URBANE¹, TO COMFORT THEM, THE QUAKER LIBRARIAN PURRED:
-- And we have, have we not, those priceless pages of Wilhelm Meister? A great poet on a great brother poet. A hesitating soul taking arms against a sea of troubles, torn by conflicting doubts, as one sees in real life.

He came a step a sinkapace forward on neatsleather creaking and a step backward a sinkapace on the solemn floor.

A noiseless attendant, setting open the door but slightly, made him a noiseless beck.

-- Directly, said he, creaking to go, albeit³ lingering. The beautiful ineffectual dreamer who comes to grief against hard facts. One always feels that Goethe's judgments⁴ are so true. True in the larger analysis.

Twicreakingly analysis he corantoed off. Bald, most zealous⁷ by the door he gave his large ear all to the attendant's words: heard them: and was gone.

Two left.

-- Monsieur de la Palisse, Stephen sneered⁸, was alive fifteen minutes before his death.

-- Have you found those six brave medicals, John Eglinton asked with elder's gall⁹, to write Paradise Lost at your dictation? The Sorrows of Satan he calls it.

Smile. Smile Cranly's smile.

First he tickled¹¹ her
Then he patted her
Then he passed the female catheter.
For he was a medical
jolly old medi.
-- I feel you would need one more for Hamlet. Seven is dear to the mystic mind. The shining seven W. B. calls them.
Glittereyed, his rufous skull¹² close to his greencapped desklamp sought the face, bearded amid darkgreener shadow, an ollav, holyeyed. He laughed low: a sizar's laugh of Trinity: unanswered.

Orchestral Satan, weeping many a rood
Tears such as angels weep.
Ed egli avea del cul fatto trombetta.
He holds my follies¹⁴ hostage.
Cranly's eleven true Wicklowmen to free their sireland. Gaptoothed Kathleen, her four beautiful green fields, the stranger in her house. And one more to hail him: ave, rabbi. The Tinahely twelve. In the shadow of the glen he cooees for them. My soul's youth I gave him, night by night. Godspeed. Good hunting.

Mulligan has my telegram.

Folly¹⁵. Persist.

-- Our young Irish bards¹⁷, John Eglinton censured¹⁸, have yet to create a figure which the world will set beside Saxon Shakespeare's Hamlet though I admire him, as old Ben did, on this side idolatry.

-- All these questions are purely¹⁹ academic, Russell oracled out of his shadow. I mean, whether Hamlet is Shakespeare or James I or Essex. Clergymen's discussions of the historicity of Jesus. Art has to reveal to us ideas, formless spiritual essences. The supreme²⁰ question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring. The painting of Gustave Moreau is the painting of ideas. The deepest poetry of Shelley, the words of Hamlet bring our mind into contact with the eternal wisdom, Plato's world of ideas. All the rest is the speculation²¹ of schoolboys for schoolboys.

A. E. has been telling some yankee interviewer. Wall, tarnation strike me!

-- The schoolmen were schoolboys first, Stephen said superpolitely. Aristotle was once Plato's schoolboy.

-- And has remained so, one should hope, John Eglinton sedately²³ said. One can see him, a model schoolboy with his diploma under his arm.

He laughed again at the now smiling bearded face.

Formless spiritual. Father, Word and Holy Breath. Allfather, the heavenly man. Hiesos Kristos, magician of the beautiful, the Logos who suffers in us at every moment. This verily is that. I am the fire upon the altar. I am the sacrificial butter.

Dunlop, Judge, the noblest Roman of them all, A. E., Arval, the Name Ineffable²⁴, in heaven hight, K. H., their master, whose identity is no secret to adepts²⁵. Brothers of the great white lodge²⁶ always watching to see if they can help. The Christ with the bridesister, moisture of light, born of an ensouled virgin²⁷, repentant²⁸ sophia, departed to the plane of buddhi. The life esoteric is not for ordinary person. O. P. must work off bad karma first. Mrs Cooper Oakley once glimpsed our very illustrious sister H. P. B's elemental.

O, fie! Out on't! Pfuiteufel! You naughtn't to look, missus, so you naughtn't when a lady's ashowing of her elemental.

Mr Best entered, tall, young, mild, light. He bore in his hand with grace a notebook, new, large, clean, bright.

-- That model schoolboy, Stephen said, would find Hamlet's musings about the afterlife of his princely soul, the improbable, insignificant³² and undramatic monologue³³, as shallow as Plato's.

John Eglinton, frowning, said, waxing wroth:

-- Upon my word it makes my blood boil to hear anyone compare Aristotle with Plato.

-- Which of the two, Stephen asked, would have banished³⁴ me from his commonwealth³⁵?

Unsheathe your dagger³⁶ definitions. Horseness is the whatness of allhorse. Streams of tendency and eons they worship. God: noise in the street: very peripatetic³⁷. Space: what you damn well have to see. Through spaces smaller than red globules of man's blood they creepycrawl after Blake's buttocks into eternity³⁹ of which this vegetable world is but a shadow. Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges⁴⁰ to the past.

Mr Best came forward, amiable⁴¹, towards his colleague.

-- Haines is gone, he said.

-- Is he?

-- I was showing him Jubainville's book. He's quite enthusiastic, don't you know, about Hyde's Lovesongs of Connacht. I couldn't bring him in to hear the discussion. He's gone to Gill's to buy it.

Bound thee forth⁴², my booklet, quick
To greet the callous⁴³ public.
Writ¹⁰, I ween, 'twas not my wish
In lean unlovely English.
The peatsmoke is going to his head, John Eglinton opined.
We feel in England. Penitent⁴⁴ thief. Gone. I smoked his baccy. Green twinkling stone. An emerald set in the ring of the sea.

-- People do not know how dangerous lovesongs can be, the auric egg of Russell warned occultly. The movements which work revolutions in the world are born out of the dreams and visions in a peasant's heart on the hillside. For them the earth is not an exploitable ground but the living mother. The rarefied air of the academy and the arena⁴⁵ produce the sixshilling novel, the musichall song, France produces the finest flower of corruption⁴⁷ in Mallarmé but the desirable life is revealed only to the poor of heart, the life of Homer's Ph&Aelig;acians.

From these words Mr Best turned an unoffending face to Stephen.

-- Mallarmé, don't you know, he said, has written those wonderful prose poems Stephen MacKenna used to read to me in Paris. The one about Hamlet. He says: il se promène, lisant au livre de lui-même, don't you know, reading the book of himself. He describes Hamlet given in a French town, don't you know, a provincial⁴⁸ town. They advertised it.

His free hand graciously wrote tiny signs in air.

HAMLET
ou
LE DISTRAIT⁴⁹
Pièce de Shakespeare
He repeated to John Eglinton's newgathered frown:
-- Piéce de Shakespeare, don't you know. It's so French, the French point of view. Hamlet ou...

-- The absentminded beggar, Stephen ended.

John Eglinton laughed.

-- Yes, I suppose it would be, he said. Excellent people, no doubt, but distressingly⁵⁰ shortsighted in some matters.

Sumptuous⁵¹ and stagnant⁵² exaggeration of murder.

-- A deathsman of the soul Robert Greene called him, Stephen said. Not for nothing was he a butcher's son wielding⁵³ the sledded poleaxe and spitting in his palm. Nine lives are taken off for his father's one, Our Father who art in purgatory⁵⁴. Khaki Hamlets don't hesitate to shoot. The bloodboltered shambles⁵⁵ in act five is a forecast of the concentration camp sung by Mr Swinburne.

Cranly, I his mute orderly, following battles from afar.

Whelps and dams of murderous foes⁵⁶ whom none
But we had spared...
Between the Saxon smile and yankee yawp. The devil and the deep sea.
-- He will have it that Hamlet is a ghoststory, John Eglinton said for Mr Best's behoof. Like the fat boy in Pickwick he wants to make our flesh creep.

List! List! O List!
My flesh hears him: creeping, hears.
If thou didst ever...
-- What is a ghost? Stephen said with tingling⁵⁷ energy. One who has faded into impalpability through death, through absence, through change of manners. Elizabethan London lay as far from Stratford as corrupt⁴⁶ Paris lies from virgin Dublin. Who is the ghost from limbo⁵⁸ patrum, returning to the world that has forgotten him? Who is king Hamlet?
John Eglinton shifted his spare body, leaning back to judge:

Lifted.

-- It is this hour of a day in mid¹³ June, Stephen said, begging with a swift glance their hearing. The flag is up on the playhouse by the bankside. The bear Sackerson growls⁵⁹ in the pit near it, Paris garden. Canvasclimbers who sailed with Drake chew their sausages among the groundlings.

Local colour. Work in all you know. Make them accomplices⁶¹.

-- Shakespeare has left the huguenot's house in Silver street and walks by the swanmews along the riverbank. But he does not stay to feed the pen chivying her game of cygnets towards the rushes. The swan of Avon has other thoughts.

Composition of place. Ignatius Loyola, make haste to help me!

-- The play begins. A player comes on under the shadow, made up in the castoff mail of a court buck⁶², a wellset man with a bass⁶³ voice. It is the ghost, the king, a king and no king, and the player is Shakespeare who has studied Hamlet all the years of his life which were not vanity in order to play the part of the spectre. He speaks the words to Burbage, the young player who stands before him beyond the rack of cerecloth, calling him by a name:

Hamlet, I am thy father's spirit
bidding him list. To a son he speaks, the son of his soul, the prince, young Hamlet and to the son of his body, Hamnet Shakespeare, who has died in Stratford that his namesake may live for ever.
-- Is it possible that that player Shakespeare, a ghost by absence, and in the vesture of buried Denmark, a ghost by death, speaking his own words to his own son's name (had Hamnet Shakespeare lived he would have been prince Hamlet's twin) is it possible, I want to know, or probable that he did not draw or foresee the logical conclusion of those premises⁶⁴: you are the dispossessed son: I am the murdered father: your mother is the guilty queen. Ann Shakespeare, born Hathaway?

