MARTIN CUNNINGHAM, FIRST, POKED¹ HIS SILKHATTED HEAD INTO the creaking carriage and, entering deftly², seated himself. Mr Power stepped in after him, curving his height with care.
-- Come on, Simon.

-- After you, Mr Bloom said.

Mr Dedalus covered himself quickly and got in, saying:

-- Yes, yes.

-- Are we all here now? Martin Cunningham asked. Come along, Bloom.

Mr Bloom entered and sat in the vacant place. He pulled the door to after him and slammed it tight till it shut tight. He passed an arm through the armstrap and looked seriously from the open carriage window at the lowered blinds of the avenue. One dragged aside: an old woman peeping. Nose whiteflattened against the pane⁴. Thanking her stars she was passed over. Extraordinary the interest they take in a corpse⁵. Glad to see us go we give them such trouble coming. Job seems to suit them. Huggermugger in corners. Slop about in slipper-slappers for fear he'd wake. Then getting it ready. Laying it out. Molly and Mrs Fleming making the bed. Pull it more to your side. Our windingsheet. Never know who will touch you dead. Wash and shampoo. I believe they clip the nails and the hair. Keep a bit in an envelope. Grow all the same after. Unclean job.

All waited. Nothing was said. Stowing in the wreaths probably. I am sitting on something hard. Ah, that soap in my hip⁶ pocket. Better shift it out of that. Wait for an opportunity.

All waited. Then wheels were heard from in front turning: then nearer: then horses' hoofs⁷. A jolt⁸. Their carriage began to move, creaking and swaying. Other hoofs and creaking wheels started behind. The blinds of the avenue passed and number nine with its craped knocker, door ajar. At walking pace.

They waited still, their knees jogging, till they had turned and were passing along the tramtracks. Tritonville road. Quicker. The wheels rattled¹¹ rolling over the cobbled causeway and the crazy glasses shook rattling¹² in the doorframes.

-- What way is he taking us? Mr Power asked through both windows.

-- Irishtown, Martin Cunningham said. Ringsend. Brunswick street.

Mr Dedalus nodded, looking out.

-- That's a fine old custom, he said. I am glad to see it has not died out.

All watched awhile through their windows caps and hats lifted by passers. Respect. The carriage swerved¹³ from the tramtrack to the smoother road past Watery¹⁴ lane. Mr Bloom at gaze saw a lithe¹⁵ young man, clad in mourning, a wide hat.

-- 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 mounds¹⁷ of rippedup roadway before the tenement¹⁹ houses, lurched round the corner and, swerving²⁰ back to the tramtrack, rolled on noisily with chattering²¹ 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 faction²², 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 Ward²⁴ 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 landlady²⁵'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 snarled²⁷. That Mulligan is a contaminated bloody²⁸ doubledyed ruffian by all accounts. His name stinks²⁹ 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 tickle³⁰ his catastrophe³¹, believe you me.

He cried above the clatter³² of the wheels.

-- I won't have her bastard³³ 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 sergeant³⁵ 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 commodious³⁶ yoke³⁷, Mr Power said.

-- He might, Mr Dedalus said, if he hadn't that squint³⁸ troubling him. Do you follow me?

He closed his left eye. Martin Cunningham began to brush away crustcrumbs from under his thighs⁴⁰.

-- What is this, he said, in the name of God? Crumbs²⁶?

-- Someone seems to have been making a picnic party here lately, Mr Power said.

All raised their thighs, eyed with disfavour the mildewed⁴¹ 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 thigh³⁹ 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 cemetery⁴², Martin Cunningham said.

-- I met M'Coy this morning, Mr Bloom said. He said he'd try to come.

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. Whooping⁴³ 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 compared. Only measles⁴⁴. Flaxseed tea. Scarlatina, influenza⁴⁵ epidemics⁴⁶. Canvassing⁴⁷ 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 scrawl⁴⁸. He took it to heart, pined away. Quiet brute⁴⁹. Old men's dogs usually are.

A raindrop spat⁵⁰ on his hat. He drew back and saw an instant of shower spray dots over the grey flags. Apart. Curious. Like through a colander⁵¹. 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 coming out.

Mr Dedalus, peering through his glasses towards the veiled sun, hurled⁵² 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 pompously⁵³. His singing of that simple ballad⁵⁴, Martin, is the most trenchant⁵⁵ rendering⁵⁶ 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 frayed⁵⁷ breaking paper. Thanks to the Little Flower. Sadly missed. To the inexpressible grief of his. Aged⁵⁸ 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 exhausted⁵⁹.
National school. Meade's yard. The hazard. Only two there now. Nodding. Full as a tick. Too much bone in their skulls⁶¹. The other trotting⁶³ 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 bleak⁶⁴ 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 company. 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 coming in the afternoon. Her songs.

Plasto's. Sir Philip Crampton's memorial fountain bust⁶⁵. Who was he?

-- How do you do? Martin Cunningham said, raising his palm to his brow in salute⁶⁶.

-- 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 bent⁶⁷ 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? Fascination⁶⁸. 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. Hips⁶⁹. Plump. Night of the dance dressing⁷⁰. 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. Last 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 wares⁷¹, 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 solicitor⁷² for Waterford. Has that silk hat ever since. Relics⁷³ of old decency⁷⁴. Mourning too. Terrible comedown, poor wretch⁷⁵! 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 politeness perhaps. Nice fellow. Who knows is that true about the woman he keeps? Not pleasant for the wife. Yet they say, who was it told me, there is no carnal. You would imagine that would get played out pretty quick. Yes, it was Crofton met him one evening bringing her a pound of rumpsteak. What is this she was? Barmaid in Jury's. Or the Moira, was it?

They passed under the hugecloaked Liberator's form.

Martin Cunningham nudged Mr Power.

-- Of the tribe of Reuben, he said.

A tall blackbearded figure, bent on a stick, stumping⁷⁶ round the corner of Elvery's elephant house showed them a curved hand open on his spine⁷⁷.

-- In all his pristine⁷⁸ beauty, Mr Power said.

Mr Dedalus looked after the stumping figure and said mildly:

-- The devil break the hasp of your back!

Mr Power, collapsing⁷⁹ in laughter, shaded his face from the window as the carriage passed Gray's statue.

-- We have all been there, Martin Cunningham said broadly.

His eyes met Mr Bloom's eyes. He caressed⁸⁰ his beard, adding:

-- Well, nearly all of us.

Mr Bloom began to speak with sudden eagerness to his companions' faces. -- That's an awfully⁸¹ good one that's going the rounds about Reuben J. and the son.

-- About the boatman? Mr Power asked.

-- Yes. Isn't it awfully good?

-- What is that? Mr Dedalus asked. I didn't hear it.

-- There was a girl in the case, Mr Bloom began, and he determined⁸² to send him to the isle⁸³ of Man out of harm's way but when they were both...

-- What? Mr Dedalus asked. That confirmed bloody hobbledehoy is it?

-- Yes, Mr Bloom said. They were both on the way to the boat and he tried to drown...

-- Drown Barabbas! Mr Dedalus cried. I wish to Christ he did!

Mr Power sent a long laugh down his shaded nostrils⁸⁴.

-- No, Mr Bloom said the son himself...

Martin Cunningham thwarted⁸⁵ his speech rudely.

-- Reuben J. and the son were piking it down the quay⁸⁶ next the river on their way to the isle of Man boat and the young chiseller⁸⁷ suddenly got loose and over the wall with him into the Liffey.

-- For God's sake! Mr Dedalus exclaimed in fright. Is he dead?

-- Dead! Martin Cunningham cried. Not he! A boatman got a pole and fished him out by the slack of the breeches and he was landed up to the father on the quay. More dead than alive. Half the town was there.

-- Yes, Mr Bloom said. But the funny part is...

-- And Reuben J., Martin Cunningham said, gave the boatman a florin for saving his son's life.

A stifled⁸⁸ sigh came from under Mr Power's hand.

-- O, he did, Martin Cunningham affirmed. Like a hero. A silver florin.

-- Isn't it awfully good? Mr Bloom said eagerly.

-- One and eightpence too much, Mr Dedalus said drily. Mr Power's choked laugh burst quietly in the carriage. Nelson's pillar.

-- Eight plums a penny! Eight for a penny!

-- We had better look a little serious, Martin Cunningham said.

Mr Dedalus sighed.

-- And then indeed, he said, poor little Paddy wouldn't grudge⁸⁹ us a laugh. Many a good one he told himself.

-- The Lord forgive me! Mr Power said, wiping his wet eyes with his fingers. Poor Paddy! I little thought a week ago when I saw him last and he was in his usual health that I'd be driving after him like this. He's gone from us.

-- As decent a little man as ever wore a hat, Mr Dedalus said. He went very suddenly.

-- Breakdown⁹⁰, Martin Cunningham said. Heart.

He tapped his chest sadly.

Blazing face: redhot. Too much John Barleycorn. Cure for a red nose. Drink like the devil till it turns adelite. A lot of money he spent colouring it.

Mr Power gazed at the passing houses with rueful apprehension⁹¹.

-- He had a sudden death, poor fellow, he said.

-- The best death, Mr Bloom said.

Their wide open eyes looked at him.

-- No suffering, he said. A moment and all is over. Like dying in sleep.

No-one spoke⁹².

Dead side of the street this. Dull business by day, land agents, temperance hotel, Falconer's railway guide, civil service college, Gill's, catholic club, the industrious⁹⁴ blind. Why? Some reason. Sun or wind. At night too. Chummies and slaveys. Under the patronage⁹⁵ of the late Father Mathew. Foundation stone for Parnell. Breakdown. Heart.

White horses with white frontlet plumes⁹⁷ came round the Rotunda⁹⁸ corner, galloping⁹⁹. A tiny coffin¹⁰⁰ flashed by. In a hurry to bury. A mourning coach. Unmarried. Black for the married. Piebald for bachelors. Dun for a nun¹⁰¹.

-- Sad, Martin Cunningham said. A child.

A dwarf's face mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy's was. Dwarf's body, weak as putty, in a whitelined deal box. Burial friendly society pays. Penny a week for a sod of turf. Our. Little. Beggar. Baby. Meant nothing. Mistake of nature. If it's healthy it's from the mother. If not the man. Better luck next time.

-- Poor little thing, Mr Dedalus said. It's well out of it.

The carriage climbed more slowly the hill of Rutland square. Rattle¹⁰ his bones. Over the stones. Only a pauper¹⁰². Nobody owns.

-- In the midst of life, Martin Cunningham said.

-- But the worst of all, Mr Power said, is the man who takes his own life.

Martin Cunningham drew out his watch briskly, coughed and put it back.

-- The greatest disgrace to have in the family, Mr Power added.

-- Temporary insanity¹⁰³, of course, Martin Cunningham said decisively. We must take a charitable view of it.

-- They say a man who does it is a coward, Mr Dedalus said.

-- It is not for us to judge, Martin Cunningham said.

Mr Bloom, about to speak, closed his lips again. Martin Cunningham's large eyes. Looking away now. Sympathetic human man he is. Intelligent. Like Shakespeare's face. Always a good word to say. They have no mercy on that here or infanticide. Refuse christian¹⁰⁴ burial. They used to drive a stake of wood through his heart in the grave. As if it wasn't broken already. Yet sometimes they repent¹⁰⁵ too late. Found in the riverbed clutching rushes. He looked at me. And that awful drunkard of a wife of his. Setting up house for her time after time and then pawning¹⁰⁶ the furniture on him every Saturday almost. Leading him the life of the damned. Wear the heart out of a stone, that. Monday morning start afresh. Shoulder to the wheel. Lord, she must have looked a sight that night, Dedalus told me he was in there. Drunk about the place and capering¹⁰⁷ with Martin's umbrella:

And they call me the jewel of Asia,
Of Asia,
The geisha.
He looked away from me. He knows. Rattle his bones.
That afternoon of the inquest. The redlabelled bottle on the table. The room in the hotel with hunting pictures. Stuffy¹⁰⁸ it was. Sunlight through the slats of the Venetian blinds. The coroner's ears, big and hairy. Boots giving evidence. Thought he was asleep first. Then saw like yellow streaks¹⁰⁹ on his face. Had slipped down to the foot of the bed. Verdict: overdose. Death by misadventure. The letter. For my son Leopold.

No more pain. Wake no more. Nobody owns.

The carriage rattled swiftly along Blessington street. Over the stones.

-- We are going the pace, I think, Martin Cunningham said.

-- God grant he doesn't upset us on the road, Mr Power said.

-- I hope not, Martin Cunningham said. That will be a great race tomorrow in Germany. The Gordon Bennett.

-- Yes, by Jove, Mr Dedalus said. That will be worth seeing, faith.

As they turned into Berkeley street a streetorgan near the Basin sent over and after them a rollicking rattling song of the halls. Has anybody here seen Kelly? Kay ee double ell wy. Dead march from Saul. He's as bad as old Antonio. He left me on my ownio. Pirouette! The Mater Misericordiae. Eccles street. My house down there. Big place. Ward for incurables¹¹⁰ there. Very encouraging. Our Lady's Hospice for the dying. Deadhouse handy underneath¹¹¹. Where old Mrs Riordan died. They look terrible the women. Her feeding cup and rubbing her mouth with the spoon. Then the screen round her bed for her to die. Nice young student that was dressed that bite the bee gave me. He's gone over to the lying-in hospital they told me. From one extreme to the other.

The carriage galloped¹¹² round a corner: stopped.

-- What's wrong now?

A divided drove of branded cattle passed the windows, lowing, slouching by on padded hoofs, whisking their tails slowly on their clotted¹¹³ bony croups. Outside them and through them ran raddled sheep bleating¹¹⁴ their fear.

-- Emigrants¹¹⁵, Mr Power said.

-- Huuuh! the drover's voice cried, his switch sounding on their flanks. Huuuh! Out of that!

Thursday of course. Tomorrow is killing¹¹⁶ day. Springers. Cuffe sold them about twentyseven quid each. For Liverpool probably. Roast beef for old England. They buy up all the juicy ones. And then the fifth quarter is lost: all that raw stuff, hide, hair, horns. Comes to a big thing in a year. Dead meat trade. Byproducts of the slaughterhouses for tanneries, soap, margarine. Wonder if that dodge¹¹⁷ works now getting dicky meat off the train at Clonsilla.

The carriage moved on through the drove.

-- I can't make out why the corporation doesn't run a tramline from the parkgate to the quays¹¹⁸, Mr Bloom said. All those animals could be taken in trucks down to the boats.

-- Instead of blocking up the thoroughfare, Martin Cunningham said. Quite right. They ought to.

-- Yes, Mr Bloom said, and another thing I often thought is to have municipal funeral trams like they have in Milan, you know. Run the line out to the cemetery gates and have special trams, hearse and carriage and all. Don't you see what I mean?

-- O that be damned for a story, Mr Dedalus said. Pullman car and saloon diningroom.

-- A poor lookout¹¹⁹ for Corny, Mr Power added.

-- Why? Mr Bloom asked, turning to Mr Dedalus. Wouldn't it be more decent than galloping two abreast¹²⁰?

-- Well, there's something in that, Mr Dedalus granted.

-- And, Martin Cunningham said, we wouldn't have scenes like that when the hearse capsized round Dunphy's and upset the coffin on to the road.

