　he　said。　I　think　you'll　find　that's　right。　
　Thank　you；　sir；　Stephen　said；　gathering　the　money　together　with　shy　haste　and　putting　it　all　in　a　pocket　of　his　trousers。　
　No　thanks　at　all；　Mr　Deasy　said。　You　have　earned　it。　
Stephen's　hand；　free　again；　went　back　to　the　hollow　shells。　Symbols　too　of　beauty　and　of　power。　A　lump　in　my　pocket。　Symbols　soiled　by　greed　and　misery。　
　Don't　carry　it　like　that；　Mr　Deasy　said。　You'll　pull　it　out　somewhere　and　lose　it。　You　just　buy　one　of　these　machines。　You'll　find　them　very　handy。　
Answer　something。　
　Mine　would　be　often　empty；　Stephen　said。　
The　same　room　and　hour；　the　same　wisdom：　and　I　the　same。　Three　times　now。　Three　nooses　round　me　here。　Well。　I　can　break　them　in　this　instant　if　I　will。　
　Because　you　don't　save；　Mr　Deasy　said；　pointing　his　finger。　You　don't　know　yet　what　money　is。　Money　is　power；　when　you　have　lived　as　long　as　I　have。　I　know；　I　know。　If　youth　but　knew。　But　what　does　Shakespeare　say？　Put　but　money　in　thy　purse。　
　Iago；　Stephen　murmured。　
He　lifted　his　gaze　from　the　idle　shells　to　the　old　man's　stare。　
　He　knew　what　money　was；　Mr　Deasy　said。　He　made　money。　A　poet　but　an　Englishman　too。　Do　you　know　what　is　the　pride　of　the　English？　Do　you　know　what　is　the　proudest　word　you　will　ever　hear　from　an　Englishman's　mouth？　
The　seas'　ruler。　His　seacold　eyes　looked　on　the　empty　bay：　history　is　to　blame：　on　me　and　on　my　words；　unhating。　
　That　on　his　empire；　Stephen　said；　the　sun　never　sets。　
　Ba！　Mr　Deasy　cried。　That's　not　English。　A　French　Celt　said　that。　He　tapped　his　savingsbox　against　his　thumbnail。　
　I　will　tell　you；　he　said　solemnly；　what　is　his　proudest　boast。　I　paid　my　way。　
Good　man；　good　man。　
　I　paid　my　way。　I　never　borrowed　a　shilling　in　my　life。　Can　you　feel　that？　I　owe　nothing。　Can　you？　
Mulligan；　nine　pounds；　three　pairs　of　socks；　one　pair　brogues；　ties。　Curran；　ten　guineas。　McCann；　one　guinea。　Fred　Ryan；　two　shillings。　Temple；　two　lunches。　Russell；　one　guinea；　Cousins；　ten　shillings；　Bob　Reynolds；　half　a　guinea；　Kohler；　three　guineas；　Mrs　McKernan；　five　weeks'　board。　The　lump　I　have　is　useless。　
　For　the　moment；　no；　Stephen　answered。　
Mr　Deasy　laughed　with　rich　delight；　putting　back　his　savingsbox。　
　I　knew　you　couldn't；　he　said　joyously。　But　one　day　you　must　feel　it。　We　are　a　generous　people　but　we　must　also　be　just。　
　I　fear　those　big　words；　Stephen　said；　which　make　us　so　unhappy。　
Mr　Deasy　stared　sternly　for　some　moments　over　the　mantelpiece　at　the　shapely　bulk　of　a　man　in　tartan　fillibegs：　Albert　Edward；　Prince　of　Wales。　
　You　think　me　an　old　fogey　and　an　old　tory；　his　thoughtful　voice　said。　I　saw　three　generations　since　O'Connell's　time。　I　remember　the　famine。　Do　you　know　that　the　orange　lodges　agitated　for　repeal　of　the　union　twenty　years　before　O'Connell　did　or　before　the　prelates　of　your　munion　denounced　him　as　a　demagogue？　You　fenians　forget　some　things。　
Glorious；　pious　and　immortal　memory。　The　lodge　of　Diamond　in　Armagh　the　splendid　behung　with　corpses　of　papishes。　Hoarse；　masked　and　armed；　the　planters'　covenant。　The　black　north　and　true　blue　bible。　Croppies　lie　down。　
Stephen　sketched　a　brief　gesture。　
　I　have　rebel　blood　in　me　too；　Mr　Deasy　said。　On　the　spindle　side。　But　I　am　descended　from　sir　John　Blackwood　who　voted　for　the　union。　We　are　all　Irish；　all　kings'　sons。　
　Alas；　Stephen　said。　
　Per　vias　rectas；　Mr　Deasy　said　firmly；　was　his　motto。　He　voted　for　it　and　put　on　his　topboots　to　ride　to　Dublin　from　the　Ards　of　Down　to　do　so。　
Lal　the　ral　the　ra
The　rocky　road　to　Dublin。
A　gruff　squire　on　horseback　with　shiny　topboots。　Soft　day；　sir　John。　Soft　day；　your　honour。。。　Day。。。　Day。。。　Two　topboots　jog　dangling　on　to　Dublin。　Lal　the　ral　the　ra；　lal　the　ral　the　raddy。　
　That　reminds　me；　Mr　Deasy　said。　You　can　do　me　a　favour；　Mr　Dedalus；　with　some　of　your　literary　friends：　I　have　a　letter　here　for　the　press。　Sit　down　a　moment。　I　have　just　to　copy　the　end。　
He　went　to　the　desk　near　the　window；　pulled　in　his　chair　twice　and　read　off　some　words　from　the　sheet　on　the　drum　of　his　typewriter。　
　Sit　d