-- But this prying⁶⁶ into the family life of a great man, Russell began impatiently.

Art thou there, truepenny?

-- Interesting only to the parish clerk. I mean, we have the plays. I mean when we read the poetry of King Lear what is it to us how the poet lived? As for living, our servants can do that for us, Villiers de l'Isle has said. Peeping and prying into greenroom gossip of the day, the poet's drinking, the poet's debts. We have King Lear: and it is immortal⁶⁷.

Mr Best's face appealed to, agreed.

Flow over them with your waves and with your waters,
Mananaan, Mananaan MacLir...
How now, sirrah, that pound he lent you when you were hungry?
Marry, I wanted it.

Take thou this noble.

Go to! You spent most of it in Georgina Johnson's bed, clergyman's daughter. Agenbite of inwit.

Do you intend to pay it back?

O, yes.

When? Now?

Well... no.

When, then?

I paid my way. I paid my way.

Steady on. He's from beyant Boyne water. The northeast corner. You owe it.

Wait. Five months. Molecules⁶⁹ all change. I am other I now. Other I got pound.

Buzz. Buzz.

But I, entelechy, form of forms, am I by memory because under everchanging forms.

I that sinned and prayed and fasted.

A child Conmee saved from pandies.

I, I and I. I.

A.E.I.O.U.

-- Do you mean to fly in the face of the tradition of three centuries? John Eglinton's carping voice asked. Her ghost at least has been laid for ever. She died, for literature at least, before she was born.

-- She died, Stephen retorted, sixtyseven years after she was born. She saw him into and out of the world. She took his first embraces. She bore his children and she laid pennies on his eyes to keep his eyelids⁷⁰ closed when he lay on his deathbed.

Mother's deathbed. Candle. The sheeted mirror. Who brought me into this world lies there, bronzelidded, under few cheap flowers. Liliata rutilantium.

I wept alone.

John Eglinton looked in the tangled⁷¹ glowworm of his lamp.

-- The world believes that Shakespeare made a mistake, he said, and got out of it as quickly and as best he could.

-- Bosh! Stephen said rudely. A man of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are volitional⁷² and are the portals of discovery.

Portals of discovery opened to let in the quaker librarian, softcreakfooted, bald, eared and assiduous.

-- A shrew, John Eglinton said shrewdly, is not a useful portal of discovery, one should imagine. What useful discovery did Socrates learn from Xanthippe?

-- Dialectic, Stephen answered: and from his mother how to bring thoughts into the world. What he learnt from his other wife Myrto (absit nomen!) Socratididion's Epipsychidion, no man, not a woman, will ever know. But neither the midwife's lore⁷³ nor the caudlectures saved him from the archons of Sinn Fein and their noggin of hemlock⁷⁴.

-- But Ann Hathaway? Mr Best's quiet voice said forgetfully. Yes, we seem to be forgetting her as Shakespeare himself forgot her.

His look went from brooder's beard to carper's skull, to remind, to chide⁷⁵ them not unkindly, then to the baldpink lollard costard, guiltless though maligned⁷⁶.

-- He had a good groatsworth of wit, Stephen said, and no truant⁷⁷ memory. He carried a memory in his wallet as he trudged⁷⁸ to Romeville whistling The girl I left behind me. If the earthquake did not time it we should know where to place poor Wat, sitting in his form, the cry of hounds, the studded bridle⁷⁹ and her blue windows. That memory, Venus and Adonis, lay in the bedchamber of every light-of-love in London. Is Katharine the shrew illfavoured? Hortensio calls her young and beautiful. Do you think the writer of Antony and Cleopatra, a passionate⁸⁰ pilgrim, had his eyes in the back of his head that he chose the ugliest doxy in all Warwickshire to lie withal? Good: he left her and gained the world of men. But his boywomen are the women of a boy. Their life, thought, speech are lent them by males. He chose badly? He was chosen, it seems to me. If others have their will Ann hath a way. By cock, she was to blame. She put the comether on him, sweet and twentysix. The greyeyed goddess who bends over the boy Adonis, stooping to conquer, as prologue⁸¹ to the swelling⁸² act, is a boldfaced Stratford wench who tumbles in a cornfield a lover younger than herself.

And my turn? When?

Come!

-- Ryefield, Mr Best said brightly, gladly, raising his new book, gladly brightly.

He murmured then with blonde delight for all:

Between the acres of the rye
These pretty countryfolk would lie.
Paris: the wellpleased pleaser.
A tall figure in bearded homespun rose from shadow and unveiled its cooperative watch.

-- I am afraid I am due at the Homestead.

Whither away? Exploitable ground.

-- Are you going, John Eglinton's active eyebrows⁸⁴ asked. Shall we see you at Moore's tonight? Piper is coming.

-- Piper! Mr Best piped. Is Piper back?

Peter Piper pecked a peck of pick of peck of pickled pepper.

-- I don't know if I can. Thursday. We have our meeting. If I can get away in time.

Yogibogeybox in Dawson chambers⁸⁶. Isis Unveiled. Their Pali book we tried to pawn⁸⁷. Crosslegged under an umbrel umbershoot he thrones an Aztec logos, functioning on astral levels, their oversoul, mahamahatma. The faithful hermetists await the light, ripe for chelaship, ringroundabout him. Louis H. Victory. T. Caulfield Irwin. Lotus ladies tend them i'the eyes, their pineal glands⁸⁸ aglow⁸⁹. Filled with his god he thrones, Buddh under plantain. Gulfer of souls, engulfer. Hesouls, shesouls, shoals of souls. Engulfed⁹⁰ with wailing⁹¹ creecries, whirled, whirling, they bewail.

In quintessential triviality
For years in this fleshcase a shesoul dwelt.
-- They say we are to have a literary surprise, the quaker librarian said, friendly and earnest. Mr Russell, rumour⁹² has it, is gathering⁹³ together a sheaf of our younger poets' verses. We are all looking forward anxiously.
Anxiously he glanced in the cone⁹⁴ of lamplight where three faces, lighted, shone.

See this. Remember.

Stephen looked down on a wide headless caubeen, hung on his ashplanthandle over his knee. My casque and sword. Touch lightly with two index fingers. Aristotle's experiment. One or two? Necessity is that in virtue⁹⁵ of which it is impossible that one can be otherwise. Argai, one hat is one hat.

Listen.

Young Colum and Starkey. George Roberts is doing the commercial part. Longworth will give it a good puff⁹⁷ in the Express. O, will he? I liked Colum's Drover. Yes, I think he has that queer thing, genius. Do you think he has genius really? Yeats admired his line: As in wild earth a Grecian vase. Did he? I hope you'll be able to come tonight. Malachi Mulligan is coming too. Moore asked him to bring Haines. Did you hear Miss Mitchell's joke about Moore and Martyn? That Moore is Martyn's wild oats? Awfully⁹⁹ clever, isn't it? They remind one of don Quixote and Sancho Panza. Our national epic¹⁰⁰ has yet to be written, Dr Sigerson says. Moore is the man for it. A knight¹⁰¹ of the rueful countenance¹⁰² here in Dublin. With a saffron kilt? O'Neill Russell? O, yes, he must speak the grand old tongue. And his Dulcinea? James Stephens is doing some clever sketches¹⁰³. We are becoming important, it seems.

Cordelia. Cordoglio. Lir's loneliest daughter.

Nookshotten. Now your best French polish.

-- Thank you very much, Mr Russell, Stephen said, rising. If you will be so kind as to give the letter to Mr Norman...

-- O, yes. If he considers it important it will go in. We have so much correspondence.

-- I understand, Stephen said. Thanks.

Good ild you. The pigs' paper. Bullockbefriending.

-- Synge has promised me an article for Dana too. Are we going to be read? I feel we are. The Gaelic league wants something in Irish. I hope you will come round tonight. Bring Starkey.

Stephen sat down.

The quaker librarian came from the leavetakers. Blushing his mask said:

-- Mr Dedalus, your views are most illuminating¹⁰⁴.

He creaked to and fro, tiptoing up nearer heaven by the altitude of a chopine, and, covered by the noise of outgoing, said low:

-- Is it your view, then, that she was not faithful to the poet?

Alarmed face asks me. Why did he come? Courtesy or an inward light?

-- Where there is a reconciliation¹⁰⁵, Stephen said, there must have been first a sundering¹⁰⁶.

-- Yes.

Christfox in leather trews, hiding, a runaway¹⁰⁷ in blighted¹⁰⁸ treeforks from hue¹⁰⁹ and cry. Knowing no vixen, walking lonely in the chase. Women he won to him, tender people, a whore of Babylon, ladies of justices, bully¹¹⁰ tapsters' wives. Fox and geese. And in New Place a slack dishonoured¹¹¹ body that once was comely¹¹², once as sweet, as fresh as cinnamon, now her leaves falling, all, bare, frighted of the narrow grave and unforgiven.

-- Yes. So you think.

The door closed behind the outgoer.

Rest suddenly possessed⁶⁵ the discreet¹¹³ vaulted¹¹⁴ cell, rest of warm and brooding air.

A vestal's lamp.