-- That was terrible, Mr Power's shocked face said, and the corpse fell about the road. Terrible!

-- First round Dunphy's, Mr Dedalus aid, nodding. Gordon Bennett cup.

-- Praises be to God! Martin Cunningham said piously¹²¹.

Bom! Upset. A coffin bumped out on to the road. Burst open. Paddy Dignam shot out and rolling over stiff in the dust in a brown habit too large for him. Red face: grey now. Mouth fallen open. Asking what's up now. Quite right to close it. Looks horrid¹²² open. Then the insides decompose¹²³ quickly. Much better to close up all the orifices. Yes, also. With wax. The sphincter loose. Seal up all.

-- Dunphy's, Mr Power announced as the carriage turned right.

Dunphy's corner. Mourning coaches drawn¹²⁴ up drowning their grief. A pause by the wayside. Tiptop position for a pub. Expect we'll pull up here on the way back to drink his health. Pass round the consolation¹²⁵. Elixir¹²⁶ of life.

But suppose now it did happen. Would he bleed if a nail say cut him in the knocking about? He would and he wouldn't, I suppose. Depends on where. The circulation stops. Still some might ooze¹²⁷ out of an artery¹²⁸. It would be better to bury them in red: a dark red.

In silence they drove along Phibsborough road. An empty hearse trotted¹²⁹ by, coming from the cemetery: looks relieved.

Crossguns bridge: the royal canal.

Water rushed roaring through the sluices¹³⁰. A man stood on his dropping barge¹³¹ between clamps of turf. On the towpath by the lock a slacktethered horse. Aboard of the Bugabu.

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, carrion¹³² dogs. Athlone, Mullingar, Moyvalley, I could make a walking tour to see Milly by the canal. Or cycle down. Hire some old crock, safety. Wren¹³³ had one the other day at the auction¹³⁴ but a lady's. Developing waterways. James M'Cann's hobby to row me o'er the ferry. Cheaper transit¹³⁵. By easy stages. Houseboats. Camping out. Also hearses. To heaven by water. Perhaps I will without writing. Come as a surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla. Dropping down, lock by lock to Dublin. With turf from the midland bogs¹³⁶. Salute. He lifted his brown strawhat, saluting¹³⁷ 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 steered¹³⁸ left for Finglas road.

The stonecutter's yard on the right. Last 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 sculptor¹³⁹.

Passed.

On the curbstone before Jimmy Geary the sexton's an old tramp sat, grumbling¹⁴⁰, 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 pointed¹⁴¹.

-- 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 maxim¹⁴² of the law. Better for ninetynine guilty to escape than for one innocent person to be wrongfully condemned¹⁴³.

They looked. Murderer's ground. It passed darkly. Shuttered, tenantless¹⁴⁴, 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 outrage¹⁴⁵. The weapon used. Murderer is still at large. Clues. A shoelace. The body to be exhumed¹⁴⁶. Murder will out.

Cramped¹⁴⁷ in this carriage. She mightn't like me to come 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 Prospects¹⁴⁸ rippled¹⁴⁹ past their gaze. Dark poplars, rare white forms. Forms more frequent, white shapes thronged¹⁵⁰ 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, wrenching¹⁵¹ 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.

Paltry¹⁵² funeral: coach and three carriages. It's all the same. Pallbearers, gold reins¹⁵³, requiem¹⁵⁴ mass, firing a volley. Pomp of death. Beyond the hind⁹ 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 coming out.

He followed his companions. 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 toiling¹⁵⁵ plodding¹⁵⁷ tread, dragging through the funereal¹⁵⁸ silence a creaking waggon¹⁵⁹ on which lay a granite¹⁶⁰ block. The waggoner marching at their head saluted¹⁶¹.

Coffin now. Got here before us, dead as he is. Horse looking round at it with his plume⁹⁶ 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. Shovelling¹⁶² 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 bonnet¹⁶⁴ awry¹⁶⁵. 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. Condole¹⁶⁶ 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. Consort¹⁶⁷ not even a king. Her son was the substance. Something new to hope for not like the past she wanted back, waiting. It never comes. 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 Cork¹⁶⁸'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 subdued¹⁷⁰ wonder. Dick Tivy bald?

-- Martin is going to get up a whip for the youngsters, Ned Lambert said, pointing ahead. A few bob a skull⁶⁰. Just to keep them going till the insurance is cleared up.

-- Yes, yes, Mr Dedalus said dubiously¹⁷¹. Is that the eldest¹⁷² 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 chapel¹⁷³. Mr Bloom stood behind the boy with the wreath, looking down at his sleek¹⁷⁴ combed hair and the slender furrowed¹⁷⁵ 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 fore¹⁸ corner, beckoned¹⁷⁶ 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 brass¹⁷⁷ 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 toad¹⁷⁸'s belly¹⁷⁹. 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 croak¹⁸⁰.

Father Coffey. I knew his name was like a coffin. Dominenamine. Bully¹⁸¹ about the muzzle¹⁸² he looks. Bosses the show. Muscular christian. Woe¹⁸³ betide anyone that looks crooked¹⁸⁴ 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. Chilly¹⁸⁵ 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 swells¹⁸⁶ him up that way? Molly gets swelled¹⁸⁷ 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 vaults¹⁸⁸ of saint Werburgh's lovely old organ hundred and fifty they have to bore a hole in the coffins¹⁸⁹ 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 corpses¹⁹⁰ they trot⁶² up. What harm if he could see what he was shaking it over. Every mortal day a fresh batch¹⁹¹: 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 them: sleep. On Dignam now.

-- In paradisum.

Said he was going to paradise or is in paradise. Says that over everybody. Tiresome¹⁹² kind of a job. But he has to say something.

The priest closed his book and went off, followed by the server. Corny Kelleher opened the sidedoors and the gravediggers came in, hoisted¹⁹³ the coffin again, carried it out and shoved it on their cart. Corny Kelleher gave one wreath to the boy and one to the brother-in-law. All followed them out of the sidedoors into the mild grey air. Mr Bloom came last, folding his paper again into his pocket. He gazed gravely at the ground till the coffincart wheeled off to the left. The metal wheels ground the gravel³⁴ with a sharp grating cry and the pack of blunt boots followed the barrow along a lane of sepulchres.

The ree the ra the Fee the ra the roo. Lord, I mustn't lilt here.

-- The O'Connell circle, Mr Dedalus said about him.

Mr Power's soft eyes went up to the apex¹⁹⁴ of the lofty cone⁹³.

-- He's at rest, he said, in the middle of his people, old Dan O'. But his heart is buried in Rome. How many broken hearts are buried here, Simon!

-- Her grave is over there, Jack¹⁹⁵, Mr Dedalus said. I'Il soon be stretched beside her. Let Him take me whenever He likes.

Breaking down, he began to weep to himself quietly, stumbling a little in his walk. Mr Power took his arm.

-- She's better where she is, he said kindly¹⁹⁶.

-- I suppose so, Mr Dedalus said with a weak gasp¹⁹⁷. I suppose she is in heaven if there is a heaven.

Corny Kelleher stepped aside from his rank and allowed the mourners to plod¹⁵⁶ by.

-- Sad occasions, Mr Kernan began politely.

Mr Bloom closed his eyes and sadly twice bowed his head.

-- The others are putting on their hats, Mr Kernan said. I suppose we can do so too. We are the last. This cemetery is a treacherous¹⁹⁸ place.

They covered their heads.

-- The reverend gentleman read the service too quickly, don't you think? Mr Kernan said with reproof¹⁹⁹.

Mr Bloom nodded gravely, looking in the quick bloodshot eyes. Secret eyes, secret searching eyes. Mason, I think: not sure. Beside him again. We are the last. In the same boat. Hope he'll say something else.

Mr Kernan added:

-- The service of the Irish church, used in Mount Jerome, is simpler, more impressive, I must say.

Mr Bloom gave prudent²⁰⁰ assent²⁰¹. The language of course was another thing.

Mr Kernan said with solemnity:

-- I am the resurrection and the life. That touches a man's inmost heart.

-- It does, Mr Bloom said.

Your heart perhaps but what price the fellow in the six feet by two with his toes to the daisies? No touching²⁰² that. Seat of the affections. Broken heart. A pump after all, pumping thousands of gallons of blood every day. One fine day it gets bunged up and there you are. Lots of them lying around here: lungs, hearts, livers. Old rusty²⁰³ pumps: damn the thing else. The resurrection and the life. Once you are dead you are dead. That last day idea. Knocking them all up out of their graves. Come forth²⁰⁴, Lazarus! And he came fifth and lost the job. Get up! Last day! Then every fellow mousing around for his liver and his lights and the rest of his traps. Find damn all of himself that morning. Pennyweight of powder in a skull. Twelve grammes one pennyweight. Troy measure.

Corny Kelleher fell into step at their side.

-- Everything went off A 1, he said. What?

He looked on them from his drawling eye. Policeman's shoulders. With your tooraloom tooraloom.

-- As it should be, Mr Kernan said.

-- What? Eh? Corny Kelleher said.

Mr Kernan assured him.

-- Who is that chap behind with Tom Kernan? John Henry Menton asked. I know his face.

Ned Lambert glanced back.

-- Bloom, he said, Madam Marion Tweedy that was, is, I mean, the soprano. She's his wife.

-- O, to be sure, John Henry Menton said. I haven't seen her for some time. She was a finelooking woman. I danced with her, wait, fifteen seventeen golden years ago, at Mat Dillon's, in Roundtown. And a good armful she was.

He looked behind through the others.

-- What is he? he asked. What does he do? Wasn't he in the stationery²⁰⁵ line? I fell foul²⁰⁶ of him one evening, I remember, at bowls.

Ned Lambert smiled.

-- Yes, he was, he said, in Wisdom Hely's. A traveller for blottingpaper.

-- In God's name, John Henry Menton said, what did she marry a coon like that for? She had plenty of game in her then.

-- Has still, Ned Lambert said. He does some canvassing for ads.

John Henry Menton's large eyes stared ahead.

The barrow turned into a side lane. A portly man, ambushed²⁰⁷ among the grasses, raised his hat in homage²⁰⁸. The gravediggers touched their caps.

-- John O'Connell, Mr Power said, pleased. He never forgets a friend.

Mr O'Connell shook all their hands in silence. Mr Dedalus said:

-- I am come to pay you another visit.

-- My dear Simon, the caretaker answered in a low voice. I don't want your custom at all.

Saluting Ned Lambert and John Henry Menton he walked on at Martin Cunningham's side, puzzling two keys at his back.

-- Did you hear that one, he asked them, about Mulcahy from the Coombe?

-- I did not, Martin Cunningham said.

They bent their silk hats in concert and Hynes inclined his ear. The caretaker hung his thumbs in the loops of his gold watch chain and spoke in a discreet²⁰⁹ tone to their vacant smiles.

-- They tell the story, he said, that two drunks came out here one foggy evening to look for the grave of a friend of theirs. They asked for Mulcahy from the Coombe and were told where he was buried. After traipsing about in the fog they found the grave, sure enough. One of the drunks spelt out the name: Terence Mulcahy. The other drunk was blinking up at a statue of our Saviour²¹⁰ the widow had got put up.

The caretaker blinked up at one of the sepulchres they passed. He resumed:

-- And, after blinking up at the sacred figure, Not a bloody bit like the man, says he. That's not Mulcahy, says he, whoever done it.

Rewarded by smiles he fell back and spoke with Corny Kelleher, accepting the dockets given him, turning them over and scanning them as he walked.

-- That's all done with a purpose, Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes.

-- I know, Hynes said, I know that.

-- To cheer a fellow up, Martin Cunningham said. It's pure goodheartedness: damn the thing else.

Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's prosperous bulk. All want to be on good terms with him. Decent fellow, John O'Connell, real good sort. Keys: like Keyes's ad: no fear of anyone getting out, no passout checks. Habeat corpus. I must see about that ad after the funeral. Did I write Ballsbridge on the envelope I took to cover when she disturbed me writing to Martha? Hope it's not chucked in the dead letter office. Be the better of a shave. Grey sprouting²¹¹ beard. That's the first sign when the hairs come out grey and temper getting cross. Silver threads among the grey. Fancy being his wife. Wonder how he had the gumption²¹² to propose to any girl. Come out and live in the graveyard²¹³. Dangle²¹⁴ that before her. It might thrill her first. Courting death... Shades of night hovering²¹⁵ here with all the dead stretched about. The shadows of the tombs when churchyards yawn and Daniel O'Connell must be a descendant I suppose who is this used to say he was a queer breedy man great catholic all the same like a big giant in the dark. Will o'the wisp. Gas of graves. Want to keep her mind off it to conceive at all. Women especially are so touchy²¹⁶. Tell her a ghost story in bed to make her sleep. Have you ever seen a ghost? Well, I have. It was a pitchdark night. The clock was on the stroke of twelve. Still they'd kiss all right if properly keyed up. Whores in Turkish graveyards²¹⁷. Learn anything if taken young. You might pick up a young widow here. Men like that. Love among the tombstones. Romeo. Spice of pleasure. In the midst of death we are in life. Both ends meet. Tantalising for the poor dead. Smell of frilled beefsteaks to the starving gnawing²¹⁸ their vitals. Desire to grig people. Molly wanting to do it at the window. Eight children he has anyway.

He has seen a fair share go under in his time, lying around him field after field. Holy fields. More room if they buried them standing²¹⁹. Sitting or kneeling you couldn't. Standing? His head might come up some day above ground in a landslip with his hand pointing. All honeycombed the ground must be: oblong cells. And very neat he keeps it too, trim grass and edgings. His garden Major Gamble calls Mount Jerome. Well so it is. Ought to be flowers of sleep. Chinese cemeteries²²⁰ with giant poppies growing produce the best opium²²¹ Mastiansky told me. The Botanic Gardens are just over there. It's the blood sinking in the earth gives new life. Same idea those jews they said killed the christian boy. Every man his price. Well preserved fat corpse gentleman, epicure²²², invaluable²²³ for fruit garden. A bargain. By carcass of William Wilkinson, auditor²²⁴ and accountant, lately deceased, three pounds thirteen and six. With thanks.

I daresay the soil would be quite fat with corpse manure²²⁵, bones, flesh, nails, charnelhouses. Dreadful. Turning green and pink, decomposing²²⁶. Rot quick in damp earth. The lean old ones tougher. Then a kind of a tallowy kind of a cheesy. Then begin to get black, treacle²²⁷ oozing²²⁸ out of them. Then dried up. Deathmoths. Of course the cells or whatever they are go on living. Changing about. Live for ever practically. Nothing to feed on feed on themselves.

But they must breed a devil of a lot of maggots. Soil must be simply swirling²²⁹ with them. Your head it simply swurls. Those pretty little seaside gurls. He looks cheerful enough over it. Gives him a sense of power seeing all the others go under first. Wonder how he looks at life. Cracking his jokes too: warms the cockles of his heart. The one about the bulletin. Spurgeon went to heaven 4 A.M. this morning. 11 P.M. (closing time). Not arrived yet. Peter. The dead themselves the men anyhow would like to hear an odd joke or the women to know what's in fashion. A juicy pear or ladies' punch, hot, strong and sweet. Keep out the damp. You must laugh sometimes so better do it that way. Gravediggers in Hamlet. Shows the profound knowledge of the human heart. Daren't joke about the dead for two years at least. De mortuis nil²³⁰ nisi prius. Go out of mourning first. Hard to imagine his funeral. Seems a sort of a joke. Read your own obituary²³¹ notice they say you live longer. Gives you second wind. New lease of life.