Here he ponders things that were not: what Caesar would have lived to do had he believed the soothsayer: what might have been: possibilities of the possible as possible: things not known: what name Achilles bore when he lived among women.

Coffined¹¹⁵ thoughts around me, in mummycases, embalmed¹¹⁶ in spice of words. Thoth, god of libraries, a birdgod, moonycrowned. And I heard the voice of that Egyptian highpriest. In painted chambers loaded with tilebooks.

They are still. Once quick in the brains of men. Still: but an itch⁹⁸ of death is in them, to tell me in my ear a maudlin¹¹⁷ tale, urge me to wreak¹¹⁸ their will.

-- Certainly, John Eglinton mused¹¹⁹, of all great men he is the most enigmatic. We know nothing but that he lived and suffered. Not even so much. Others abide¹²⁰ our question. A shadow hangs over all the rest.

-- But Hamlet is so personal, isn't it? Mr Best pleaded. I mean, a kind of private paper, don't you know, of his private life. I mean I don't care a button, don't you know, who is killed or who is guilty...

He rested an innocent book on the edge of the desk, smiling his defiance¹²¹. His private papers in the original. Ta an bad ar an tir. Taim imo shagart. Put beurla on it, littlejohn.

Quoth littlejohn Eglinton:

-- I was prepared for paradoxes¹²³ from what Malachi Mulligan told us but I may as well warn you that if you want to shake my belief that Shakespeare is Hamlet you have a stern task before you.

Bear with me.

Stephen withstood the bane of miscreant¹²⁴ eyes, glinting stern under wrinkled brows. A basilisk. E quando vede l'uomo l'attosca. Messer Brunetto, I thank thee for the word.

-- As we, or mother Dana, weave and unweave our bodies, Stephen said, from day to day, their molecules shuttled to and fro, so does the artist weave and unweave his image. And as the mole⁶⁸ on my right breast is where it was when I was born, though all my body has been woven of new stuff time after time, so through the ghost of the unquiet father the image of the unliving son looks forth. In the intense instant of imagination, when the mind, Shelley says, is a fading coal, that which I was is that which I am and that which in possibility I may come to be. So in the future, the sister of the past, I may see myself as I sit here now but by reflection from that which then I shall be.

Drummond of Hawthornden helped you at that stile.

-- Yes, Mr Best said youngly, I feel Hamlet quite young. The bitterness might be from the father but the passages with Ophelia are surely from the son.

Has the wrong sow by the lug¹²⁵. He is in my father. I am in his son.

-- That mole is the last to go, Stephen said, laughing.

John Eglinton made a nothing pleasing mow¹²⁶.

-- If that were the birthmark of genius, he said, genius would be a drug in the market. The plays of Shakespeare's later years which Renan admired so much breathe another spirit.

-- The spirit of reconciliation, the quaker librarian breathed.

-- There can be no reconciliation, Stephen said, if there has not been a sundering.

Said that.

-- If you want to know what are the events which cast their shadow over the hell of time of King Lear, Othello, Hamlet, Troilus and Cressida, look to see when and how the shadow lifts. What softens¹²⁷ the heart of a man, Shipwrecked in storms dire², Tried, like another Ulysses, Pericles, prince of Tyre?

Head, redconecapped, buffeted¹²⁸, brineblinded.

-- A child, a girl placed in his arms, Marina.

-- The leaning of sophists towards the bypaths of apocrypha¹²⁹ is a constant quantity, John Eglinton detected. The highroads are dreary¹³⁰ but they lead to the town.

Good Bacon: gone musty. Shakespeare Bacon's wild oats. Cypherjugglers going the highroads. Seekers on the great quest. What town good masters? Mummed in names: A. E., eon: Magee, John Eglinton. East of the sun, west of the moon: Tir na n-og. Booted the twain and staved.

How many miles to Dublin?
Three score and ten, sir.
Will we be there by candlelight?
-- Mr Brandes accepts it, Stephen said, as the first play of the closing period.
-- Does he? What does Mr Sidney Lee, or Mr Simon Lazarus, as some aver¹³¹ his name is, say of it?

-- Marina, Stephen said, a child of storm, Miranda, a wonder, Perdita, that which was lost. What was lost is given back to him: his daughter's child. My dearest wife, Pericles says, was like this maid. Will any man love the daughter it he has not loved the mother?

-- The art of being a grandfather, Mr Best gan murmur⁸³. L'art d'être grand...

-- His own image to a man with that queer thing genius is the standard of all experience, material and moral. Such an appeal will touch him. The images of other males of his blood will repel¹³² him. He will see in them grotesque¹³³ attempts of nature to foretell¹³⁴ or repeat himself.

The benign¹³⁵ forehead of the quaker librarian enkindled rosily¹³⁶ with hope.

-- I hope Mr Dedalus will work out his theory for the enlightenment of the public. And we ought to mention another Irish commentator¹³⁷, Mr George Bernard Shaw. Nor should we forget Mr Frank Harris. His articles on Shakespeare in the Saturday Review were surely brilliant. Oddly enough he too draws for us an unhappy relation with the dark lady of the sonnets¹³⁸. The favoured rival is William Herbert, earl of Pembroke. I own that if the poet must be rejected, such a rejection¹³⁹ would seem more in harmony with - what shall I say? - our notions of what ought not to have been.

Felicitously¹⁴⁰ he ceased and held a meek¹⁴¹ head among them, auk's egg, prize of their fray¹⁴².

He thous and thees her with grave husbandwords. Dost love, Miriam? Dost love thy man?

-- That may be too, Stephen said. There is a saying of Goethe's which Mr Magee likes to quote. Beware of what you wish for in youth because you will get it in middle life. Why does he send to one who is a buonaroba, a bay where all men ride, a maid of honour with a scandalous girlhood, a lordling to woo for him? He was himself a lord of language and had made himself a coistrel gentleman and had written Romeo and Juliet. Why? Belief in himself has been untimely killed. He was overborne in a cornfield first (ryefield, I should say) and he will never be a victor in his own eyes after nor play victoriously¹⁴⁴ the game of laugh and lie down. Assumed dongiovannism will not save him. No later undoing¹⁴⁶ will undo¹⁴⁵ the first undoing. The tusk¹⁴⁷ of the boar has wounded him there-where love lies ableeding. If the shrew is worsted yet there remains¹⁴⁸ to her woman's invisible weapon. There is, I feel in the words, some goad¹⁴⁹ of the flesh driving him into a new passion, a darker shadow of the first, darkening even his own understanding of himself. A life fate awaits him and the two rages commingle¹⁵⁰ in a whirlpool.

They list. And in the porches of their ears I pour.

-- The soul has been before stricken mortally, a poison poured in the porch of a sleeping ear. But those who are done to death in sleep cannot know the manner of their quell¹⁵¹ unless their Creator endow their souls with that knowledge in the life to come. The poisoning and the beast with two backs that urged it king Hamlet's ghost could not know of were he not endowed with knowledge by his creator. That is why the speech (his lean unlovely English) is always turned elsewhere, backward. Ravisher and ravished, what he would but would not, go with him from Lucrece's bluecircled ivory globes to Imogen's breast, bare, with its mole cinquespotted. He goes back, weary of the creation he has piled up to hide him from himself, an old dog licking an old sore. But, because loss is his gain, he passes on towards eternity in undiminished personality, untaught by the wisdom he has written or by the laws he has revealed. His beaver¹⁵³ is up. He is a ghost, a shadow now, the wind by Elsinore's rocks or what you will, the sea's voice, a voice heard only in the heart of him who is the substance of his shadow, the son consubstantial with the father.

-- Amen! responded from the doorway¹⁵⁴.

Hast thou found me, O mine enemy?

Entr'acte.

A ribald face, sullen¹⁵⁵ as a dean's, Buck Mulligan came forwards then blithe¹⁵⁶ in motley, towards the greeting of their smiles. My telegram.

-- You were speaking of the gaseous¹⁵⁷ vertebrate, if I mistake not? he asked of Stephen.

Primrosevested he greeted gaily¹⁵⁸ with his doffed¹⁵⁹ Panama as with a bauble¹⁶⁰.

They make him welcome. Was Din²⁹ verlachst wirst Du noch dienen.

Brodd of mockers: Photius, pseudomalachi, Johann Most.

He Who Himself begot¹⁶¹, middler the Holy Ghost, and Himself sent himself, Agenbuyer, between Himself and others, Who, put upon by His fiends, stripped and whipped, was nailed like bat to barndoor, starved on crosstree, Who let Him bury, stood up, harrowed hell, fared into heaven and there these nineteen hundred years sitteth on the right hand of His Own Self but yet shall come in the latter day to doom¹⁶² the quick and dead when all the quick shall be dead already.

He lifts hands. Veils fall. O, flowers! Bells with bells with bells aquiring.
-- Yes, indeed, the quaker librarian said. A most instructive discussion, Mr Mulligan, I'll be bound, has his theory too of the play and of Shakespeare. All sides of life should be represented.
He smiled on all sides equally.

Buck Mulligan thought, puzzled:

-- Shakespeare? he said. I seem to know the name.

A flying sunny smile rayed in his loose features.

-- To be sure, he said, remembering brightly. The chap that writes like Synge.

Mr Best turned to him:

-- Haines missed you, he said. Did you meet him? He'll see you after at the D. B. C. He's gone to Gill's to buy Hyde's Lovesongs of Connacht.

-- I came through the museum, Buck Mulligan said. Was he here?

-- The bard¹⁶'s fellowcountrymen, John Eglinton answered, are rather tired perhaps of our brilliancies of theorising. I hear that an actress played Hamlet for the fourhundredandeighth time last night in Dublin. Vining held that the prince was a woman. Has no-one made him out to be an Irishman? Judge Barton, I believe, is searching for some clues. He swears (His Highness not His Lordship) by saint Patrick.

-- The most brilliant of all is that story of Wilde's, Mr Best said, lifting his brilliant notebook. That Portrait of Mr W. H. where he proves that the sonnets were written by a Willie Hughes, a man all hues¹⁶³.

-- For Willie Hughes, is it not? the quaker librarian asked.

Or Hughie Wills. Mr William Himself. W. H.: who am I?

-- I mean, for Willie Hughes, Mr Best said, amending¹⁶⁴ his gloss¹⁶⁵ easily. Of course it's all paradox¹²², don't you know, Hughes and hews¹⁶⁶ and hues the colour, but it's so typical the way he works it out. It's the very essence of Wilde, don't you know. The light touch.

His glance touched their faces lightly as he smiled, a blond ephebe. Tame essence of Wilde.

You're darned witty¹⁶⁷. Three drams of usquebaugh you drank with Dan Deasy's ducats.

How much did I spend? O, a few shillings.

For a plump of pressmen. Humour wet and dry.

Wit. You would give your five wits for youth's proud livery he pranks¹⁶⁸ in. Lineaments of gratified desire.

There be many mo. Take her for me. In pairing time. Jove, a cool ruttime send them. Yea, turtledove her.

Eve. Naked wheatbellied sin. A snake coils her, fang¹⁶⁹ in's kiss.

-- Do you think it is only a paradox, the quaker librarian was asking. The mocker is never taken seriously when he is most serious.

They talked seriously of mocker's seriousness.

Buck Mulligan's again heavy face eyed Stephen awhile. Then, his head wagging, he came near, drew a folded telegram from his pocket. His mobile lips read, smiling with new delight.

-- Telegram! he said. Wonderful inspiration! Telegram! A papal bull!

He sat on a corner of the unlit desk, reading aloud joyfully¹⁷⁰:

-- The sentimentalist is he who would enjoy without incurring¹⁷¹ the immense debtorship for a thing done. Signed: Dedalus. Where did you launch it from? The kips? No. College Green. Have you drunk the four quid? The aunt is going to call on your unsubstantial father. Telegram! Malachi Mulligan, the Ship, lower Abbey street. O, you peerless mummer! O, you priestified kinchite!

Joyfully he thrust the message and envelope into a pocket but keened in querulous brogue:

-- It's what I'm telling you, mister honey, it's queer and sick we were, Haines and myself, the time himself brought it in. 'Twas murmur we did for a gallus potion would rouse a friar, I'm thinking, and he limp with leching. And we one hour and two hours and three hours in Connery's sitting civil waiting for pints¹⁷² apiece.

He wailed¹⁷³!

-- And we to be there, mavrone, and you to be unbeknownst sending us your conglomerations the way we to have our tongues out a yard long like the drouthy clerics do be fainting for a pussful.

Stephen laughed. Quickly, warningfully Buck Mulligan bent¹⁷⁴ down:

-- The tramper Synge is looking for you, he said, to murder you. He heard you pissed on his halldoor in Glasthule. He's out in pampooties to murder you.

-- Me! Stephen exclaimed. That was your contribution to literature.

Buck Mulligan gleefully bent back, laughing to the dark eavesdropping¹⁷⁵ ceiling.

-- Murder you! he laughed.

Harsh gargoyle¹⁷⁶ face that warred against me over our mess of hash of lights in rue⁵ Saint-André-des-Arts. In words of words for words, palabras. Oisin with Patrick. Faunman he met in Clamart woods, brandishing¹⁷⁷ a winebottle, C'est vendredi saint! Murthering Irish. His image, wandering, he met. I mine. I met a fool i' the forest.

-- Mr Lyster, an attendant said from the door ajar.

-- ... in which everyone can find his own. So Mr Justice Madden in his Diary of Master William Silence has found the hunting terms... Yes? What is it?

-- There's a gentleman here, sir, the attendant said, coming forward and offering a card. From the Freeman. He wants to see the files of the Kilkenny People for last year.

-- Certainly, certainly, certainly. Is the gentleman?...

He took the eager card, glanced, not saw, laid down, unglanced, looked, asked, creaked, asked:

-- Is he?... O there!

Brisk in a galliard he was off and out. In the daylit corridor he talked with voluble pains of zeal⁶, in duty bound, most fair, most kind, most honest broadbrim.

-- This gentleman? Freeman's Journal? Kilkenny People? To be sure. Good day, sir. Kilkenny... We have certainly...

A patient silhouette¹⁷⁸ waited, listening.

-- All the leading provincial... Northern Whig, Cork¹⁷⁹ Examiner Enniscorthy Guardian¹⁸⁰, 1903... Will you please?... Evans, conduct this gentleman... If you just follow the atten... Or please allow me... This way... Please, sir...

Voluble, dutiful, he led the way to all the provincial papers, a bowing dark figure following his hasty heels.

The door closed.

-- The sheeny! Buck Mulligan cried.

He jumped up and snatched the card.

-- What's his name? Ikey Moses? Bloom.

He rattled¹⁸¹ on.

-- Jehovah, collector of prepuces, is no more. I found him over in the museum when I went to hail the foamborn Aphrodite. The Greek mouth that has never been twisted in prayer. Every day we must do homage¹⁸³ to her. Life of life, thy lips enkindle.

Suddenly he turned to Stephen:

-- He knows you. He knows your old fellow. O, I fear me, he is Greeker than the Greeks. His pale Galilean eyes were upon her mesial groove¹⁸⁴. Venus Kallipyge. O, the thunder of those loins! The god pursuing the maiden¹⁸⁵ hid.

We want to hear more, John Eglinton decided¹⁸⁶ with Mr Best's approval. We begin to be interested in Mrs S. Till now we had thought of her, if at all, as a patient Griselda, a Penelope stayathome.

-- Antisthenes, pupil of Gorgias, Stephen said, took the palm of beauty from Kyrios Menelaus' brooddam, Argive Helen, the wooden mare¹⁸⁷ of Troy in whom a score of heroes slept, and handed it to poor Penelope. Twenty years he lived in London and, during part of that time, he drew a salary equal to that of the lord chancellor¹⁸⁸ of Ireland. His life was rich. His art, more than the art of feudalism, as Walt Whitman called it, is the art of surfeit¹⁸⁹. Hot herringpies, green mugs of sack, honeysauces, sugar of roses, marchpane, gooseberried pigeons, ringocandies. Sir Walter Raleigh, when they arrested him, had half a million francs on his back including a pair of fancy stays. The gombeen woman Eliza Tudor had underlinen enough to vie with her of Sheba. Twenty years he dallied¹⁹⁰ there between conjugal¹⁹¹ love and its chaste¹⁹² delights and scortatory love and its foul¹⁹³ pleasures. You know Manningham's story of the burgher's wife who bade Dick Burbage to her bed after she had seen him in Richard III and how Shakespeare, overhearing, without more ado about nothing, took the cow by the horns and, when Burbage came knocking at the gate, answered from the capon's blankets: William the conqueror¹⁹⁴ came before Richard III. And the gay lakin, Mistress Fitten, mount and cry O, and his dainty birdsnies, Lady Penelope Rich, a clean quality woman is suited for a player, and the punks of the bankside, a penny a time.

Cours-la-Reine. Encore vingt sous. Nous ferons de petites cochonneries. Minette? Tu veux?

-- The height of fine society. And sir William Davenant of Oxford's mother with her cup of canary for every cockcanary.

Buck Mulligan, his pious¹⁹⁵ eyes upturned, prayed:

-- Blessed Margaret Mary Anycock!

-- And Harry¹⁹⁶ of six wives' daughter and other lady friends from neighbour seats, as Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet, sings. But all those twenty years what do you suppose poor Penelope in Stratford was doing behind the diamond panes¹⁹⁷?

Do and do. Thing done. In a rosery of Fetter¹⁹⁸ Lane of Gerard, herbalist, he walks, greyedauburn. An azured harebell like her veins¹⁹⁹. Lids of Juno's eyes, violets. He walks. One life is all. One body. Do. But do. Afar, in a reek¹⁸² of lust³⁰ and squalor, hands are laid on whiteness.

Buck Mulligan rapped John Eglinton's desk sharply.

-- Whom do you suspect? he challenged.

-- Say that he is the spurned²⁰⁰ lover in the sonnets. Once spurned twice spurned. But the court wanton spurned him for a lord, his dearmylove.

Love that dare not speak its name.

-- As an Englishman, you mean, John sturdy Eglinton put in, he loved a lord.

Old wall where sudden lizards²⁰¹ flash. At Charenton I watched them.

-- It seems so, Stephen said, when he wants to do for him, and for all other and singular uneared wombs, the holy office an ostler does for the stallion. Maybe, like Socrates, he had a midwife to mother as he had a shrew to wife. But she, the giglot wanton, did not break a bedvow. Two deeds are rank in that ghost's mind: a broken vow²⁰² and the dullbrained yokel²⁰³ on whom her favour has declined, deceased husband's brother. Sweet Ann I take it, was hot in the blood. Once a wooer twice a wooer.

Stephen turned boldly in his chair.

-- The burden of proof is with you not with me, he said, frowning. If you deny that in the fifth scene of Hamlet he has branded her with infamy²⁰⁴, tell me why there is no mention of her during the thirtyfour years between the day she married him and the day she buried him. All those women saw their men down and under: Mary, her goodman John, Ann, her poor

dear Willun, when he went and died on her, raging that he was the first to go, Joan, her four brothers, Judith, her husband and all her sons, Susan, her husband too, while Susan's daughter, Elizabeth, to use granddaddy's words, wed¹⁵² her second, having killed her first.