-- How many have you for tomorrow? the caretaker asked.

-- Two, Corny Kelleher said. Half ten and eleven.

The caretaker put the papers in his pocket. The barrow had ceased to trundle. The mourners split and moved to each side of the hole, stepping with care round the graves. The gravediggers bore the coffin and set its nose on the brink²³², looping the bands round it.

Burying him. We come to bury Caesar. His ides of March or June. He doesn't know who is here nor care.

Now who is that lankylooking galoot over there in the macintosh? Now who is he I'd like to know? Now, I'd give a trifle to know who he is. Always someone turns up you never dreamt of. A fellow could live on his lonesome all his life. Yes, he could. Still he'd have to get someone to sod him after he died though he could dig his own grave. We all do. Only man buries. No ants too. First thing strikes anybody. Bury the dead. Say Robinson Crusoe was true to life. Well then Friday buried him. Every Friday buries a Thursday if you come to look at it.

O, poor Robinson Crusoe,
How could you possibly do so?
Poor Dignam! His last lie on the earth in his box. When you think of them all it does seem a waste of wood. All gnawed²³³ through. They could invent a handsome bier with a kind of panel sliding let it down that way. Ay but they might object to be buried out of another fellow's. They're so particular. Lay me in my native earth. Bit of clay from the holy land. Only a mother and deadborn child ever buried in the one coffin. I see what it means. I see. To protect him as long as possible even in the earth. The Irishman's house is his coffin. Enbalming in catacombs, mummies, the same idea.
Mr Bloom stood far back, his hat in his hand, counting the bared heads. Twelve. I'm thirteen. No. The chap in the macintosh is thirteen. Death's number. Where the deuce did he pop out of? He wasn't in the chapel, that I'll swear. Silly superstition²³⁴ that about thirteen.

Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert has in that suit. Tinge²³⁵ of purple. I had one like that when we lived in Lombard street west. Dressy fellow he was once. Used to change three suits in the day. Must get that grey suit of mine turned by Mesias. Hello. It's dyed. His wife I forgot he's not married or his landlady ought to have picked out those threads for him.

The coffin dived out of sight, eased down by the men straddled on the gravetrestles. They struggled up and out: and all uncovered. Twenty.

Pause.

If we were all suddenly somebody else.

Far away a donkey brayed²³⁶. Rain. No such ass³. Never see a dead one, they say. Shame of death. They hide. Also poor papa went away.

Gentle sweet air blew round the bared heads in a whisper. Whisper. The boy by the gravehead held his wreath with both hands staring quietly in the black open space. Mr Bloom moved behind the portly kindly caretaker. Well cut frockcoat. Weighing them up perhaps to see which will go next. Well it is a long rest. Feel no more. It's the moment you feel. Must be damned unpleasant. Can't believe it at first. Mistake must be: someone else. Try the house opposite. Wait, I wanted to. I haven't yet. Then darkened deathchamber. Light they want. Whispering around you. Would you like to see a priest? Then rambling²³⁸ and wandering. Delirium²³⁹ all you hid all your life. The death struggle. His sleep is not natural. Press his lower eyelid²⁴⁰. Watching is his nose pointed is his jaw¹⁶³ sinking are the soles of his feet yellow. Pull the pillow away and finish it off on the floor since he's doomed²⁴¹. Devil in that picture of sinner's death showing him a woman. Dying to embrace her in his shirt. Last act of Lucia. Shall I nevermore behold²⁴² thee? Bam! expires. Gone at last. People talk about you a bit: forget you. Don't forget to pray for him. Remember him in your prayers. Even Parnell. Ivy¹⁶⁹ day dying out. Then they follow: dropping into a hole one after the other.

We are praying now for the repose²⁴³ of his soul. Hoping you're well and not in hell. Nice change of air. Out of the fryingpan of life into the fire of purgatory²⁴⁴.

Does he ever think of the hole waiting for himself? They say you do when you shiver in the sun. Someone walking over it. Callboy's warning. Near you. Mine over there towards Finglas, the plot I bought. Mamma poor mamma, and little Rudy.

The gravediggers took up their spades and flung heavy clods of clay in on the coffin. Mr Bloom turned his face. And if he was alive all the time? Whew! By Jingo, that would be awful! No, no: he is dead, of course. Of course he is dead. Monday he died. They ought to have some law to pierce the heart and make sure or an electric clock or a telephone in the coffin and some kind of a canvas airhole. Flag of distress²⁴⁵. Three days. Rather long to keep them in summer. Just as well to get shut of them as soon as you are sure there's no.

The clay fell softer. Begin to be forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind.

The caretaker moved away a few paces and put on his hat. Had enough of it. The mourners took heart of grace, one by one, covering themselves without show. Mr Bloom put on his hat and saw the portly figure make its way deftly through the maze²⁴⁶ of graves. Quietly, sure of his ground, he traversed the dismal²⁴⁷ fields.

Hynes jotting²⁴⁸ down something in his notebook. Ah, the names. But he knows them all. No: coming to me.

-- I am just taking the names, Hynes said below his breath. What is your christian name? I'm not sure.

-- L, Mr Bloom said. Leopold. And you might put down M'Coy's name too. He asked me to.

Charley, Hynes said writing. I know. He was on the Freeman once.

So he was before he got the job in the morgue under Louis Byrne. Good idea a postmortem for doctors. Find out what they imagine they know. He died of a Tuesday. Got the run. Levanted with the cash of a few ads. Charley, you're my darling. That was why he asked me to. O well, does no harm. I saw to that, M'Coy. Thanks, old chap: much obliged. Leave him under an obligation: costs nothing.

-- And tell us, Hynes said, do you know that fellow in the, fellow was over there in the.

He looked around.

-- Macintosh. Yes, I saw him, Mr Bloom said. Where is he now?

-- M'Intosh, Hynes said, scribbling²⁴⁹, I don't know who he is. Is that his name?

He moved away, looking about him.

-- No, Mr Bloom began, turning and stopping. I say, Hynes!

Didn't hear. What? Where has he disappeared to? Not a sign. Well of all the. Has anybody here seen? Kay ee double ell. Become invisible. Good Lord, what became of him?

A seventh gravedigger came beside Mr Bloom to take up an idle spade.

-- O, excuse me!

He stepped aside nimbly.

Clay, brown, damp, began to be seen in the hole. It rose. Nearly over. A mound¹⁶ of damp clods rose more, rose, and the gravediggers rested their spades. All uncovered again for a few instants. The boy propped²⁵⁰ his wreath against a corner: the brother-in-law his on a lump. The gravediggers put on their caps and carried their earthy spades towards the barrow. Then knocked the blades lightly on the turf: clean. One bent to pluck from the haft a long tuft of grass. One, leaving his mates, walked slowly on with shouldered weapon, its blade blueglancing. Silently at the gravehead another coiled the coffinband. His navelcord. The brother-in-law, turning away, placed something in his free hand. Thanks in silence. Sorry, sir: trouble. Headshake. I know that. For yourselves just.

The mourners moved away slowly, without aim, by devious²⁵¹ paths, staying awhile to read a name on a tomb.

-- Let us go round by the chief's grave, Hynes said. We have time.

-- Let us, Mr Power said.

They turned to the right, following their slow thoughts. With awe²³ Mr Power's blank voice spoke:

-- Some say he is not in that grave at all. That the coffin was filled with stones. That one day he will come again.

Hynes shook his head.

-- Parnell will never come again, he said. He's there, all that was mortal of him. Peace to his ashes.

Mr Bloom walked unheeded along his grove²⁵² by saddened angels, crosses, broken pillars, family vaults, stone hopes praying with upcast eyes, old Ireland's hearts and hands. More sensible to spend the money on some charity for the living. Pray for the repose of the soul of. Does anybody really? Plant him and have done with him. Like down a coalshoot. Then lump them together to save time. All souls' day. Twentyseventh I'll be at his grave. Ten shillings for the gardener. He keeps it free of weeds. Old man himself. Bent down double with his shears²⁵³ clipping. Near death's door. Who passed away. Who departed this life. As if they did it of their own accord. Got the shove, all of them. Who kicked the bucket. More interesting if they told you what they were. So and so, wheelwright. I travelled for cork lino. I paid five shillings in the pound. Or a woman's with her saucepan. I cooked good Irish stew²⁵⁴. Eulogy²⁵⁵ in a country churchyard it ought to be that poem of whose is it Wordsworth or Thomas Campbell. Entered into rest the protestants put it. Old Dr Murren's. The great physician called him home. Well it's God's acre for them. Nice country residence. Newly plastered and painted. Ideal spot to have a quiet smoke and read the Church Times. Marriage ads they never try to beautify. Rusty wreaths hung on knobs, garlands of bronzefoil. Better value that for the money. Still, the flowers are more poetical²⁵⁶. The other gets rather tiresome, never withering²⁵⁷. Expresses nothing. Immortelles.

A bird sat tamely perched on a poplar branch. Like stuffed. Like the wedding present alderman Hooper gave us. Hu! Not a budge²⁵⁸ out of him. Knows there are no catapults to let fly at him. Dead animal even sadder. Silly-Milly burying the little dead bird in the kitchen matchbox, a daisychain and bits of broken chainies on the grave.

The Sacred Heart that is: showing it. Heart on his sleeve.

Ought to be sideways and red it should be painted like a real heart. Ireland was dedicated²⁵⁹ to it or whatever that. Seems anything but pleased. Why this infliction²⁶⁰? Would birds come then and peck like the boy with the basket of fruit but he said no because they ought to have been afraid of the boy. Apollo that was.

How many! All these here once walked round Dublin. Faithful departed. As you are now so once were we.

Besides how could you remember everybody? Eyes, walk, voice. Well, the voice, yes: gramophone. Have a gramophone in every grave or keep it in the house. After dinner on a Sunday. Put on poor old greatgrandfather Kraahraark! Hellohellohello amawfullyglad kraark awfullygladaseeragain hellohello amarawf kopthsth. Remind you of the voice like the photograph reminds you of the face. Otherwise you couldn't remember the face after fifteen years, say. For instance who? For instance some fellow that died when I was in Wisdom Hely's.

Rtststr! A rattle of pebbles²⁶¹. Wait. Stop.

He looked down intently into a stone crypt. Some animal. Wait. There he goes.

An obese²⁶² grey rat toddled²⁶³ along the side of the crypt, moving the pebbles. An old stager: greatgrandfather: he knows the ropes. The grey alive crushed itself in under the plinth, wriggled²⁶⁴ itself in under it. Good hidingplace for treasure.

Who lives there? Are laid the remains²⁶⁵ of Robert Emery. Robert Emmet was buried here by torchlight, wasn't he? Making his rounds.

Tail gone now.

One of those chaps would make short work of a fellow. Pick the bones clean no matter who it was. Ordinary meat for them. A corpse is meat gone bad. Well and what's cheese? Corpse of milk. I read in that Voyages in China that the Chinese say a while man smells like a corpse. Cremation²⁶⁶ better. Priests dead against it. Devilling for the other firm. Wholesale²⁶⁷ burners and Dutch oven dealers²⁶⁸. Time of the plague. Quicklime fever pits to eat them. Lethal²⁶⁹ chamber²³⁷. Ashes to ashes. Or bury at sea. Where is that Parsee tower of silence? Eaten by birds. Earth, fire, water. Drowning they say is the pleasantest. See your whole life in a flash. But being brought back to life no. Can't bury in the air however. Out of a flying machine. Wonder does the news go about whenever a fresh one is let down. Underground communication. We learned that from them. Wouldn't be surprised. Regular square feed for them. Flies come before he's well dead. Got wind of Dignam. They wouldn't care about the smell of it. Saltwhite crumbling²⁷⁰ mush of corpse: smell, taste like raw white turnips²⁷¹.

The gates glimmered²⁷² in front: still open. Back to the world again. Enough of this place. Brings you a bit nearer every time. Last time I was here was Mrs Sinico's funeral. Poor papa too. The love that kills. And even scraping up the earth at night with a lantern like that case I read of to get at fresh buried females or even putrefied with running gravesores. Give you the creeps after a bit. I will appear to you after death. You will see my ghost after death. My ghost will haunt you after death. There is another world after death named hell. I do not like that other world she wrote. No more do I. Plenty to see and hear and feel yet. Feel live warm beings near you. Let them sleep in their maggoty beds. They are not going to get me this innings. Warm beds: warm fullblooded life.

Martin Cunningham emerged from a sidepath, talking gravely.

Solicitor, I think. I know his face. Menton. John Henry, solicitor, commissioner²⁷³ for oaths and affidavits²⁷⁴. Dignam used to be In his office. Mat Dillon's long ago. Jolly Mat convivial²⁷⁵ evenings. Cold fowl²⁷⁶, cigars, the Tantalus glasses. Heart of gold really. Yes, Menton. Got his rag out that evening on the bowling²⁷⁷ green because I sailed inside him. Pure fluke of mine: the bias²⁷⁸. Why he took such a rooted dislike to me. Hate at first sight. Molly and Floey Dillon linked under the lilactree, laughing. Fellow always like that, mortified²⁷⁹ if women are by.

Got a dinge in the side of his hat. Carriage probably.

-- Excuse me, sir, Mr Bloom said beside them.

They stopped.

-- Your hat is a little crushed, Mr Bloom said, pointing.

John Henry Menton stared at him for an instant without moving.

-- There, Martin Cunningham helped, pointing also.

John Henry Menton took off his hat, bulged²⁸⁰ out the dinge and smoothed the nap with care on his coatsleeve. He clapped the hat on his head again.

-- It's all right now, Martin Cunningham said.

John Henry Menton jerked his head down in acknowledgment.

-- Thank you, he said shortly.

They walked on towards the gates. Mr Bloom, chapfallen, drew behind a few paces so as not to overhear. Martin laying down the law. Martin could wind a sappyhead like that round his little finger without his seeing it.

Oyster²⁸¹ eyes. Never mind. Be sorry after perhaps when it dawns on him. Get the pull over him that way.

Thank you. How grand we are this morning.

马丁·坎宁翰首先把戴着丝质大礼帽的头伸进嘎嘎作响的马车，轻捷地进去落座了。鲍尔[1]先生小心翼翼地弯着修长的身躯，跟在他后面也上了车。

“来吧，西蒙。”

“您先上，”布卢姆先生说。

迪达勒斯先生匆匆戴上帽子，边上车边说：

“好的，好的。”

“人都齐了吗？”马丁·坎宁翰问：“上车吧，布卢姆。”

布卢姆先生上了车，在空位子上落座。他反手带上车门，咣噹了两下，直到把它撞严实了才撒手。他将一只胳膊套在拉手吊带里，神情严肃地从敞着的车窗里眺望马路旁那一扇扇拉得低低的百叶窗[2]。有一副帘子被拉到一边， 一个老妪正向外窥视。鼻子贴在玻璃窗上又白又扁。她在感谢命运这一遭儿总算饶过了自已。妇女们对尸体所表示的兴趣是异乎寻常的。我们来到世上时给了她们那么多麻烦，所以她们乐意看到我们走。她们好像适合于干这种活儿。在角落里鬼鬼祟祟的。趿拉着拖鞋，轻手轻脚地，生怕惊醒了他。然后给他装裹，以便入殓。摩莉和弗莱明大妈[3]在往棺材里面铺着什么。再往你那边拽拽呀。我们的包尸布。 你决不会知道自己死后谁会来摸你。洗身子啦，洗头啦。我相信她们还会给他剪指甲和头发，并且装在信封里保存一点儿。这之后，照样会长哩。这可是件脏活儿。

大家伫候着，谁也不吭一声儿。大概是在装花圈哪。我坐在硬邦邦的东西上面。唔，原来是我后裤兜儿里的那块香皂。最好把它挪一挪，等有机会再说。

大家全在伫候。过一会儿，前方传来了车轮的转动声，越来越挨近，接着就是马蹄声。车身颠簸了一下。他们的马车开始前进了，摇摇摆摆，吱嘎作响。后面也响起了另外一些马蹄的声音和车轱辘的吱吜声。马路旁的百叶窗向后移动;门环上蒙着黑纱的九号[4]那半掩着的大门，也以步行的速度过去了。

他们依然坐在那里一声不响，膝盖抖动着。直到车子拐了个弯，沿着电车轨道走去，这时才打破了沉寂。特里顿维尔路。速度加快了。车轮在卵石铺成的公路上咯噔咯噔地向前滚动，像是发了疯似的玻璃在车门框里咔嗒咔嗒地震颤着。

“他这是拉着咱们走哪条路啊？”鲍尔先生隔看车窗边东张西望，边问。

“爱尔兰区，”马丁·坎宁翰说，“这是林森德。布伦斯威克大街。”

迪达勒斯先生朝车窗外望着，点了点头。

“这是个古老的好风习[5]，”他说，“我很高兴如今还没有废除。”

大家隔看车窗望了望。行人纷纷脱便帽或礼帽，表示敬意呢。马车径过沃特利巷后就离开电车轨道，走上较为平坦的路。布卢姆先生定睛望望，只见有个身材细溜、穿着丧服、头戴宽檐帽的青年。

“迪达勒斯，你的一个熟人刚刚走过去了，”他说。

“谁呀？”

“你的公子和继承人。”

“他在哪儿？”迪达勒斯说着，斜探过身子来。

马车正沿着一排公寓房子驰去，房前的路面上挖出一条条明沟，沟旁是一溜儿土堆。在拐角处车身蓦地歪了歪，又折回到电车轨道上了，车轮喧闹地咯噔咯噔向前滚动。迪达勒斯先生往后靠了靠身子，说：

“穆利根那家伙跟他在一道吗？他的忠实的阿卡帖斯[6]!”

“没有，”布卢姆先生说，“就他一个人。”

“大概是看他的萨莉舅妈去啦，”迪达勒斯说，“古尔丁那一伙儿，喝得醉醺醺的小成本会计师，还有克莉西，爸爸的小屎橛子，知父莫如聪明的小妞儿。”

布卢姆先生望着林森德路凄然一笑。华莱士兄弟瓶厂：多德尔桥。

里奇·古尔丁和律师用的公文包。他管这事务所叫作古尔丁－科利斯－ 沃德[7]。他开的玩笑如今越来越没味儿了。从前他可是个大淘气包。一个星期天早晨，他用饰针把房东太太的两顶帽子别在头上，同伊格内修斯·加拉赫[8] 一道在斯塔默街上跳起华尔兹舞，通宵达旦地在外边疯闹。如今他可垮下来了，我看他的背痛，就是当年埋下的根子。老婆替他按摩背。他满以为服点药丸就能痊愈。其实那统统都只不过是面包渣子。利润高达百分之六百左右。

“他跟一帮下贱痞子鬼混，”迪达勒斯先生骂道，“大家都说，那个穆利根就是个坏透了的流氓，心肠狠毒，堕落到了极点。他的名字臭遍了整个都柏林城。在天主和圣母的佑助下，我迟早非写封信给他老娘、姑妈或是什么人不可。叫她看了，会把眼睛瞪得像门一样大。我要隔肢他屁股![9]我说话算数。”

他用大得足以压住车轮咯咯声的嗓门嚷着：

“我绝不能听任她那个杂种侄子毁掉我儿子。他爹是个站柜台的，在我表弟彼得·保罗·麦克斯威尼的店里卖棉线带。我决不让他得逞。”

他住了嘴。布卢姆先生把视线从他那愤怒的口髭，移到鲍尔先生那和蔼的面容，以及马丁·坎宁翰的眼睛和严肃地摇曳着的胡子上。好一个吵吵闹闹、固执己见的人。满脑子都是儿子。他说得对。总得有个继承人啊。倘若小鲁迪还在世的话，我就可以看看他长大。在家里能听到他的声音。他穿着一身伊顿[10]式的制服，和摩莉并肩而行。我的儿子。他眼中的我。那必然会是一番异样的感觉。我的子嗣。纯粹是出于偶然。准是那天早晨发生在雷蒙德高台街的事。她正从窗口眺望着两条狗在“停止作恶”[11]的墙边搞着。有个警官笑嘻嘻地仰望着。她穿的是那件奶油色长袍，已经绽了线，可她始终也没缝上。摸摸我，波尔迪。天哪，我想得要死。这就是生命的起源。

于是，她有了身孕。葛雷斯顿斯[12]音乐会的邀请也只好推掉。我的儿子在她肚子里。倘若他活着，我原是可以一直帮助他的。那是肯定的。让他能够自立，还学会德语。

“咱们来迟了吗？”鲍尔先生问。

“迟了十分钟，”马丁·坎宁翰边看看表边说。

摩莉。米莉。一个模子里刻出来的，就是单薄了一点。是个假小子，满嘴村话。呸，跳跳蹦蹦的朱庇特哪!你这天神和小鱼儿哪!可她毕竟是个招人疼的好姐儿，很快就要成为妇人啦。穆林加尔。最亲爱的爹爹。年轻学生。是啊，是啊，也是个妇人哩。人生啊，人生。

马车左摇右晃，他们四个人的身躯也跟着颠簸。

“科尼蛮可以给咱们套一辆更宽绰些的车嘛，”鲍尔先生说。

“他原是可以的，”迪达勒斯先生说，“要不是被那斜视症折腾的话。你懂我的意思吗？”

他阖上了左眼。马丁·坎宁翰开始把腿下的面包渣子撢掉。

“这是什么呀，”他说，“天哪，是面包渣儿吗？”

“想必新近有人在这儿举行过野餐哩，”鲍尔先生说。

大家都抬起腿来，厌恶地瞅着那散发着霉臭、扣子也脱落了的座位皮面。迪达勒斯先生抽着鼻子，蹙眉朝下望望说：

“除非是我完全误会了……你觉得怎么样，马丁？”

“我也这么认为，”马丁·坎宁翰说。

布卢姆先生把大腿放下来。亏得我洗了那个澡。脚上感到很清爽。可要是弗莱明大妈替我把这双短袜补得更细一点就好了。

迪达勒浙先生无可奈何地叹了口气。

“这毕竟是，”他说，“世界上最自然不过的事。”

“汤姆·克南露面了吗？”马丁·坎宁翰慢条斯理地捻着胡子梢儿，问道。

“来啦，”布卢姆先生回答说：“他跟内德·兰伯特[13]和海因斯[14]一道坐在后面哪。”

“还有科尼、凯莱赫本人呢？”鲍尔先生问。

“他到公墓去啦，”马丁·坎宁翰说。

“今天早晨我遇见了麦科伊，”布卢姆先生说，“他说他尽可能来。”

马车猛地停住了。

“怎么啦？”

“堵车了。”

“咱们这是在哪儿呢？”

布卢姆先生从车窗里探出头去。

“大运河，”他说。

煤气厂。听说这能治百日咳哩。亏得米莉从来没患上过。可怜的娃娃们! 痉挛得都蜷缩成一团了，脸上青一块紫一块的。真够受的。相形之下，她患的病倒比较轻，不过是麻疹而已。煎亚麻籽[15]。猩红热。流行性感冒。我这是在替死神兜揽广告哪。可别错过这个机会。狗收容所就在那边。可怜的老阿索斯[16]! 好好照料阿索斯，利奥波德，这是我最后的愿望。愿你的旨意实现[17]。对坟墓里的人们我们总是唯命是从。那是他弥留之际潦潦草草写下的。狗伤心得衰竭而死。那是一只温和驯顺的家畜。老人养的狗通常都是这样的。

吧嗒一声一滴雨点落在他的帽子上。他缩回脖子。接着，一阵骤雨嘀嘀嗒嗒地落在灰色的石板路上。奇怪，稀稀落落的，就像是漏勺滤下来的。我料到会下。想起来啦，我的靴子咯吱咯吱直响来着。

“变天啦，”他安详地说。

“可惜没一直晴下去，”马丁·坎宁翰说。

“乡下可盼着雨哪，”鲍尔先生说，“太阳又出来啦。”

迪达勒斯先生透过眼镜凝视着那遮着一层云彩的太阳，朝天空默默地发出诅咒。

“它就跟娃娃的屁股一样没准儿，”他说。

“咱们又走啦。”

马车又转动起那硬邦邦的轱辘了。他们的身子轻轻地晃悠着。马丁·坎宁翰加快了捻胡须梢儿的动作。

“昨天晚上汤姆·克南真了不起，”他说，“帕迪·伦纳德[18]当面学他那样儿取笑他。”

“噢，马丁，把他的话都引出来吧，”鲍尔先生起劲地说，“西蒙，你等着听克南对本·多拉德唱的《推平头的小伙子》[19]所做的评论吧。”

“了不起，”马丁·坎宁翰用夸张的口气说，“马丁啊，他把那支纯朴的民歌唱绝了，是我这辈子所听到的气势最为磅礴的演唱。”

“气势磅礴，”鲍尔先生笑着说，“他最喜欢用这个字眼，还爱说‘回顾性的编排’。”[20]

“你们读了丹·道森的演说吗？”马丁·坎宁翰问。

“我还没读呢，”迪达勒斯先生说，“登在哪儿啦？”

“今天早晨的报纸上。”

布卢姆先生从内兜里取出那张报。我得给她换那本书。

“别，别，”迪达勒斯先生连忙说，“回头再说吧。”

布卢姆先生的目光顺着报纸过往下扫视着讣闻栏：卡伦、科尔曼、 迪格纳穆、福西特、劳里、瑙曼、皮克。是哪个皮克[21]呢？是在克罗斯比——艾莱恩那儿工作的那家伙吗？不对，是厄布赖特教堂同事。报纸磨破了，上头的油墨字迹很快就模糊了。向“小花”[22]致以谢忱。深切的哀悼。遗族难以形容的悲恸。久患顽症，医治无效，终年八十八岁。为昆兰举行的周月追思弥撒。仁慈的耶稣，怜悯他的灵魂吧。

亲人亨利已遁去，

住进天室今月弥，

遗族哀伤并悲泣，

翘盼苍穹重相聚。

我把那个信封撕掉了吗？撕掉啦。我在澡堂子里看完她那封信之后，放在哪儿啦？他拍了拍背心上的兜。在这儿放得安安妥妥的。亲人亨利已遁去。趁着我的耐心还没有耗尽。

国立小学。米德木材堆放场。出租马车停车场。如今只剩下两辆了。马在打磕睡，肚子鼓得像壁虱。马的头盖上，骨头太多了。另一辆载着客人转悠哪。一个钟头以前，我曾打这儿经过。马车夫们举了举帽子。

在布卢姆先生这扇车窗旁边，一个弯着腰的扳道员忽然背着电车的电杆直起了身子。难道他们不能发明一种自动装置吗？那样，车轮转动得就更便当了。不过，那样一来就会砸掉此人饭碗了吧？但是另一个人都会捞到制造这种新发明的工作吧？

安蒂恩特音乐堂。眼下什么节目也没上演。有个身穿一套淡黄色衣服的男子，臂上佩带着黑纱。他服的是轻丧，不像是怎么悲伤的样子。兴许是个姻亲吧。

他们默默地经过铁道陆桥下圣马可教堂那光秃秃的讲道坊， 又经过女王剧院。海报牌上是尤金·斯特拉顿[23]和班德曼·帕默夫人。也不晓得我今天晚上能不能去看《丽亚》。我原说是要去的。要么就去看《基拉尼的百合》[24]吧？由埃尔斯特·格莱姆斯歌剧团演出。做了大胆的革新。刚刚刷上去、色彩鲜艳的下周节目预告：《布里斯托尔号的愉快航行》[25]。马丁·坎宁翰总能替我弄到一张欢乐剧院的免费券吧。得请他喝上一两杯，反正是一个样。

下午他[26]就来了。她的歌儿。

普拉斯托帽店。纪念菲利普·克兰普顿爵士[27]的喷泉雕像。这是谁[28]呀？

“你好!”马丁·坎宁翰边说边把巴掌举到额头那儿行礼。

“他没瞧见咱们，”鲍尔先生说，“啊，他瞧见啦。你好!”