O yes, mention there is. In the years when he was living richly in royal London to pay a debt she had to borrow forty shillings from her father's shepherd. Explain you then. Explain the swansong too wherein he has commended her to posterity²⁰⁵.

He faced their silence.

To whom thus Eglinton:

You mean the will.
That has been explained, I believe, by jurists.
She was entitled to her widow's dower
At common law. His legal knowledge was great
Our judges tell us.
Him Satan fleers,
Mocker:

And therefore he left out her name
From the first draft but he did not leave out
The presents for his granddaughter, for his daughters,
For his sister, for his old cronies in Stratford
And in London. And therefore when he was urged,
As I believe, to name her
He left her his Secondbest
Bed.

Punkt

Leftherhis
Secondbest
Bestabed
Secabest
Leftabed.

Woa!
-- Pretty countryfolk had few chattels²⁰⁶ then, John Eglinton observed, as they have still if our peasant plays are true to type.

-- He was a rich countrygentleman, Stephen said, with a coat of arms and landed estate at Stratford and a house in Ireland yard, a capitalist shareholder²⁰⁷, a bill promoter, a tithefarmer. Why did he not leave her his best bed if he wished her to snore away the rest of her nights in peace?

-- It is clear that there were two beds, a best and a secondbest, Mr Secondbest Best said finely.

-- Separatio a mensa et a thalamo, bettered Buck Mulligan and was smiled on.

-- Antiquity²⁰⁸ mentions famous beds, Second Eglinton puckered²⁰⁹, bedsmiling. Let me think.

-- Antiquity mentions that Stagyrite schoolurchin and bald heathen sage⁶⁰, Stephen said, who when dying in exile frees and endows his slaves, pays tribute to his elders, wills to be laid in earth near the bones of his dead wife and bids his friends be kind to an old mistress (don't forget Nell Gwynn Herpyllis) and let her live in his villa²¹⁰.

-- Do you mean he died so? Mr Best asked with slight concern. I mean...

-- He died dead drunk, Buck Mulligan capped. A quart of ale is a dish for a king. O, I must tell you what Dowden said!

-- What? asked Besteglinton.

William Shakespeare and company, limited. The people's William. For terms apply: E. Dowden, Highfield house...

-- Lovely! Buck Mulligan suspired amorously²¹¹. I asked him what he thought of the charge of pederasty brought against the bard. He lifted his hands and said: All we can say is that life ran very high in those days. Lovely!

Catamite.

-- The sense of beauty leads us astray, said beautifulinsadness Best to ugling Eglinton.

Steadfast²¹² John replied severe:

-- The doctor can tell us what those words mean. You can not eat your cake and have it.

Sayest thou so? Will they wrest²¹³ from us, from me the palm of beauty?

-- And the sense of property, Stephen said. He drew Shylock out of his own long pocket. The son of a maltjobber and moneylender he was himself a cornjobber and moneylender with ten tods of corn hoarded²¹⁴ in the famine riots. His borrowers are no doubt those divers²¹⁵ of worship mentioned by Chettle Falstaff who reported his uprightness of dealing²¹⁶. He sued a fellowplayer for the price of a few bags of malt and exacted his pound of flesh in interest for every money lent. How else could Aubrey's ostler and callboy get rich quick? All events brought grist to his mill. Shylock chimes with the jewbaiting that followed the hanging and quartering of the queen's leech²¹⁷ Lopez, his jew's heart being plucked forth while the sheeny was yet alive: Hamlet and Macbeth with the coming to the throne of a Scotch²¹⁸ philosophaster with a turn for witchroasting. The lost armada is his jeer²¹⁹ in Love's Labour Lost. His pageants²²⁰, the histories, sail fullbellied on a tide of Mafeking enthusiasm. Warwickshire jesuits are tried and we have a porter's theory of equivocation²²¹. The Sea Venture comes home from Bermudas and the play Renan admired is written with Patsy Caliban, our American cousin. The sugared sonnets follow Sidney's. As for fay Elizabeth, otherwise carroty Bess, the gross virgin who inspired The Merry Wives of Windsor, let some meinherr from Almany grope his life long for deephid meanings in the depth of the buckbasket.

I think you're getting on very nicely. Just mix up a mixture of theolologicophilolological. Mingo, minxi, mictum, mingere.

-- Prove that he was a jew, John Eglinton dared, expectantly. Your dean of studies holds he was a holy Roman.

Sufflaminandus sum.

-- He was made in Germany, Stephen replied, as the champion French polisher of Italian scandals.

-- A myriadminded man, Mr Best reminded. Coleridge called him myriadminded.

Amplius. In societate humana hoc est maxime necessarium ut sit amicitia inter²² multos.

-- Saint Thomas, Stephen began...

-- Ora pro³¹ nobis, Monk²²² Mulligan groaned²²³, sinking to a chair.

There he keened a wailing rune.

-- Pogue mahone! Asushla machree! It's destroyed we are from this day! It's destroyed we are surely!

All smiled their smiles.

-- Saint Thomas, Stephen, smiling, said, whose gorbellied works I enjoy reading in the original, writing of incest from a standpoint different from that of the new Viennese school Mr Magee spoke²²⁴ of, likens it in his wise and curious way to an avarice²²⁵ of the emotions. He means that the love so given to one near in blood is covetously²²⁷ withheld²²⁸ from some stranger who, it may be, hungers for it. Jews, whom christians²³⁰ tax with avarice, are of all races the most given to inter-marriage. Accusations²³¹ are made in anger. The christian²²⁹ laws which built up the hoards²³² of the jews (for whom, as for the lollards, storm was shelter) bound their affections too with hoops²³³ of steel. Whether these be sins or virtues²³⁴ old Nobodaddy will tell us at doomsday leet. But a man who holds so tightly to what he calls his rights over what he calls his debts will hold tightly also to what he calls his rights over her whom he calls his wife. No sir smile neighbour shall covet²²⁶ his ox or his wife or his manservant or his maidservant or his jackass.

-- Or his jennyass, Buck Mulligan antiphoned.

-- Gentle Will is being roughly handled, gentle Mr Best said gently.

-- Which Will? gagged sweetly Buck Mulligan. We are getting mixed.

-- The will to live, John Eglinton philosophised, for poor Ann, Will's widow, is the will to die.

-- Requiescat! Stephen prayed.

What of all the will to do?
It has vanished long ago...
-- She lies laid out in stark⁹⁶ stiffness in that secondbest bed, the mobled queen, even though you prove that a bed in those days was as rare as a motor car is now and that its carvings²³⁵ were the wonder of seven parishes. In old age she takes up with gospellers (one stayed at New Place and drank a quart of sack the town paid for but in which bed he slept it skills not to ask) and heard she had a soul. She read or had read to her his chapbooks preferring them to the Merry Wives and, loosing her nightly waters on the jordan, she thought over Hooks and Eyes for Believers' Breeches and The most Spiritual Snuffbox to Make the Most Devout²³⁶ Souls Sneeze. Venus had twisted her lips in prayer. Agenbite of inwit: remorse²³⁷ of conscience. It is an age of exhausted²³⁸ whoredom groping for its god.
-- History shows that to be true, inquit Eglintonus Chronolologos. The ages succeed one another. But we have it on high authority that a man's worst enemies shall be those of his own house and family. I feel that Russell is right. What do we care for his wife and father? I should say that only family poets have family lives. Falstaff was not a family man. I feel that the fat knight is his supreme creation.

Lean, he lay back. Shy, deny thy kindred, the unco guid. Shy supping with the godless, he sneaks²³⁹ the cup. A sire in Ultonian Antrim bade it him. Visits him here on quarter days. Mr Magee, sir, there's a gentleman to see you. Me? Says he's your father, sir. Give me my Wordsworth. Enter Magee Mor Matthew, a rugged²⁴⁰ rough rugheaded kern, in strossers with a buttoned codpiece, his nether²⁴¹ stocks bemired with clauber of ten forests, a wand of wilding in his hand.

Your own? He knows your old fellow. The widower²⁴².

Hurrying to her squalid deathlair from gay Paris on the quayside I touched his hand. The voice, new warmth, speaking. Dr Bob Kenny is attending her. The eyes that wish me well. But do not know me.

-- A father, Stephen said, battling against hopelessness, is a necessary evil. He wrote the play in the months that followed his father's death. If you hold that he, a greying man with two marriageable daughters, with thirtyfive years of life, nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita, with fifty of experience, is the beardless undergraduate from Wittenberg then you must hold that his seventyyear old mother is the lustful²⁴³ queen. No. The corpse²⁴⁴ of John Shakespeare does not walk the night. From hour to hour it rots and rots. He rests, disarmed²⁴⁵ of fatherhood, having devised that mystical estate upon his son. Boccaccio's Calandrino was the first and last man who felt himself with child. Fatherhood, in the sense of conscious begetting²⁴⁶, is unknown to man. It is a mystical estate, an apostolic succession, from only begetter²⁴⁷ to only begotten²⁴⁸. On that mystery and not on the madonna which the cunning Italian intellect flung to the mob of Europe the church is founded and founded irremovably because founded, like the world, macro- and microcosm, upon the void. Upon incertitude²⁴⁹, upon unlikelihood. Amor matris, subjective²⁵⁰ and objective genitive, may be the only true thing in life. Paternity may be a legal fiction. Who is the father of any son that any son should love him or he any son?