“是谁呀？”迪达勒斯先生问。

“是布莱泽斯·博伊兰，”鲍尔先生说，他正摘下帽子让他的鬈发透透风哪。

此刻我刚好想到了他。

迪达勒斯先生探过身去打招呼。红沙洲餐厅[29]的门口那儿，白色圆盘状的草帽闪了一下，作为回礼。潇洒的身影过去了。

布卢姆先生端详了一下自已左手的指甲，接着又看右手的。是呀，指甲。除了魅力而外，妇女们，她，在他身上还能看得到旁的什么呢？魅力。他是都柏林最坏的家伙，却凭着这一点活得欢欢势势。妇女们有时能够感觉出对方是个什么样的人。这是一种本能。然而像他那种类型的人嘛。我的指甲。我正瞅着指甲呢。修剪得整整齐齐。然后，我就独自在想着。浑身的皮肉有点儿松软了。我能发觉这一点，因为我记得原先是什么样子。这是怎么造成的呢？估计是肉掉了，而皮肤收缩得却没那么快。但是身材总算保持下来了。依然保持了身材。肩膀。臀部。挺丰满的。舞会的晚上换装时，衬衣后摆竟夹在屁股缝儿里了。

他十指交叉，夹在双膝之间，感到心满意足，茫然地环视着他们的脸。

鲍尔先生问：

“巡回音乐会进行得怎样啦，布卢姆？”

“哦，好极啦，”布卢姆先生说，“我听说，颇受重视哩。你瞧，这可真是个好主意……”

“你本人也去吗？”

“哦，不，”布卢姆先生说，“说实在的，我得到克莱尔郡[30]去办点私事。你要知道，这个计划是把几座主要城镇都转上一圈。这儿闹了亏空，可以上那儿去弥补。”

“可不是嘛，”马丁·坎宁翰说，“玛丽·安德森[31]眼下在北边哪。你们有能手吗？”

“路易斯·沃纳[32]是我老婆的经纪人，”布卢姆先生说，“啊，对呀， 所有那些第一流的我们都能邀来。我希望J·C.多伊尔和约翰·麦科马克[33]也会来。确实是出类拔萃的。”

“还有夫人[34]哪，”鲍尔先生笑眯眯地说，“压轴儿的。”

布卢姆先生松开手指，打了个谦恭和蔼的手势，随即双手交叉起来。史密斯·奥布赖恩[35]。有人在那儿放了一束鲜花。女人。准是他的忌日喽。多福多寿。[36]马车从法雷尔[37]所塑造的那座雕像跟前拐了个弯。于是，他们就听任膝头毫无声息地碰在一起。

“靴子……”

一个衣着不起眼的老人站在路边，举着他要卖的东西，张着嘴，靴。

“靴子带儿，一便士四根。”

不晓得此人是怎么被除名的。本来他在休姆街开过自己的事务所。跟与摩莉同姓的那位沃德福德郡政府律师特威迪在同一座房屋里。打那时候起，就有了那顶大礼帽。住昔体面身份的遗迹。[38]他还服着丧哪。可怜的苦命人，潦倒不堪!像是守灵夜的鼻烟似的，被人踢来踢去。[39]奥卡拉汉已经落魄了[40]。

还有夫人[41]哪。十一点二十分了。起床啦。弗莱明大妈已经来打扫了。她一边哼唱，一边梳理头发。我要，又不愿意。[42]不，应该是，我愿意，又不愿意。[43]她在端详自己的头发梢儿分叉了没有。我的心跳得快了一点儿。[44]唱到tre这个音节时，她的嗓音多么圆润，声调有多么凄切。鸫鸟。画眉。画眉一词正是用来形容这种歌喉的。

他悄悄地扫视了一下鲍尔先生那张五官端正的脸。鬓角已花白了。他是笑眯眯地提到夫人的，我也报以微笑。微微笑，顶大用。也许只是出于礼貌吧。蛮好的一个人。人家说他有外遇，谁晓得是真是假？反正对他老婆来说，这可不是什么愉快的事。然而他们又说——是什么人告诉我的来着？并没有发生肉体关系。谁都会认为，那样很快就会吹台的。对啦，是克罗夫顿[45]。有个傍晚撞见他正给她带去一磅牛腿扒。她是干什么的来着？朱里饭店的酒吧女招待，要么就是莫伊拉饭店的吧？

他们从那位披着八斗篷的解放者[46]的铜像下面经过。

马丁·坎宁翰用臂肘轻轻地碰了碰鲍尔先生。

“吕便支族的后裔[47]，”他说。

一个留着黑胡须的高大身影，弯腰拄着拐棍，趔趔趄趄地绕过埃尔韦里的象记商店[48]拐角，只见一只张着的手巴掌弯过来放在脊梁上。

“保留了原始的全部英姿，”鲍尔先生说。

迪达勒斯先生目送着那抱着沉重脚步而去的背影，温和地说：

“就欠恶魔没弄断你那脊梁骨的大筋啦!”

鲍尔先生在窗边一手遮着脸，笑得弯了腰。这时马车正从格雷[49]的雕像前经过。

“咱们都到他那儿去过了，”马丁·坎宁翰直率地说。

他的目光同布卢姆先生的相遇。他捋捋胡子，补上一句：

“喏，差不多人人都去过啦。”

布卢姆先生望着那些同车人的脸，抽冷子热切地说了起来：

“关于吕便·杰和他儿子，有个非常精彩的传闻。”

“是船家那档子事吗？”鲍尔先生问。

“是啊。非常精彩吧？”

“什么事呀？”迪达勒斯先生问，“我没听说。”

“牵涉到一位姑娘，”布卢姆先生讲起来了，“于是为了安全起见，他打定主意把儿子送到曼岛[50]上去。可是爷儿俩正……”

“什么？就是那个声名狼藉的小伙子吗？”

“是啊，”布卢姆先生说，“爷儿俩正要去搭船，他却想跳下水去淹死……”

“淹死巴拉巴[51]!老天爷，我但愿他能淹死!”

鲍尔先生从那用手遮住的鼻孔里发出的笑声持续了好半晌。

“不是，”布卢姆先生说，“是儿子本人……”

马丁·坎宁翰粗暴地插嘴说，

“吕便·杰和他儿子沿着河边的码头往下走，正准备搭乘开往曼岛的船，那个小骗子忽然溜掉，翻过堤坝纵身跳进了利菲河。”

“天哪!”迪达勒斯先生惊吓得大吼一声，“他死了吗？”

“死!”马丁·坎宁翰大声说，“他可死不了!有个船夫弄来根竿子，钩住他的裤子，把他捞上岸，半死不活地拖到码头上他老子跟前。全城的人有一半都在那儿围观哪。”

“是啊，”布卢姆先生说，“最逗的是……”

“而吕便·杰呢，”马丁·坎宁翰说，“为了酬劳船夫救了他儿子一条命，给了他两个先令。”

从鲍尔先生手下传来一声低微的叹息。

“哦，可不是嘛，”马丁·坎宁翰斩钉截铁地说，“摆出大人物的架势，赏了他一枚两先令银币。”

“非常精彩，对吗？”布卢姆先生殷切地说。

“多付了一先令八便士，”迪达勒斯先生用冷漠的口吻说。

鲍尔先生忍俊不禁，马车里回荡着低笑声。

纳尔逊纪念柱[52]。

“八个李子一便士!八个才一便士!”

“咱们最好显得严肃一些，”马丁·坎宁翰说。

迪达勒斯先生叹了口气。

“不过，说实在的，”他说，“即便笑一笑，可怜的小帕狄也不会在意的。他自己就讲过不少非常逗趣儿的话。”

“天主宽恕我!”鲍尔先生用手指揩着盈眶的泪水说，“可怜的帕迪!一个星期前我最后一次见到他的时候，他还跟平素一样那么精神抖擞呢。我再也设想到会这么乘马车给他送葬。他撇下咱们走啦。”

“戴过帽子[53]的小个儿当中，难得找到这么正派的，”迪达勒斯先生说，“他走得着实突然。”

“衰竭，”马丁·坎宁翰说，“心脏。”

他悲痛地拍拍自己的胸口。

满脸通红，像团火焰。威士忌喝多了。红鼻头疗法。拼死拼活地灌，把鼻头喝成灰黄色的了。为了把鼻头变成那种颜色，他钱可没少花。

鲍尔先生定睛望着往后退去的那些房屋，黯然神伤。

“他死得真是突然，可怜的人，”他说。

“这样死再好不过啦，”布卢姆先生说。

大家对他膛目而视。

“一点儿也没受罪，”他说，“一眨眼就都完啦。就像在睡眠中死去了似的。”

没有人吭气。

街的这半边死气沉沉。就连白天，生意也是萧条的：土地经纪人，戒酒饭店[54]，福尔克纳铁路问讯处，文职人员培训所，吉尔书店，天主教俱乐部，盲人习艺所。这是怎么回事呢？反正有个原因。不是太阳就是风的缘故。晚上也还是这样。只有一些扫烟囱的和做粗活的女佣。在已故的马修神父[55]的庇护下。巴涅尔纪念碑的基石。衰竭。心脏。[56]

前额饰有白色羽毛的几匹白马，在街角的圆形建筑那儿拐了个弯儿，飞奔而来。一口小小的棺材一闪而过。赶看去下葬哩。一辆送葬马车。去世的是未婚者。已婚者用黑马。单身汉用花斑马。修女用棕色的。

“实在可惜，”马丁·坎宁翰先生说，“还是个娃娃哩。”

一张侏儒的脸，像小鲁迪的那样紫红色而布满皱纹。一副侏儒的身躯，油灰一般软塌塌的，陈放在衬了白布的松木匣子里。费用是丧葬互相会给出的。每周付一便士，就能保证一小块草地。咱们这个小乞丐。小不点儿。无所谓。这是大自然的失误。娃娃要是健康的话，只能归功于妈妈。否则就要怪爸爸[57]。但愿下次走点运。

“可怜的小家伙，”迪达勒斯先生说，“他总算没尝到人世间的辛酸。”

马车放慢速度，沿着拉特兰广场的坡路往上走。骨骼咯咯响，颠簸石路上。不过是个穷人，没入肯认领[58]。

“在生存中，”[58]马丁·坎宁翰说。

“然而最要不得的是，”鲍尔先生说，“自寻短见的人。”

马丁·坎宁翰匆匆地掏出怀表，咳嗽一声，又塞了回去。

“给一家人带来莫大的耻辱，”鲍尔先生又补上一句。

“当然是一时的精神错乱，”马丁·坎宁翰斩钉截铁地说，“咱们应该用更宽厚的眼光看这个问题。”

“人家都说干这种事儿的是懦夫，”迪达勒斯先生说。

“那就不是咱们凡人所能判断的了，”马丁·坎宁翰说。

布卢姆先生欲言又止。马丁·坎宁翰那双大眼睛，而今把视线从我身上移开了。他通情达理，富于恻隐之心，天资聪颖。长得像莎士比亚。开口总是与人为善。本地人对那种事儿和杀婴是毫不留情的。不许作为基督教徒来埋葬。早先竟往坟墓中的死者心脏里打进一根木桩[60]，惟恐他的心脏还没有破碎。其实，他们有时也会懊悔的，不过已经来不及了。在河床里发现他的时候，手里还死命地摸住芦苇呢。他[61]瞅我来着。还有他那娘儿们——一个不可救药的醉鬼。一次次地为她把家安顿好，然而几乎一到星期六她就把家具典当一空，让他去赎。他过着像是在地狱里一般的日子。即便是一颗石头做的心脏，也会消磨殆尽的。星期一早晨，他又用肩膀顶着轱辘重新打鼓另开张。老天爷，那天晚上她那副样子真有瞧头。迪达勒斯告诉过我，他刚好在场。她喝得醉醺醺的，抡着马丁的雨伞欢蹦乱跳。

他们称我作亚洲的珍宝，

亚洲的珍宝

日本的艺妓[62]。

他把视线从我身上移开了。他明白。骨骼咯咯响。

验尸的那个下午。桌上摆着个贴有红标签的瓶子。旅馆那个房间里挂着一幅幅狩猎图。令人窒息的气氛。阳光透过威尼新式软百叶帘射了进来。验尸官那双毛茸茸的大耳朵泍浴在阳光下。茶房作证。起先只当他还睡着呢。随后见到他脸上有些黄道道。已经滑落到床脚了。法医验明为：服药过量。意外事故致死。遗书：致吾儿利奥波德。

再也尝不到痛苦了。再也醒不过来了。无人肯认领。

马车沿着布莱辛顿街辘辘地疾驰着。颠簸石路上。

“我看咱们正飞跑着哪，”马丁·坎宁翰说。

“上天保佑，可别把咱们这车人翻在马路上，”鲍尔先生说。

“但愿不至于，”马丁·坎宁翰说，“明天在德国有一场大赛——戈登、贝纳特[63]。”

“唉呀，”迪达勒斯先生说，“那确实值得一看。”

当他们拐进伯克利街时，水库附近一架手摇风琴迎面送来一阵喧闹快活的游艺场音乐，走过去后，乐声依然尾随着。这儿可曾有人见过凯利？[64]凯歌的凯，利益的利。接着就是《扫罗》中的送葬曲[65]。他坏得像老安东尼奥，撇下了我孤苦伶仃![66]足尖立地旋转!仁慈圣母玛利亚医院[67j。这是埃克尔斯街，我家就在前边。[68]一座庞大的建筑，那里为绝症患者所设的病房。真令人感到鼓舞。专收垂死者的圣母济贫院。太平间就在下面，很便当。赖尔登老太太[69]就是在那儿去世的。那些女人的样子好吓人呀。用杯子喂她东西吃，调羹在嘴边儿蹭来蹭去。然后周围屏遮起她的床，等着她咽气。那个年轻的学生[70]多好啊，那一次蜜蜂蜇了我，还是他替我包扎的。他们告诉我，如今他转到产科医院去了。从一个极端到了另一个极端。

马车急转了个弯，蓦地停住了。

“又出了什么事？”

身上打了烙印的牛，分两路从马车的车窗外走过去，哞哞叫着，无精打采地挪动着带脚垫的蹄子，尾巴在瘦骨嶙嶙、巴着粪的屁股上徐徐地甩来甩去。打了猪红色印证的羊，吓得咩咩直叫，在牛群外侧或当中奔跑。

“简直像是移民一样，”鲍尔先生说。

“嘚儿!”，马车夫一路吆喝着，挥鞭啪啪地打着牲口的侧腹。

“嘚儿!躲开!”[71]

这是星期四嘛。明天该是屠宰日啦。怀仔的母牛。卡夫[72]把它们按每头约莫二十七镑的代价出售。兴许是运到利物浦去的。给老英格兰的烤牛肉[73]。他们把肥嫩的牛统统买走了。这下子连七零八碎儿都没有了，所有那些生料——皮啦，毛啦，角啦。一年算下来，蛮可观哩，单打一的牛肉生意。屠宰场的下脚料还可以送到鞣皮厂去或者制造肥皂和植物黄油。不晓得那架起重机如今是不是还在克朗西拉[74]从火车上卸下那些次等的肉。

马车又穿过牲畜群继续前进了。

“我不明白市政府为什么不从公园大门口铺一条直通码头的电车道？”布卢姆先生说，“这么一来，所有这些牲口就都可以用货车运上船了。”

“那样也就不至于堵塞道路啦，”马丁·坎宁翰说。“完全对，他们应该这么做。”

“是啊，”布卢姆先生说，“找还常常转另外一个念头：要像米兰市那样搞起市营的殡仪电车[75]，你们晓得吧。把路轨一直铺到公墓门口，设置专用电车——殡车、送葬车，全齐了。你们明白我的意思吧？”

“那可是个奇妙的主意，”迪达勒斯先生说，“再挂上一节软卧和高级餐车。”

“对科尼来说，前景可不美妙啊，”鲍尔先生补充了一句。

“怎么会呢？”布卢姆先生转向迪达勒斯先生问道，“不是比坐双驾马车奔去体面些吗？”

“嗯，说得有点儿道理，”迪达勒斯先生承认了。

“而且，”马丁·坎宁翰说，“有一次殡车在敦菲角[76]前面拐弯的时候翻啦，把棺材扣在马路上。像那样的事，也就不会发生了。”

“那回太可怕啦，”鲍尔先生面呈惧色地说，“尸首都滚到马路上去了。可怕啊!”

“敦菲领先，”迪达勒斯先生点着头说，“争夺戈登·贝纳特奖杯。”

“颂赞归于天主!”马丁·坎宁翰虔诚地说。

咕咚!车子翻了。一副棺材扑通一声跌到路上，崩开了。帕狄· 迪格纳穆身着过于肥大的褐色衣服，被抛出来，僵直地在尘埃中打滚。红脸膛如今已呈灰色。嘴巴咧开来，像是在问究竟出了啥事儿。完全应该替他把嘴阖上，张着的模样太吓人了。内脏也腐烂得快。把一切开口都堵上就好得多。对，那也堵起来。用蜡。括约肌松了，一古脑儿封上。

“敦菲酒馆到啦，”当马车向右拐的时候，鲍尔先生宣告说。

敦菲角。停看好几辆送葬回来的车。人们在借酒浇愁。可以在路过歇上一会儿。这是开酒店的上好地点。估计我们归途会在这儿停下来，喝上一杯，为他祝祝冥福，大家也聊以解忧。长生不老剂[77]。

然而假定现在发生了这样一档子事。倘若翻滚的当儿，他身子给钉子扎破了，他会不会流血呢？我猜想，也许流，也许不流。要看扎在什么部位了。血液循环已经停止了。然而碰着了动脉，就可能会渗出点儿血来。下葬时，装裹不如用红色的——深红色。

他们沿着菲布斯巴斯街默默前进。刚从公墓回来的一辆空殡车迎面擦过，马蹄嘚嘚嘚响着，一派轻松模样。

克罗斯冈斯桥；皇家运河。

河水咆哮着冲出闸门。一条驶向下游的驳船上，在一堆堆的泥炭当中，站着条汉子，船闸旁的纤路上，有一匹松松地系着缰绳的马。布加布出航[78]。

他们用眼睛盯着他。他乘了这条用一根纤绳拽着的木排，顺着涓涓流淌、杂草蔓生的河道，涉过苇塘，穿过烂泥，越过一只只堵满淤泥的细长瓶子，一具具腐烂的狗尸，从爱尔兰腹地漂向海岸。阿斯隆、穆林加尔、莫伊谷[79]，我可以沿着运河徒步旅行去看望米莉。要么就骑自行车前往。租一匹老马，倒也安全。雷恩[80]上次拍卖的时候倒是有过一辆，不过是女车。发展水路交通。詹姆斯·麦卡恩[81]以用摆渡船把我送过渡口为乐。这种走法要便宜一些。慢悠悠地航行。是带篷的船。“可以坐去野营。还有灵柩船，从水路去升天堂。也许我不写信就突然露面。径由莱克斯利普和克朗西拉，通过一道接一道船闸顺流而下，直抵都柏林。从中部的沼泽地带运来了泥炭。致敬——他举起褐色草帽，向帕狄·迪格纳穆致敬。

他们的马车从布赖恩·勃罗马酒家[82]前经过。墓地快到了。

“不晓得咱们的朋友弗格蒂[83]情况怎样了，”鲍尔先生说。

“不如去问问汤姆·克南·”迪达勒斯先生说。

“怎么回事？”马丁·坎宁翰说，“把他撇下，听任他去抹眼泪吧，是吗？”

“形影虽消失，”迪达勒斯先生说，“记忆诚可贵[84]”。

马车向左拐，走上芬格拉斯路[85]。

右侧是石匠作坊。最后一段工序。狭长的场地，密密匝匝地挤满默默无言的雕像。白色的，悲恸的。有的安详地伸出双手，有的忧伤地下跪，手指着什么地方。还有削下来的石像碎片。在一片白色沉默中哀诉着。为您提供最佳产品。纪念碑建造师及石像雕刻师托马斯·H·登纳尼。

走过去了。

教堂同事吉米·吉尔里的房屋前，一个老流浪汉坐在人行道的栏石上，一边嘟囔着，一边从他那双开了口、脏成褐色的大靴 子里倒着泥土和石子儿。他已走到人生旅途的尽头。

车子经过一座接一座荒芜不堪的花园[86]，一幢幢阴森森的房屋。

鲍尔先生用手指了指。

“那就是蔡尔兹被谋杀的地方，”他说，“最后那幢房子。”

“可不是嘛，”迪达勒斯先生说，“可怕的凶杀案。西摩·布希[87]让他免于诉讼。谋杀亲哥哥。或者据说是这样。”

“检查官没有掌握证据，”鲍尔先生说。

“只有旁证，”马丁·坎宁翰补充说，“司法界有这么一条准则，宁可让九十九个犯人逃脱法网，也不能错判一个无辜者有罪。[88]”

他们望了望。一座凶宅。它黑魆魆地向后退去。拉上了百叶窗，没有人住，花园里长满了杂草。这地方整个都完了。被冤枉地定了罪。凶杀。凶手的形象留在被害者的视网膜上。人们就喜欢读这类故事。在花园里发现了男人的脑袋啦。她的穿着打扮啦。她是怎样遇害的啦。新近发生的凶杀案。使用什么凶器。凶手依然逍遥法外。线索。一根鞋带。要掘墓验尸啦。谋杀的内情总会败露[89]。

这辆马车太挤了。她可能不愿意我事先不通知一声就这么忽然跑来。对女人总得谨慎一些。她们脱裤衩时，只要撞上一回，她们就永远也不会饶恕你。她已经十五岁了嘛。

前景公墓[90]的高栅栏像涟漪般地从他们的视野里淌过。幽暗的白杨树林，偶尔出现几座白色雕像。雕像越来越多起来，白色石像群集在树间，白色人像及其断片悄无声息地竖立着，在虚空中徒然保持着各种姿态。

车轮的钢圈嘎的一声蹭着人行道的栏石，停了下来。马丁·坎宁翰伸出胳膊，拧转把手，用膝盖顶开了车门。他下了马车，鲍尔先生和迪达勒斯先生跟着也下去了。

趁这会子把肥皂挪个窝儿吧。布卢姆先生的手麻利地解开裤子后兜上的钮扣，将巴在纸上的肥皂移到装手绢的内兜里。他边跨下马车，边把另一只手攥着的报纸放回兜里。

简陋的葬礼，一辆大马车，三辆小的。还不都是一样。抬棺人，金色缰绳，安魂弥撒，放吊炮。为死亡摆排场。殿后的马车对面站着个小贩，身旁的手推双轮车上放着糕点和水果。那是些西姆内尔糕饼[91]，整个儿粘在一起了。那是给死者上供用的糕点。狗饼干[92]。谁吃？正从墓地往外走的送葬者。

他跟随着同伴们。接着就是克南先生和内德·兰伯特。海因斯也走在他们后面。科尼·凯莱赫站在敞着门的灵车旁边，取出一对花圈，并将其中的一个递给了男孩子。

刚才那个娃娃的送葬行列不知消失到哪儿去了？

从芬格拉斯[93]那边来了一群马，吃力地迈着沉重的步子，拖着一辆载有庞大花岗石的大车，发出的嘎嘎响声打破了葬礼的沉寂，走了过去。在前边领路的车把式向他们点头致意。如今是灵柩了。尽管他已死去，却比我们先到了。[94]马扭过头来望着棺材，头上那根羽毛饰斜插向天空。它两眼无神：轭具勒紧了脖子，像是压迫着一根血管还是什么的。这些马晓不晓得自己每天拉车运些什么到这儿来？每天准有二三十档子葬事。新教徒另有杰罗姆山公墓。普天之下，每分钟都在举行着葬礼。要是成车地用铁锨铲进土星，就会快上好几倍。每小时埋上成千上万。世界上人太多了。

送葬者从大门里走了出来。一个妇女和一个小姑娘。妇女的相貌刁悍，尖下巴颏儿，看上去是个胡乱讨价还价的那号人，歪戴着一顶软帽。小姑娘满脸灰尘和泪痕，她挽着妇人的臂，仰望着，等待要她号哭的信号。鱼一般的脸，铁青而毫无血色。

殡殓工们把棺材扛在肩上，抬进大门。尸体沉得很。方才我从浴缸里迈出来，也觉得自己的体重增加了。死者领先，接着是死者的朋友。科尼·凯莱赫和那个男孩子拿着花圈跟在后面。挨着他们的是谁？啊，是死者的内弟。

大家都跟着走。

马丁·坎宁翰悄声说：

“当你在布卢姆面前谈起自杀的事来时，我心里感到万分痛苦。”

“为什么？”鲍尔先生小声说，“怎么回事？”

“他父亲就是服毒自杀的，”马丁·坎宁翰跟他交头接耳地说，“生前在恩尼斯[95]开过皇后饭店。你不是也听见他说要去克莱尔吗？那是忌辰。”

“啊，天啊!”鲍尔先生压低嗓门说，“我这是头一回听说。是服毒吗？”

他回过头去，朝那张有着一双沉思的乌黑眼睛的脸望去。那人边说话，边跟着他们走向枢机主教的陵墓[96]。

“上保险了吗？”

“我想一定上啦，”克南先生说，“然而保险单已经抵押出去，借了一大笔钱。马丁正想办法把那个男孩子送到阿尔坦[97]去。”

“他撇下了几个孩子？”

“五个。内德·兰伯特说过，他要想方设法把一个女孩子送进托德[98]去。”

“真够惨的，”布卢姆轻声说，“五个幼小的孩子。”

“对可怜的妻子来说，是个很大的打击，”克南先生又补上一句。

“说得是啊，”布卢姆先生随声附和道。

如今，她胜利地活过了他。

他低头望了望自己涂油擦得锃亮的靴子。她的寿数比他长。失去了丈夫。对她来说，这死亡比对我关系重大。总有一个比另一个长寿。明智的人说，世上的女人比男人多。[99]安慰她吧：你的损失太惨重了。我希望你很快就跟随他而去。只有对信奉印度教的寡妇才能这么说。[100]她会再婚的。嫁给他吗？不。 然而谁晓得以后会怎样呢？老女王去世后，就不兴守寡了。用炮车运送。维多利亚和阿尔伯特。在福洛格摩举行的追悼仪式。[101]可后来她还是在软帽上插了几朵紫罗兰。 在心灵深处[102]，她毕竟好虚荣的。这一切都是为了一个影子。女王的配偶而已， 连国王也不是。她儿子的位分才是实实在在的。那可以有新的指望[103];不像她想要唤回来而白白等待着的过去。过去是永远也不复返了。

总得有人先走。孤零零地入土，不再睡在她那温暖的床上了。

“你好吗，西蒙？”内德·兰伯特一边握手，一边柔声地说，“近一个月来，连星期天也一直没见着你啦。”

“从来没这么好过。科克这座城市[104]里，大家都好吗？”

“复活节的星期一，我去看科克公园的赛马[105]了，”内德·兰伯特说，“还是老一套，六先令八便士[106]。我是在狄克·蒂维家过的夜。”

“狄克这个实实在在的人，他好吗？”

“他的头皮和苍天之间己经毫无遮拦啦，”内德·兰伯特回答说。

“哎呀，我的圣保罗!”迪达勒斯先生抑制着心头的惊愕说，“狄克·蒂维歇顶了吗？”

“马丁正在为那些孩子们募集一笔捐款，”内德·兰伯特指着前边说，“每人几先令。让他们好歹维持到保险金结算为止。”

“对，对，”迪达勒斯先生迟迟疑疑地说，“最前面的那个是大 儿子吧？”

“是啊，”内德·兰伯特说，“挨着他舅舅。后面是约翰·亨利·

门顿[107]。他认捐了一镑。”

“我相信他会这么做的，”迪达勒斯先生说，“我经常对可怜的 帕狄说，他应该在自己那份工作上多下点儿心。约翰·亨利并不是世界上最坏的人。”

“他是怎么砸的饭碗？”内德·兰伯特问道，“酗酒，还是什么？”

“很多好人都犯这个毛病，”迪达勒斯先生叹了口气说。

他们在停尸所小教堂的门旁停下了。 布卢姆先生站在手执花圈的男孩儿后面，俯视着他那梳理得光光整整的头发和那系着崭新的硬领、有着凹沟的纤细脖颈。可怜的孩子!也不晓得当他爸爸咽气时，他在不在场？ 双方都不曾意识到死神即将来临。弥留之际才回光返照，最后一次认出人来。多少未遂的意愿。我欠了奥格雷狄三先令[108]。他能领会吗？殡殓工把棺材抬进了小教堂。他的头在哪一端？

过了一会儿，他跟在别人后头走进去，在透过帘子射进来的日光下眨巴着眼儿。棺材停放在圣坛前的柩架上，四个角各点燃一支高高的黄蜡烛。它总是在我们的前边。科尼·凯莱赫在四个角各放了只花圈，然后向那男孩子打了个手势，让他跪下。送葬者东一个西一个地纷纷跪在祈祷桌前。布卢姆先生站在后面，离圣水盂不远。等大家都跪下后，才从兜里掏出报纸摊开来，小心翼翼地铺在地上，屈起右膝跪在上面。他将黑帽子轻轻地扣在左膝上，手扶帽檐，虔诚地弯下身去。

一名助祭提着盛有什么的黄铜桶[109]，从一扇门后面走了进来， 白袍神父跟在后面。他一只手整理着祭带，另一只手扶着顶在他那癞哈蟆般的肚子上的一本小书。谁来读这本书？白嘴鸦说：我。[110]

他们在柩架前停下步子。神父嗄声流畅地读起他那本书来。

科菲神父。我晓得他的姓听上去像“棺材”[111]。哆咪内呐眯内[112]。他的嘴巴那儿显得盛气凌人。专横跋扈。健壮的基督教徒[113]。 任何人斜眼瞧他都要遭殃。因为他是神父嘛。你要称作彼得[114]。迪达勒斯曾说 ，他的肚子会横着撑破的，就像是尽情地吃了三叶草的羊似的。挺着那么个大肚子，活像一只被毒死的小狗。那个人找到了最有趣儿的说法。哼，横里撑破。

求你不要审问我，你的仆人。[115]

用拉下文为他们祷告，会使他们觉得自己的身价抬高了些。安魂弥撒。身穿绝妙的号丧者[116]。黑框信纸。你的名字已经列在祭坛名单[117]上。这地方凉飕飕的。可得吃点好的才行。在昏暗中一坐就是整个上午， 磕着脚后跟，恭候下一位。连眼睛都像是癞哈蟆的。是什么使他胀成这样呢？摩莉一吃包心菜就肚胀。兴许是此地的空气在作怪。看来弥漫着疠气。这一带必定充满了在地狱里般的疠气。就拿屠夫来说吧：他们变得像生牛排似的。是谁告诉我来着？是默文·布朗[118]。 圣沃伯格教堂有一架可爱的老风琴，已经历了一百五十个星霜。在教堂地下灵堂里，必须不时地在棺材上凿个窟窿，放出疠气，点燃烧掉。蓝色的，一个劲儿地往外冒。只要吸上一口，你就完蛋啦。

我的膝盖硌得疼了。唔。这样就好一些了。

神父从助祭提着的桶里取出一根顶端呈圆形的棍子，朝棺材上甩了甩。然后他走到另一头，又甩了甩。接着他踱了回来，将棍子放回桶里。你安息前怎样，如今还是怎样。一切都有明文规定，他照办就是了。

不要让我们受到诱惑。[119]

助祭尖声细气地应答着。[120]我常常觉得，家里不如雇个小男仆。最大不超过十五岁。再大了，自然就……

那想必是圣水。洒出来的是永眠。这份差事他准干腻了。成天朝送来的所有的尸首甩那牢什子。要是他能看到自己在往谁身上洒圣水，也不碍事嘛。每迎来一天，就有一批新的，中年汉子，老妪，娃娃，死于难产的孕妇，蓄胡子的男人，秃顶商人，胸脯小得像麻雀的结核病姑娘。他成年为他们作同样的祷告，并且朝他们洒圣水，安息吧。如今该轮到迪格纳穆了。

在天堂里。[121]

说是他即将升天堂或已升入天堂。对每个人都这么说。这是一份令人厌烦的差事。可是他总得说点儿什么。

神父阖上圣书走了，助祭跟在后面。科尼·凯莱赫打开侧门，掘墓工进来，重新抬起棺材，抬出去装在他们的手推车上。 科尼·凯莱赫把一只花圈递给男孩儿，另一只递给他舅舅。大家跟在他们后面， 走出侧门，来到外边柔和的灰色空气中。布卢姆先生殿后。他又把报纸折好，放回兜里，神情严肃地俯视着地面，直到运棺材的手推车向左拐去。金属轱辘磨在砂砾上，发出尖锐的嘎嘎声。一簇靴子跟在手推车后面踏出钝重的脚步声，沿着墓丛间的小径走去。

咯哩嗒啦咯哩嗒啦硲噜。主啊，我绝不可在这儿哼什么小曲儿。

“奥康内尔的圆塔[122]，”迪达勒斯先生四下里望了望说。

鲍尔先生用柔和的目光仰望着那高耸的圆锥形塔的顶端。

“老丹·奥[123]在他的人民当中安息哪，”他说，“然而他的心脏却埋在罗马[124]。这儿埋葬了多少颗破碎的心啊，西蒙!”