What the hell are you driving at?

I know. Shut up. Blast you! I have reasons.

Amplius. Adhuc. Iterum. Postea.

Are you condemned²⁵¹ to do this?

-- They are sundered²⁵² by a bodily shame so steadfast that the criminal annals of the world, stained with all other incests and bestialities, hardly record its breach²⁵³. Sons with mothers, sires with daughters, lesbic sisters, loves that dare not speak their name, nephews with grandmothers, jailbirds with keyholes, queens with prize bulls. The sun unborn mars beauty: born, he brings pain, divides affection, increases care. He is a male: his growth is his father's decline, his youth his father's envy, his friend his father's enemy.

In rue Monsieur-le-Prince I thought it.

-- What links them in nature? An instant of blind rut. Am I father? If I were?

Shrunken uncertain hand.

-- Sabellius, the African, subtlest heresiarch of all the beasts of the field, held that the Father was Himself His Own Son. The bulldog of Aquin, with whom no word shall be impossible, refutes him. Well: if the father who has not a son be not a father can the son who has not a father be a son? When Rutlandbaconsouthamptonshakespeare or another poet of the same name in the comedy of errors wrote Hamlet he was not the father of his own son merely but, being no more a son, he was and felt himself the father of all his race, the father of his own grandfather, the father of his unborn grandson who, by the same token, never was born for nature, as Mr Magee understands her, abhors²⁵⁴ perfection.

Eglintoneyes, quick with pleasure, looked up shybrightly. Gladly glancing, a merry puritan, through the twisted eglantine.

Flatter. Rarely. But Flatter.

-- Himself his own father, Sonmulligan told himself. Wait. I am big with child. I have an unborn child in my brain. Pallas Athena! A play! The play's the thing! Let me parturiate!

He clasped his paunchbrow with both birthaiding hands.

-- As for his family, Stephen said, his mother's name lives in the forest of Arden. Her death brought from him the scene with Volumnia in Coriolanus. His boyson's death is the deathscene of young Arthur in King John. Hamlet, the black prince, is Hamnet Shakespeare. Who the girls in The Tempest, in Pericles, in Winter's Tale are we know. Who Cleopatra, fleshpot of Egypt, and Cressid and Venus are we may guess. But there is another member of his family who is recorded.

-- The plot thickens, John Eglinton said.

The quaker librarian, quaking, tiptoed in, quake, his mask, quake, with haste, quake, quack²⁵⁵.

Door closed. Cell. Day.

They list. Three. They.

I you he they.

Come, mess.

STEPHEN He had three brothers, Gilbert, Edmund, Richard. Gilbert in his old age told some cavaliers he got a pass for nowt from Maister Gatherer one time mass he did and he seen his brud Maister Wull the playwriter up in Lunnon in a wrastling play wud a man on's back. The playhouse sausage filled Gilbert's soul. He is nowhere: but an Edmund and a Richard are recorded in the works of sweet William.
MAGEEGLINJOHN Names! What's in a name?

BEST That is my name, Richard, don't you know. I hope you are going to say a good word for Richard, don't you know, for my sake.

(Laughter.)
BUCK MULLIGAN (Piano, diminuendo.)

Then outspoke medical Dick
To his comrade medical Davy...
STEPHEN In his trinity of black Wills, the villain²⁵⁶ shakebags, Iago, Richard Crookback, Edmund in King Lear, two bear the wicked uncles' names. Nay²⁵⁷, that last play was written or being written while his brother Edmund lay dying in Southwark.
BEST I hope Edmund is going to catch it. I don't want Richard, my name.

(Laughter.)
QUAKERLYSTER (A tempo²⁵⁸.) But he that filches²⁵⁹ from me my good name...

STEPHEN (Stringendo.) He has hidden his own name, a fair name, William, in the plays, a super here, a clown there, as a painter of old Italy set his face in a dark corner of his canvas. He has revealed it in the sonnets where there is Will in overplus. Like John O'Gaunt his name is dear to him, as dear as the coat of arms he toadied²⁶⁰ for, on a bend sable²⁶¹ a spear or steeled argent, honorificabilitudinitatibus, dearer than his glory of greatest shakescene in the country. What's in a name? That is what we ask ourselves in childhood when we write the name that we are told is ours. A star, a daystar, a firedrake rose at his birth. It shone by day in the heavens alone, brighter than Venus in the night, and by night it shone over delta²⁶² in Cassiopeia, the recumbent constellation²⁶³ which is the signature of his initial among the stars. His eyes watched it, lowlying on the horizon, eastward²⁶⁴ of the bear, as he walked by the slumberous²⁶⁵ summer fields at midnight, returning from Shottery and from her arms.

Both satisfied. I too.
Don't tell them he was nine years old when it was quenched²⁶⁶.

And from her arms.

Wait to be wooed and won. Ay, meacock. Who will woo you?

Read the skies. Autontimerumenos. Bonus Stephanoumenos. Where's your configuration²⁶⁷? Stephen, Stephen, cut the bread even. S. D.: sua donna. Già: di lui. Gelindo risolve di non amar. S. D.

-- What is that, Mr Dedalus? the quaker librarian asked. Was it a celestial²⁶⁸ phenomenon?

-- A star by night, Stephen said, a pillar of the cloud by day.

What more's to speak?

Stephen looked on his hat, his stick, his boots.

Stephanos, my crown. My sword. His boots are spoiling the shape of my feet. Buy a pair. Holes in my socks. Handkerchief too.

-- You make good use of the name, John Eglinton allowed. Your own name is strange enough. I suppose it explains your fantastical humour.

Me, Magee and Mulligan.

Fabulous²⁶⁹ artificer, the hawklike²⁷⁰ man. You flew. Whereto? Newhaven-Dieppe, steerage passenger. Paris and back. Lapwing. Icarus. Pater, ait. Seabedabbled, fallen, weltering. Lapwing you are. Lapwing he.

Mr Best's eagerquietly lifted his book to say:

-- That's very interesting because that brother motive²⁷¹, don't you know, we find also in the old Irish myths. Just what you say. The three brothers Shakespeare. In Grimm too, don't you know, the fairytales. The third brother that marries the sleeping beauty and wins the best prize.

Best of Best brothers. Good, better, best.

The quaker librarian springhalted near.

-- I should like to know, he said, which brother you... I understand you to suggest there was misconduct with one of the brothers... But perhaps I am anticipating?

He caught himself in the act: looked at all: refrained.

An attendant from the doorway called:

-- Mr Lyster! Father Dineen wants...

-- O! Father Dineen! Directly.

Swiftly rectly creaking rectly rectly he was rectly gone.

John Eglinton touched the foil.

-- Come, he said. Let us hear what you have to say of Richard and Edmund. You kept them for the last, didn't you?

-- In asking you to remember those two noble kinsmen²⁷² nuncle Richie and nuncle Edmund, Stephen answered, I feel I am asking too much perhaps. A brother is as easily forgotten as an umbrella.

Lapwing.

Where is your brother? Apothecaries²⁷³' hall. My whetstone. Him, then Cranly, Mulligan: now these. Speech, speech. But act. Act speech. They mock to try you. Act. Be acted on.

Lapwing.

I am tired of my voice, the voice of Esau. My kingdom for a drink.

On.

-- You will say those names were already in the chronicles from which he took the stuff of his plays. Why did he take them rather than others? Richard, a whoreson crookback, misbegotten, makes love to a widowed Ann (what's in a name?), woos and wins her, a whoreson merry widow. Richard the conqueror, third brother, came after William the conquered. The other four acts of that play hang limply from that first. Of all his kings Richard is the only king unshielded by Shakespeare's reverence²⁷⁴, the angel of the world. Why is the underplot of King Lear in which Edmund figures lifted out of Sidney's Arcadia and spatchcocked on to a Celtic legend older than history?

-- That was Will's way, John Eglinton defended. We should not now combine a Norse saga²⁷⁶ with an excerpt²⁷⁷ from a novel by George Meredith. Que voulez-vous? Moore would say. He puts Bohemia on the seacoast and makes Ulysses quote Aristotle.

-- Why? Stephen answered himself. Because the theme of the false or the usurping²⁷⁸ or the adulterous brother or all three in one is to Shakespeare, what the poor is not, always with him. The note of banishment²⁷⁹, banishment from the heart, banishment from home, sounds uninterruptedly from The Two Gentlemen of Verona onward²⁸⁰ till Prospero breaks his staff, buries it certain fathoms²⁸¹ in the earth and drowns his book. It doubles itself in the middle of his life, reflects itself in another, repeats itself, protasis, epitasis, catastasis, catastrophe²⁸². It repeats itself again when he is near the grave, when his married daughter Susan, chip of the old block, is accused of adultery. But it was the original sin that darkened his understanding, weakened his will and left in him a strong inclination²⁸³ to evil. The words are those of my lords bishops²⁸⁴ of Maynooth: an original sin and, like original sin, committed by another in whose sin he too has sinned. It is between the lines of his last written words, it is petrified²⁸⁵ on his tombstone under which her four bones are not to be laid. Age has not withered²⁸⁶ it. Beauty and peace have not done it away. It is in infinite variety everywhere in the world he has created, in Much Ado about Nothing, twice in As you like It, in The Tempest, in Hamlet, in Measure for Measure, and in all the other plays which I have not read.

He laughed to free his mind from his mind's bondage²⁸⁷. Judge Eglinton summed up.

-- The truth is midway, he affirmed. He is the ghost and the prince. He is all in all.