“她[125]的坟墓就在那儿，杰克，”迪达勒斯先生说，“我不久就会神腿儿躺在她身边了。任凭天主高兴，随时把我接走吧。”

他的精神崩溃了，开始暗自哭泣，稍打着趔趄。鲍尔先生挽住他的胳膊。

“她在那儿安息更好，”他体贴地说。

“那倒也是，”迪达勒斯先生微弱地喘了口气说，“假若有天堂的话，我猜想她淮是在那里。”

科尼·凯莱赫从行列里跨到路边，让送葬者抱着沉重的脚步从他身旁踱过去。

“真是个令人伤心的场合，”克南先生彬彬有礼地开口说。

布卢姆先生阖上眼，悲恸地点了两下头。

“别人都戴上帽子啦，”克南先生说，“我想，咱们也可以戴了吧。咱们在后尾儿。在公墓里可不能大意。”

他们戴上了帽子。

“你不觉得神父先生念祷文念得太快了些吗？”克南先生用嗔怪的口吻说。

布卢姆先生注视着他那双敏锐的、挂满血丝的眼睛，肃然点了点头。诡谲的眼睛，洞察着内心的秘密。我猜想他是共济会的，可也拿不准。又挨着他了。咱们在末尾。同舟共济[126]。巴不得他说点儿旁的。

克南先生又加上一句：

“我敢说杰罗姆山公墓举行的爱尔兰圣公会[127]的仪式更简朴，给人的印象也更深。”

布卢姆先生谨慎地表示了同意。当然，语言又当作别论。[128]

克南先生一本正经地说：

“我就是复活，就是生命。[129]这话触动人的内心深处。”

“是啊，”布卢姆先生说。

也许会触动你的心，然而对于如今脚尖冲着雏菊、停在六英尺见长、二英尺见宽的棺材里面的那个人来说，又有什么价值呢？触动不了他的心。寄托感情之所在。一颗破碎了的心。终归是个泵而已，每天抽送成千上万加仑的血液。直到有一天堵塞了，也就完事大吉。此地到处都撂着这类器官，肺、心、肝。生了锈的老泵，仅此而已。复活与生命。人一旦死了，就是死了。末日的概念。[130]去敲一座座坟墓，把他们都喊起来。“拉撒路，出来!”[131]然而他是第五个出来的，所以失业了。[132]起来吧!这是末日!于是，每个人都四下里摸索自己的肝啦，肺啦以及其他内脏。那个早晨要是能把自己凑个齐全，那就再好不过了。颅骨里只有一英钱粉末。每英钱合十二克。金衡制[133]。

科尼·凯莱赫和他们并排走起来。

“一切都进行得头等顺利，”他说，“怎么样？”

他用眼睛不慌不忙地打量着他们。警察般的肩膀。吐啦噜吐啦噜地哼着小调儿。

“正应该这样，”克南先生说。

“什么？呃？”科尼·凯莱赫说。

克南先生请他放心。

“后面那个跟汤姆·克南一道走着的汉子是谁？”约翰·亨利·门顿问，“看来挺面熟。”

内德·兰伯特回过头去瞥了一眼。

“布卢姆，”他说，“原先，不，我的意思是说现在，有个名叫玛莉恩·特威迪夫人的女高音歌手。她就是此人的老婆。”

“啊，可不是嘛，”约翰·亨利·门顿说，“我己经好久没见到她了。她长得蛮漂亮。我跟她跳过舞;哦，打那以后，已过了十五个——啊，十七个黄金年月啦。那是在圆镇的马特·狄龙[134]家。当年她可有搂头啦。”

他回头隔着人缝儿望去。

“他是什么人？”他问，“做什么的？他干过文具行当吧？一天晚上我跟他吵过架，记得是在滚木球场上。”

内德·兰伯特笑了笑。

“对，他干过那一行，”他说，“在威兹德姆·希利的店里，推销吸墨纸。”

“天哪，”约翰·亨利·门顿说，“她干吗要嫁给这么一个上不了台盘的家伙呢？当年她劲头可足啦。”

“如今也不含糊，”内德·兰伯特说，“他管拉些广告。”

约翰·亨利·门顿那双大眼睛直勾勾地盯着前面。

手推车转进一条侧径。一个身材魁梧的人在草丛里伫候，举举帽子来表示敬意。掘墓工们也用手碰了一下便帽。

“约翰·奥康内尔，”鲍尔先生欣然说，“他从来没忘记过朋友。”

奥康内尔先生默默地和每一个人握了手。迪达勒斯先生说，

“我又来拜望您啦。”

“我亲爱的西蒙，”公墓管理员悄声回答说，“我压根儿不希望您来光顾!”

他向内德·兰伯特和约翰·亨利·门顿致意后，就挨着马丁·坎宁翰继续往前走，还在背后摆弄着两把长钥匙。

“你们听说过关于库姆街的马尔卡希那档子事吗？”他问道。

“我没听说，”马丁·坎宁翰说。

他们不约而同地把戴着大礼帽的脑袋凑过去，海因斯侧耳静听。管理员的两个大拇指勾在打着弯儿的金表链上。他朝着他们那一张张茫然的笑脸，用谨慎的口吻讲开了。

“人们传说着这么个故事，”他说，“一个大雾弥漫的傍晚，一对醉鬼到这儿来寻找一个朋友的坟墓。他们打听库姆街的马尔卡希，人家便告诉他们那人埋在哪儿。他们在雾里摸索了好一阵子，果真找到了坟墓。一个醉鬼拼出了死者的姓名：特伦斯·马尔卡希。另一个醉鬼却朝死者遗孀托人竖起的那座救世主雕像直眨巴眼儿。”

管理员翻起眼睛，冲着他们正走边的一座坟墓瞅了一眼。接着说：

“他睁大了眼朝那座圣像望了好半晌之后说：‘一点儿也不像那个人。’又说：‘不管是谁雕的，反正这不是马尔卡希。’”

大家听了，报以微笑。接着他就迟到后面，去和科尼·凯莱赫攀谈，收下对方递过来的票据，边走边翻看看。

“全都是故意讲的，”马丁·坎宁翰向海因斯解释说。

“我晓得，”海因斯说，“我也注意到了。”

“为的是让大鼓起劲儿来，”马丁·坎宁翰说，“纯粹是出于好心，决没有旁的用意。”

布卢姆先生欣赏管理员那肥硕、魁梧的身躯。人人都乐意和他往来。约翰·奥康内尔为人正派，是个道地的好人。他身上挂的那两把钥匙就像是凯斯[135] 商店的广告似的。不必担心有人会溜出去。不需要通行证。得到人身保护。葬礼结束后，我得办理一下那份广告。那天我写信给玛莎的时候，她闯了进来。我用一个信封遮住了，上面写没写鲍尔斯桥[136]呢？但愿没有被丢进死信保管处。最好刮刮脸。长出灰胡子茬儿了，那是头发变灰的兆头。脾气也变坏了。灰发中央着银丝。[137]想想看，给这样的人做老婆!我纳闷他当年是怎么壮起胆子去向人家姑娘求婚的。来吧，跟我在坟场里过日子。用这来诱惑她。起初她也许还会很兴奋呢。向死神求爱。这里，夜幕笼罩下，四处躺着死尸。当坟地张大了口的时候，鬼魂从坟墓里出来。[138]我想，丹尼尔·奥康内尔准是其后裔。是谁来看， 常说丹尼尔是个奇怪的、生殖力旺盛的人[139]，同时仍不失为一位伟大的天主教徒， 像个顶天立地的巨人矗立在黑暗中。鬼火。坟墓里的疠气。必须把她的心思从这档子事排遣开才行。不然的话，休想让她受孕。妇女尤其敏感得厉害。在床上给她讲个鬼故事，哄她入睡。你见过鬼吗？喏，我见过。那是个漆黑的夜晚。时钟正敲着十二点。然而只消把情绪适当地调动起来，她们就准会来接吻的。在土耳其， 坟墓里照样有窑姐儿。只要年轻的时候就着手，凡事都能学到家。在这儿你兴许还能够勾搭上一位小寡妇呢。男人就好这个。在墓碑从中谈情说爱。罗密欧[140]。给快乐平添情趣。 在死亡中，我们与生存为伍。[141]两头都衔接上了。 那些可怜的死者眼睁睁望着，只好干着急呗。那就好比让饥肠辘辘者闻烤牛排的香味，馋得他们心焦火燎。欲望煎熬着人。摩莉很想在窗畔搞来着。反正管理员已有了八个孩子。

他此生已见过不少人入土，躺到周围一片片的茔地底下。神圣的茔地。倘若竖着埋，就必然可以省出些地方。坐着或跪着的姿势可就省不了。站着埋吗？[142]要是有朝一日大地往下陷，他的脑袋兴许会钻出地面，手还指着什么地方。地面底下一准统统成了蜂窝状，由一个个长方形的蜂房所构成。而且他把公墓收拾得非常整洁：又推草坪，又修剪边沿。甘布尔少校[143]管这座杰罗姆山叫作他自已的花园。可不是嘛。应该栽上睡眠花。马期天斯基[144]曾告诉我说，中国茔地上种着巨大的罂粟，能够采到优等鸦片。植物园就在前边。正是侵入到土壤里的血液给予了新生命。据说犹太人就是本着这个想法来杀害基督教徒的男孩儿的。[145]人们的价码各不相同。保养得好好的、肥肥胖胖的尸体，上流人士，美食家，对果园来说是无价之宝。今有新近逝世的威廉·威尔金森(审计员兼会计师)的尸体一具，廉价处理，三镑十三先令六便士。谨此致谢。

我敢说，有了这些尸肥，骨头、肉、指甲，这片土壤一定会肥沃极了。一座座存尸所。令人毛骨悚然。都腐烂了，变成绿色和粉红色。在湿土里，也腐烂得快。瘦削的老人不那么容易烂。然后变成像是牛脂一般的、干酪状的东西。接着就开始发黑，渗出糖浆似的黑液。最后干瘪了。骷髅蛾[146]。当然，细胞也罢， 旁的什么也罢，还会继续活下去。不断地变换着。实际上是物质不灭。没有养分的话，就从自己身上吸吮养分。

但是准会繁殖出大量的蛆。土壤里确实有成群的蛆蠕动着。简直让你“云”头转向。海滨那些漂亮的小姑娘。[147]他心满意足地望着这一切。 想到其他所有的人都比他先入土，给予他一种威力感。不晓得他是怎样看待人生的。嘴里还一个接一个地嘣出笑话，暖一暖心坎上的褶子。有这么个关于一张死亡公报的笑话：“斯珀吉昂今晨四时向天堂出发。现已届晚间十一时(关门时间)，尚未抵达。彼得。[148]”至于死者本人，男的横竖爱听个妙趣横生的笑话，女的想知道什么最时新。来个多汁的梨，或是女士们的潘趣酒[149]，又热和又浓烈又甜。可以搪潮气。你有时候也得笑笑，所以不如这么做。《哈姆莱特》中的掘基人[150]。 显示出对人类心灵的深邃理解。关于死者，起码两年之内不敢拿他们开玩笑。关于死者，除了过去，什么也别说。[151] 等出了丧期再说。难以想象他本人的葬礼将是怎样的。像是开个玩笑似的。他们说，要是念念自己的讣告，就能延年益寿。使你返老还童，又多活上一辈子。

“明天你有几档子？”管理员问。

“两档子，”科尼·凯莱赫说，“十点半和十一点。”

管理员将票据放进自己的兜里。手推车停了下来。送葬者分散开来，小心翼翼地绕过茔丛，踱到墓穴的两侧。掘墓人把棺材抬过来，棺材前端紧贴着墓穴边沿撂下，并且在棺材的周围拢上绳子。

要埋葬他了。我们是来埋葬愷撒的。他的三月中或六月中[152]。他不晓得都有谁在场，而且也不在乎。

咦，那边那个身穿胶布雨衣[153]、瘦瘦高高的蠢货是谁呀？我倒想知道一下。要是有人告诉我，我情愿送点薄礼。总会有个你再也想不到的人露面。一个人能够孤零零地度过一生。是呀，他能够。尽管他可以为自己挖好墓穴，但他死后还是得靠什么人为他盖土。我们都是这样。只有人类死后才要埋葬。不，蚂蚁也埋葬。任何人首先想到的就是这件事。埋葬遗体。据说鲁滨孙·克鲁索过的是顺从于大自然的生活。喏，可他还是由“星期五”埋葬的呢。[154]说起来，每个星期五都埋葬一个星期四哩。

哦，可怜的鲁滨孙·克鲁索!