-- He is, Stephen said. The boy of act one is the mature man of act five. All in all. In Cymbeline, in Othello he is bawd and cuckold. He acts and is acted on. Lover of an ideal or a perversion²⁸⁸, like José he kills the real Carmen. His unremitting intellect is the hornmad Iago ceaselessly willing that the moor⁸⁵ in him shall suffer.

-- Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuck Mulligan clucked lewdly²⁸⁹. O word of fear!

Dark dome²⁹⁰ received, reverbed.

-- And what a character is Iago! undaunted John Eglinton exclaimed. When all is said Dumas fils (or is it Dumas père?) is right. After God Shakespeare has created most.

-- Man delights him not nor woman neither, Stephen said. He returns after a life of absence to that spot of earth where he was born, where he has always been, man and boy, a silent witness and there, his journey of life ended, he plants his mulberrytree in the earth. Then dies. The motion is ended. Gravediggers bury Hamlet pére and Hamlet fils. A king and a prince at last in death, with incidental music. And, what though murdered and betrayed, bewept by all frail²⁹¹ tender hearts for, Dane or Dubliner, sorrow for the dead is the only husband from whom they refuse to be divorced. If you like the epilogue look long on it: prosperous Prospero, the good man rewarded, Lizzie, grandpa's lump of love, and nuncle Richie, the bad man taken off by poetic²⁹² justice to the place where the bad niggers go. Strong curtain. He found in the world without as actual what was in his world within as possible. Maeterlinck says: If Socrates leave his house today he will find the sage seated on his doorstep. If Judas go forth tonight it is to Judas his steps will tend. Every life is many days, day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love. But always meeting ourselves. The playwright²⁹³ who wrote the folio of this world and wrote it badly (He gave us light first and the sun two days later), the lord of things as they are whom the most Roman of catholics call dio boia, hangman god, is doubtless all in all in all of us, ostler and butcher, and would be bawd and cuckold too but that in the economy of heaven, foretold²⁹⁴ by Hamlet, there are no more marriages, glorified²⁹⁵ man, an androgynous angel, being a wife unto himself.

-- Eureka! Buck Mulligan cried. Eureka!

Suddenly happied he jumped up and reached in a stride John Eglinton's desk.

-- May I? he said. The Lord has spoken to Malachi.

He began to scribble²⁹⁶ on a slip of paper.

Take some slips from the counter going out.

-- Those who are married, Mr Best, douce herald²⁹⁷, said, all save one, shall live. The rest shall keep as they are.

He laughed, unmarried, at Eglinton Johannes, of arts a bachelor.

Unwed, unfancied, ware¹⁴³ of wiles²⁹⁸, they fingerponder nightly each his variorum edition of The Taming of the Shrew.

-- You are a delusion²⁹⁹, said roundly John Eglinton to Stephen. You have brought us all this way to show us a French triangle. Do you believe your own theory?

-- No, Stephen said promptly³⁰⁰.

-- Are you going to write it? Mr Best asked. You ought to make it a dialogue, don't you know, like the Platonic³⁰¹ dialogues Wilde wrote.

John Eclecticon doubly smiled.

-- Well, in that case, he said, I don't see why you should expect payment for it since you don't believe it yourself. Dowden believes there is some mystery in Hamlet but will say no more. Herr Bleibtreu, the man Piper met in Berlin, who is working up that Rutland theory, believes that the secret is hidden in the Stratford monument. He is going to visit the present duke, Piper says, and prove to him that his ancestor wrote the plays. It will come as a surprise to his grace. But he believes his theory.

I believe, O Lord, help my unbelief. That is, help me to believe or help me to unbelieve? Who helps to believe? Egomen. Who to unbelieve? Other chap.

-- You are the only contributor to Dana who asks for pieces of silver. Then I don't know about the next number. Fred Ryan wants space for an article on economics.

Fraidrine. Two pieces of silver he lent me. Tide you over. Economics.

-- For a guinea, Stephen said, you can publish this interview.

Buck Mulligan stood up from his laughing scribbling³⁰², laughing: and then gravely said, honeying malice³⁰³:

-- I called upon the bard Kinch at his summer residence in upper Mecklenburgh street and found him deep in the study of the Summa contra Gentiles in the company of two gonorrheal ladies, Fresh Nelly and Rosalie, the coalquay whore.

He broke away.

-- Come, Kinch. Come, wandering &Aelig;ngus of the birds.

Come, Kinch, you have eaten all we left. Ay, I will serve you your orts and offals.

Stephen rose.

Life is many days. This will end.

-- We shall see you tonight, John Eglinton said. Notre ami Moore says Malachi Mulligan must be there.

Buck Mulligan flaunted³⁰⁴ his slip and panama.

-- Monsieur Moore, he said, lecturer on French letters to the youth of Ireland. I'll be there. Come, Kinch, the bards must drink. Can you walk straight?

Laughing he...

Swill³⁰⁵ till eleven. Irish nights' entertainment.

Lubber...

Stephen followed a lubber...

One day in the national library we had a discussion. Shakes. After his lub back I followed. I gall his kibe.

Stephen, greeting, then all amort, followed a lubber jester, a wellkempt head, newbarbered, out of the vaulted cell into a shattering daylight of no thoughts.

What have I learned? Of them? Of me?

Walk like Haines now.

The constant readers' room. In the readers' book Cashe Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell parafes his polysyllables. Item: was Hamlet mad? The quaker's pate³⁸ godlily with a priesteen in booktalk.

-- O please do, sir... I shall be most pleased...

Amused Buck Mulligan mused in pleasant murmur with himself, selfnodding:

-- A pleased bottom.

The turnstile.

Is that?... Blueribboned hat... Idly writing... What? Looked?...

The curving balustrade; smoothsliding Mincius.

Puck Mulligan, panamahelmeted, went step by step, iambing, trolling:

John Eglinton, my jo, John.
Why won't you wed a wife?
He sputtered³⁰⁶ to the air:
O, the chinless Chinaman! Chin Chon Eg Lin Ton. We went over to their playbox, Haines and I, the plumbers³⁰⁷' hall. Our players are creating a new art for Europe like the Greeks or M. Maeterlinck. Abbey theatre! I smell the public sweat of monks³⁰⁸.

He spat²⁷⁵ blank.

Forgot: any more than he forgot the whipping lousy Lucy gave him. And left the femme de trente ans. And why no other children born? And his first child a girl?

Afterwit. Go back.

The dour³⁰⁹ recluse³¹⁰ still there (he has his cake) and the douce youngling, minion³¹¹ of pleasure, Phedo's toyable fair hair.

Eh... I just eh... wanted... I forgot... he...

-- Longworth and M'Curdy Atkinson were there...

I hardly hear the purlieu cry
Or a Tommy talk as I pass one by
Before my thoughts begin to run
On F. M'Curdy Atkinson,
The same that had the wooden leg
And that filibustering³¹² fillibeg
That never dared to slake³¹³ his drouth,
Magee that had the chinless mouth.
Being afraid to marry on earth
They masturbated for all they were worth.
Jest on. Know thyself.
Halted below me, a quizzer looks at me. I halt.

-- Mournful mummer, Buck Mulligan moaned. Synge has left off wearing black to be like nature. Only crows, priests and English coal are black.

A laugh tripped over his lips.

-- Longworth is awfully sick, he said, after what you wrote about that old hake Gregory. O you inquisitional drunken jew jesuit! She gets you a job on the paper and then you go and slate³¹⁴ her drivel to Jaysus. Couldn't you do the Yeats touch?

He went on and down, mopping, chanting with waving graceful³¹⁵ arms:

-- The most beautiful book that has come out of our country in my time. One thinks of Homer.

He stopped at the stairfoot.

-- I have conceived a play for the mummers, he said solemnly.

The pillared Moorish³¹⁶ hall, shadows entwined. Gone the nine men's morrice with caps of indices.

In sweetly varying voices Buck Mulligan read his tablet:

Everyman His own Wife
or
A Honeymoon³¹⁷ in the Hand
(a national immorality³¹⁸ in three orgasms)
by
Ballocky Mulligan
He turned a happy patch's smirk³¹⁹ to Stephen, saying:
-- The disguise, I fear, is thin. But listen.

He read, marcato:

-- Characters:

TOBY TOSTOFF (a ruined Pole)
CRAB³²⁰ (a bushranger)
MEDICAL DICK
and (two birds with one stone)
MEDICAL DAVY
MOTHER GROGAN (a watercarrier)
FRESH NELLY
and
ROSALIE (the coalquay whore)
He laughed, lolling a to and fro head, walking on, followed by Stephen: and mirthfully he told the shadows, souls of men:
-- O, the night in the Camden hall when the daughters of Erin had to lift their skirts to step over you as you lay in your mulberrycoloured, multicoloured, multitudinous vomit³²¹!

-- The most innocent son of Erin, Stephen said, for whom they ever lifted them.

About to pass through the doorway, feeling one behind, he stood aside.

Part. The moment is now. Where then? If Socrates leave his house today, if Judas go forth tonight. Why? That lies in space which I in time must come to, ineluctably.

My will: his will that fronts me. Seas between.

A man passed out between them, bowing, greeting.

-- Good day again, Buck Mulligan said.

The portico³²².

Here I watched the birds for augury³²³. &Aelig;ngus of the birds. They go, they come. Last night I flew. Easily flew. Men wandered. Street of harlots after. A creamfruit melon he held to me. In. You will see.

-- The wandering jew, Buck Mulligan whispered with clown's awe³²⁴. Did you see his eye? He looked upon you to lust after you. I fear thee, ancient mariner³²⁵. O, Kinch, thou art in peril³²⁶. Get thee a breechpad.