你怎能这样做？[155]

可怜的迪格纳穆!这是他最后一遭儿了，躺在地面上，装在棺材匣子里。 想到所有那些死人，确实像是在糟踏木料。全都让虫子蛀穿了。他们蛮可以发明一种漂亮的尸架，装有滑板，尸体就那样哧溜下去。啊，他们也许不愿意用旁人使过的器具来入土。他们可挑剔得很哪。把我埋在故乡的土壤里。从圣地取来的一把土。[156]只有母亲和死胎才装在同一口棺材里下葬。我明白这是什么意思。 我明白。为的是即便入土之后，也尽可能多保护婴儿一些日子。爱尔兰人的家就是他的棺材[157]。在地下墓窟里使用防腐香料，跟木乃伊的想法一样。

布卢姆先生拿着帽子站在尽后边，数着那些脱了帽子的脑袋。十二个。我是第十三个。不，那个身穿胶布雨衣的家伙才是第十三个呢。不祥的数目。那家伙究竟是打哪儿突然冒出来的？我敢发誓，刚才他并没在小教堂里。关于十三的迷信[158]，那是瞎扯。

内德·兰伯特那套衣服是用柔软的细花呢做的，色调有点发紫。当我们住在伦巴德西街时，我也有过这样的一套。当年他曾经是个讲究穿戴的人，往往每天换上三套衣服。我那身灰衣服得叫梅西雅斯[159]给翻改一下。咦，他那套原来是染过的哩。他老婆——哦，我忘了他是个单身汉——兴许公寓老板娘应该替他把那些线头摘掉。[160]

棺材已经由叉开腿站在墓穴搭脚处的工人们徐徐地撂下去，看不到了。他们爬上来，走出墓穴。大家都摘了帽子。统共是二十人。

静默。

倘若我们忽然间统统变成了旁人呢。

远方有一头驴子在叫。要下雨了。驴并不那么笨。人家说，谁都没见过死驴。它们以死亡为耻，所以躲藏起来。我那可怜的爸爸也是在远处死的。

和煦的罄风围绕着脱帽的脑袋窃窃私语般地吹拂。人们唧唧喳喳起来。站在坟墓上首的男孩子双手捧着花圈，一声不响地定睛望着那黑魆魆、 还未封顶的墓穴。布卢姆先生跟在那位身材魁梧、为人厚道的管理员后面移动脚步。剪裁得体的长礼服。兴许正在估量着，看下一个该轮到谁了。喏，这是漫长的安息。再也没有感觉了。只有在咽气的那一刹那才有感觉。准是不愉快透了。开头儿简直难以置信。一定是搞错了，该死的是旁的什么人。到对门那家去问问看。且慢，我要。我还没有。然后，死亡的房间遮暗了。他们要光。[161]你周围有人窃窃私语。 你想见见神父吗？接着就漫无边际地胡言乱语起来。 隐埋了一辈子的事都在谵语中抖搂出来了。临终前的挣扎。他睡得不自然。按一按他的下限睑吧。瞧瞧他的鼻子是否耸了起来，下颚是否凹陷，脚心是否发黄。既然他是死定了， 就索性把枕头抽掉，让他在地上咽气吧。[162]在“罪人之死”那幅画里，魔鬼让他看一个女人。他只穿着一件衬衫，热切地盼望与她拥抱。《露西亚》[163]的最后一幕。我再也见不到你了吗？砰!他咽了气。终于一命呜呼。人们谈论你一阵子，然后就把你忘了。不要忘记为他祷告。祈祷的时候要惦记着他。甚至连巴涅尔也是如此，常春藤日[164] 渐渐被人遗忘了。然后，他们也接踵而去，一个接一个地坠入穴中。

眼下我们正为迪格纳穆灵魂的安息而祷告。愿你平平安安，没下地狱。换换环境也蛮好嘛。走出人生的煎锅，进入炼狱[165]的火焰。

他可曾想到过等待着他的那个墓穴？人们说，当你在阳光下打哆嗦时，就说明你想到了。有人在墓上踱步。传唤员来招呼你了：快轮到你啦。我在靠近芬格拉斯路那一带买下一块茔地，我的墓穴就在那里。妈妈，可怜的妈妈，还有小鲁迪也在那里永眠。

掘墓工们拿起铁鍬，将沉甸甸的土块儿甩到穴里的棺材上。布卢姆先生扭开他的脸。倘若他一直还活着呢？ 唷!哎呀，那太可怕啦!不，不，他已经死了，当然喽。他当然已经死啦。他是星期一咽气的。应该规定一条法律，把心脏扎穿，以便知道确已死亡;要么就在棺材里放一只电钟或一部电话，装个帆布做的通气孔也行。求救信号旗。以三天为限。夏天可搁不了这么久。一旦验明确实断了气，还是马上把棺材封闭起来的好。

土坷垃砸下去的声音越来越小了。已开始被淡忘了。眼不见，心也不想了。

管理员移动了几步，戴好帽子。真够了。送葬者们舒了口气，一个个悄悄地戴上帽子。布卢姆先生也把帽子戴好。他望到那个魁梧的身姿正灵巧地穿过墓丛的迷津拐来拐去。他静静地、把握十足地跨过这片悲伤的场地。

海因斯在笔记本上匆匆地记着什么。啊，记名字哪。然而所有的人他都认识啊。咦，朝我走过来了。

“我在记名字，”他压低嗓门说，“你的教名是什么来着？我没把握。”

“利，”布卢姆先生说，“利奥波德。你不妨把麦科伊的名字也写上。他托付过我。”

“查理，”海因斯边写边说，“我晓得。他曾经在《自由人报》工作过。”

是这样的。后来他才在收尸所找到了差事，当路易斯·伯恩[166]的帮手。 让大夫来验尸倒是个好主意。原来只是凭想象，这下子可以弄明真相了。他是星期二死的。[167]就那样溜了。收了几笔广告费，就携款逃之夭夭。查理， 你是我亲爱的人。[168]所以他才托付我的。啊，好的，不碍事的，我替你办就是了，麦科伊。劳驾啦，老伙计，衷心感谢。一点儿都没破费，还让他领了我的情。

“我想打听一下，”海因斯说，“你认识那个人吗？那边的那个穿，身穿……”

他东看看西望望。

“胶布雨衣。是的，我瞅见他了，”布卢姆先生说，“现在他在哪儿呢？”

“焦勃雨伊，”海因斯边草草记下边说，“我不知道他是谁。这是他的姓吧？”

他四下里望了望，走开了。

“不是，”布卢姆先生开口说。他转过身去，想拦住海因斯，“喂，海因斯!”

没听见。怎么回事？他到哪儿去啦？连个影儿都没有了。喏，可真是。这儿可曾有人见过？凯歌的凯，利益的利。[169]消失了踪影。天哪，他出了什么事？

第七个掘墓人来到布卢姆先生身旁，拿起一把闲着的铁鍬。

“啊，对不起!”

他敏捷地闪到一边去。

墓穴里开始露出潮湿的褐色泥土。逐渐隆起。快堆完了。湿土块垒成的坟头越来越高，又隆起一截。掘墓工们停下了挥鍬的手。大家再度脱帽片刻。男孩儿把他的花圈斜立在角落里，那位舅爷则将自己那一只放在一块士坷垃上。掘墓工们戴上便帽，提着沾满泥土的铁鍬，朝手推车走去。接着，在草皮上轻轻地磕打一下鍬刃，拾掇得干干净净。一个人弯下腰去摘缠在鍬把上的一缕长草。另一个离开伙伴们，把鍬当作武器般地扛着，缓步走去，铁刃闪出蓝光。还有一个在坟边一声不响地卷着拢棺材用的绳子。他的脐带。那位舅爷掉过身去要走时，往他那只空着的手里塞了点儿什么。默默地致谢。您费心啦，先生。辛苦啦。摇摇头。我明白。只不过向你们大家表表寸心。

送葬者们沿了弯弯曲曲的小径徐徐地走着，不时地停下来念念墓上的名字。

“咱们弯到首领[170]的坟墓那儿去看看吧，”海因斯说，“时间还很从容。”

“好的，”鲍尔先生说。

他们向右拐，一路在缓慢思索着。鲍尔先生怀着敬畏的心情，用淡漠的声调说：

“有人说，他根本就不在那座坟里。棺材里装满着石头。说有一天他还会来的。”

海因斯摇了摇头。

“巴涅尔再也不会来啦，”他说，“他的整个儿肉体都在那里。愿他的遗骨享受安宁。”

布卢姆先生悄悄地沿着林荫小径向前踱去。两侧是悲恸的天使，十字架，断裂的圆柱[171]，家茔、仰望天空做祷告的希望的石像，还有古爱尔兰的心和手。 倒不如把钱花在为活人办点慈善事业上更明智一些哩。为灵魂的安息而祈祷。难道有人真心这么祷告吗？把他埋葬，一了百了。就像用斜槽卸煤一样。然后，为了节省时间，就把他们都凑在一堆儿。万灵节[172]。二十七日我要给父亲上坟。 给园丁十先令。他把茔地的杂草清除得一干二净。他自己也上了岁数，还得弯下腰去用大剪刀咯吱咯吱修剪。半截身子已经进了棺材。某人溘然长逝。某人辞世。[173 ]就好像是他们都出于自愿似的。他们统统是被推进去的。某人翘辫子。倘若再写明这些死者生前干的是哪一行，那就更有趣了。某某人，车轮匠。我兜售软木。 [174]我破了产，每镑偿还五先令了事。要么就是一位大娘和她的小平底锅：爱尔兰炖肉是我的拿手好菜。乡村墓园挽歌非那一首莫属，究竟是华兹华斯还是托马斯·坎贝尔作的呢？[175]照新教徒的说法就是进入安息。[176]老穆伦大夫常挂在嘴上的是：伟大的神医召唤他回府。喏，这是天主为他们预备的园地。[177] 一座舒适的乡间住宅。新近粉刷油漆过。对于静静地抽烟和阅读《教会时报》[178]来说， 是个理想的所在。他们从来不试图把结婚启事登得漂亮些。 挂在门把手上的生锈的花圈，花冠是用青铜箔做的。花同样的钱，可就更经久了。不过，还是鲜花更富诗意。金属的倒是永不凋谢，可渐渐地就令人生厌了。灰毛菊[179]，索然无味。

一只鸟儿驯顺地栖在白杨树枝上，宛如制成的标本似的。就像是市政委员胡珀[180]送给我们的结婚礼品。嘿!真是纹丝儿不动。它晓得这儿没有朝它射来的弹弓。死掉的动物更惨。傻米莉把小死鸟儿葬在厨房的火柴匣里，并在坟上供个雏菊花环，铺一些碎瓷片儿。

那是圣心[181]，裸露着的。掏出心来让人看。应该把它放得靠边一点，涂成鲜红色，像一颗真的心一般。爱尔兰就是奉献于它或是类似东西的。看来一点儿也不满意。为什么要受这样的折磨？难道鸟儿会来啄它吗？就像对拎着一篮水果的男孩那样？然而他说不会来啄，因为鸟儿理应是怕那个男孩的。那就是阿波罗[182]。

这许多![183]所有这些人，生前统统在都柏林转悠过。信仰坚定的死者们。我们曾经像你们现在这样。[184]

而且你又怎么能记得住所有的人呢？眼神，步态，嗓音。声音嘛，倒是有留声机。在每座坟墓里放一架留声机，或是保管在家里也行。星期天吃罢晚饭，放上可怜的老曾祖父的旧唱片。喀啦啦!喂喂喂 我高兴极啦 喀啦喀 高兴极啦能再见到 喂喂 高兴极啦 喀噗嘶嘘。会使你记起他的嗓音，犹如照片能使你忆起他的容貌一样。不然的话，相隔那么十五年，你就想不起他的长相了。譬如谁呢？譬如我在威兹德姆·希利的店里时死去的一个伙计。

吱嚕吱嚕!石头子儿碰撞的声音。且慢。停下来!

他定睛看看一座石砌墓穴。有个什么动物。哦。它在走动哪。

一只胖墩墩的灰鼠[185]趔趔趄趄地沿着墓穴的侧壁爬过去，一路勾动了石头子儿。它是个曾祖父，挺在行哩。懂得窍门。这只灰色的活物想扁起身子钻到石壁脚板下，硬是扭动着身子挤进去了。这可是藏匿珍宝的好场所。

谁住在这儿？罗伯特·埃默里的遗体安葬于此。罗伯特·埃米特是在火炬映照下被埋葬在这儿[186]的吧？老鼠在转悠哪。

如今，尾巴也消失了。

像这么个家伙，三下两下就能把一个人吃掉。不论那是谁的尸体，连骨头都给剔得干干净净。对它们来说，这就是一顿便饭。尸体嘛，左不过是变了质的肉。对，可奶酪又是怎样呢？是牛奶的尸体。我在那本《中国纪行》里读到：中国人说白种人身上有一股尸体的气味。最好火葬。神父们死命地反对。[187] 他们这叫吃里扒外。焚尸炉和荷兰铁皮烤肉箱的批发商。闹瘟疫的时期，把尸首扔进生石灰高温坑里去销毁。煤气屠杀室。本是尘埃，还原归于尘埃。[188]要么就海葬。 帕西人的沉默之塔在哪里？被鸟儿啄食。[189]土，火，水。 人家说，论舒服莫过于淹死。刹那间自己的一生就从眼前闪过去了。然而一旦被救活可就不妙了。不过，空葬是行不通的。从一架飞行器往下投。每逢丢下一具尸体时，不晓得消息会不会就传开了。地下通讯网。我们还是从它们那儿得到的消息呢。这也不足为奇。它们对于像这样一顿正餐已习以为常。人们还没真正咽气，苍蝇就跟踪而至了。迪格纳穆这次，它们也是闻风而来。它们才不介意那臭味呢。盐白色的尸首，软塌塌，即将溃烂，气味和味道都像是生的白萝卜。

大门在前面发着微光，还敞着哪。重返尘世。这地方已经呆够了。每来一次，都更挨近一步。上回我到这儿来，是给辛尼柯太太[190]送葬。 还有可怜的爸爸。致命的爱。我从书中得知，有人夜里提着灯去扒坟头，找新埋葬了的女尸，甚至那些已经腐烂而且流脓的墓疮。读罢使你真感到毛骨悚然。我死后将会在你面前出现。我死了，你会看到我的幽灵。我死后，将阴魂不散。死后有另一个叫作地狱的世界。她信里写道，我不喜欢那另一个世界[191]。我也不喜欢。 还有许许多多要看要听要感受的呢。感受到自己身边那热乎乎的生命。让他们在爬满了蛆的床上长眠去吧。他们休想拉我去参加这个回合。热乎乎的床铺，热乎乎的、充满活力的生活。

马丁·坎宁翰从旁边的一条小径里出现了，他正和什么人一本正经地谈着话。”

那想必是个律师，挺面熟。姓门顿，名叫约翰·亨利，是个律师，经管宣誓书和录口供的专员。迪格纳穆曾在他的事务所里工作过。好久以前了，在马特·狄龙家。快活的马特，欢乐的晚宴。冷冻禽肉，雪茄烟，坦塔罗斯酒柜[192]。 马特确实有着一颗金子般的心。对，是门顿。那天傍晚在滚木球的草地上，由于我的球滚进他的内线，他就大发雷霆。纯粹是出于偶然，滚了个偏心球。于是他把我恨之入骨。一见面就引起仇恨。摩莉和芙洛伊·狄龙在一棵丁香树下挽着胳膊笑。男人向来如此，只要有女人在场，就感到耻辱。

咦，他的帽子有一边瘪下去啦，是在马车里碰的吧。

“先生，对不起，”布卢姆先生在他们旁边说。

他们停下了脚步。

“你的帽子瘪下去一点儿，”布卢姆先生边指了指边说。

约翰·亨利·门顿纹丝儿不动，凝视了他片刻。

“那个地方，”马丁·坎宁翰帮着腔，也用手指了指。

约翰·亨利·门顿摘下礼帽，把瘪下去的部分弄鼓起来，细心地用上衣袖子把丝质帽面的绒毛捋了捋，然后又戴上了。

“现在好啦，”马丁·坎宁翰说。

约翰·亨利·门顿点了点头，表示领情。

“谢谢你，”他简短地说。

他们继续朝大门走去。布卢姆先生碰了个钉子，灰溜溜地挨后几步，免得听到他们的谈话。马丁一路指手划脚。他只消用一个小指头就能随心所欲地摆弄那样一个蠢货，而本人毫无察觉。

一双牡蛎般的眼睛。管它呢，以后他一旦明白过来，说不定就会懊悔的。只有这样才能摆布他。

谢谢。今天早晨咱们多么了不起啊!