Manner of Oxenford.

Day. Wheelbarrow sun over arch of bridge.

A dark back went before them. Step of a pard, down, out by the gateway³²⁷, under portcullis barbs³²⁸.

They followed.

Offend me still. Speak on.

Kind air defined the coigns of houses in Kildare street. No birds. Frail from the housetops two plumes³²⁹ of smoke ascended³³⁰, pluming³³¹, and in a flaw of softness softly were blown.

Cease to strive. Peace of the druid priests of Cymbeline, hierophantic: from wide earth an altar.

Laud³³² we the gods
And let our crooked³³³ smokes climb to their nostrils³³⁴
From our bless'd altars.

为了缓和大家的情绪，公谊会教徒[1]－图书馆长文质彬彬地轻声说道：“球门不是还有《威廉·迈斯特》那珍贵的篇章吗?一位伟大的诗人对另一位弟兄般的大诗人加以论述。[2]一具犹豫不决的灵魂，被相互矛盾的疑惑所撕扯，挺身反抗人世无边的苦难[3]，就像我们在现实生活中所看到的那样。”

他踏着橐橐作响的牛皮鞋[4]，跳着五步舞[5]前进一步，又跳着五步舞[6]，在肃穆的地板上后退一步。

一名工役悄悄地把门开了个缝儿，默默地朝他做了个手势。

“马上就来，”他说，踏着橐橐作响的鞋正要走开，却又踟蹰不前。“充满绮丽幻想而又不实际的梦想家，面临严峻的现实，就只有一败涂地。[7]我们读到这里，总觉得歌德的论断真是对极了。他的宏观分析是正确的。”

像是听了倍加响亮的分析，他踩着“科兰多”舞步[8]走开了。歇顶的他，在门旁耸起那双大耳朵，倾听着工役的每一句话，然后就走了。

只剩下两个人。

“德·拉帕利斯先生，”斯蒂芬冷笑着说，“直到死前一刻钟还活着。[9]”

“你找到那六个勇敢的医科学生了吗?”约翰·埃格林顿[10]以长者的刻薄口气问道，“好叫他们把《失乐园》[11]笔录下来。他管这叫作《魔鬼之烦恼》。[12]”

微笑吧。露出克兰利[13]微笑吧。

起初他为她搔痒，

接着就抚摩她，

并捅进一根女用导尿管。

因为他是个医科学生，

爽朗快活的老医……

“倘若是写《哈姆莱特》的话，我觉得你还需要再添上一个人物。对神秘主义者来说，七是个可贵的数字。威·巴把它叫作灿烂的七。[14]”

他目光炯炯，将长着赤褐色头发的脑袋挨近绿灯罩的台灯，在暗绿的阴影下，寻觅着胡子拉碴的脸——长着圣者的眼睛的奥拉夫般的脸。[15]他低声笑了。这是三一学院工读生[16]的笑。没有人理睬他。

管弦乐队的魔鬼痛哭，

淌下了天使般的眼泪。[17]

然而他以自己的屁股代替了号筒。[18]

他抓住我的愚行当作了把柄。

克兰利手下那十一名土生土长的威克洛[19]男子有志于解放祖国。豁牙子凯思林，她那四片美丽的绿野，她家里的陌生人。[20]还有一个向他致意的：“你好，拉比。[21]蒂那依利市[22]的十二个人。在狭谷的阴影下，他吹口哨吆唤他们。一个又一个夜晚，我把灵魂的青春献给了他。祝你一路平安。好猎手。[23]

穆利根收到了我的电报。[24]

愚行。一不做，二不休。

“咱们爱尔兰的年轻诗人们，”约翰·埃格林顿告诫说，“还得塑造出一位将被世人誉为能与萨克逊佬莎士比亚的哈姆莱特相媲美的人物。尽管我和老本[25]一样佩服他，并且对他崇拜得五体投地。”

“这些纯粹属于学术问题，”拉塞尔从阴影里发表宏论。“我指的是哈姆莱特究竟是莎士比亚还是詹姆斯一世[26]，抑或是艾塞克斯伯爵[27]这样的问题，就像是由教士们来讨论耶稣在历史上的真实性一样。艺术必须向我们昭示某种观念——无形的精神真髓[28]。关于一部艺术作品首要的问题是：它究竟是从怎样深邃的生命中涌现出来的。古斯塔夫·莫罗[29]的绘画表达了意念。雪莱最精深的诗句，哈姆莱特的话语，都能够使我们的心灵接触到永恒的智慧，接触到柏拉图的观念世界。其他左不过是学生们之间的空想而已。”

A·E·曾对前来采访的美国记者这么说过。[30]唉，该死的!

“学者也得先当学生呀，”斯蒂芬极其客气地说，“亚理斯多德就曾经是柏拉图的学生。”

“而且他始终是那样，像我们所希望的，”约翰·埃格林顿安详地说，“我们仿佛总可以看到他那副腋下夹着文凭的模范生的样子。”

他又朝着现在正泛着微笑的那张胡子拉碴的脸，笑了笑。

无形的精神上的。父，道，圣息。万灵之父，天人[31]。希稣斯·克利斯托斯[32]，美的魔术师，不断地在我们内心里受苦受难的逻备斯[33]。这确实就是那个。我是祭坛上的火。我是供牺牲的黄油。[34]

邓洛普[35]，贾奇[36]，在他们那样人当中最高贵的罗马人[37]，A·E·阿尔瓦尔[38]，高高在天上的那个应当避讳的名字：库·胡·[39]——那是他们的大师，消息灵通人士都晓得其真实面目。大白屋支部[40]的成员们总是观察着，留意他们能否出一臂之力。基督携带着新娘子修女[41]，润湿的光，受胎于圣灵的处女，忏悔的神之智慧[42]，死后进入佛陀的境界。秘教的生活不适宜一般人。芸芸众生必须先赎清宿孽。库珀·奥克利夫人[43]有一次瞥见了我们那位大名鼎鼎的姊妹海·佩·勃的原始状态。

哼!哼!呸!呸！[44]可耻，冒失鬼！[45]你不应该看，太太。当一个女人露出原始状态的时候，那是不许看的。

贝斯特[46]先生进来了。个子高高的，年轻，温和，举止安详。他手里文雅地拿着一本又新又大、洁净而颜色鲜艳的笔记本。

“那个模范学生会认为，”斯蒂芬说，“哈姆莱特王子针对自己灵魂的来世所作的冥想，那难以置信、毫不足取、平淡无奇的独白，简直跟柏拉图一样浅薄。”[47]

约翰·埃格林顿皱起眉头，怒气冲冲地说：

“说实在的，一听见有人把亚理斯多德跟柏拉图相比较，我就气炸了肺。”

“想把我赶出理想国的，”斯蒂芬问，“是他们两个当中的哪一个呢?”[48]

亮出你那匕首般的定义吧。马性者，一切马匹之本质也。他们崇敬升降流和伊涌[49]。神：街上的喊叫。逍遥学派[50]味道十足。空间：那是你非看不可的东西。穿过比人血中的红血球还小的空间，追在布莱克的臀部后面，他们慢慢爬行到永恒。这个植物世界仅只是它的影子。[51]紧紧地把握住此时此地，未来的一切都将经由这里涌入过去。[52]

贝斯特先生和蔼可亲地走向他的同僚。

“海恩斯走掉啦，”他说。

“是吗?”

“我给他看朱班维尔[53]的书来着。要知道，他完全热衷于海德的《康诺特情歌》。我没能把他拉到这儿来听听大家的议论，他到吉尔书店买这本书去了。”

我的小册子，快快前去，

向麻木的公众致意，

写作用贫乏寒伦的英语，

决不是我的原意。[54]

“泥炭烟上了他的大脑，”约翰·埃格林顿议论道。

我们英国人觉得……[55]悔悟的窃贼。[56]走掉啦。我吸了他的纸烟。一颗璀璨的绿色宝石。镶嵌在海洋这指环上的绿宝石。[57]

“人们不晓得情歌有多么危险，”金蛋[58]拉塞尔用诡谲的口吻警告说，“在世界上引起的革命运动，原是在山麓间，在一个庄稼汉的梦境和幻象中产生的。 对他们来说，大地不是可供开拓的土壤，而是位活生生的母亲。 学院和街心广场那稀薄的空气会产生六先令一本的小说和沸艺场的小调。法国通过乌拉梅[59]创造了最精致的颓废之花，然而惟有灵性贫乏者[60]，才能获得理想生活的启迪。比方说荷马笔下的腓依基人的生活。”

听罢这番话，贝斯特先生将那张不冲撞人的脸转向斯蒂芬。

“要知道，乌拉梅写下的那些精彩的散文诗，”他说，“在巴黎的时候，斯蒂芥·麦克纳[61]常朗读给我听。有一首是关于《哈姆莱特》的。[62]他说： 他边读一本写他自己的书，边漫步。[63]要知道：边读一本写他自己的书。他描述了一个法国镇子上演《哈姆莱特》的情景。要知道，是内地的一个镇子。他们还登了广告。”

他用那只空着的手优雅地比比画画，在虚空中写下小小的字：

哈姆莱特

或者

心神恍惚的男子

莎士比亚的剧作[64]

他对约翰·埃格林顿那再一次皱起来的眉头重复了一遍：

“要知道，莎士比亚的戏剧[65]哩。法国味十足。法国人的观点。哈姆莱特或者……[66]”

“心神恍惚的乞丐[67]，”斯蒂芥替他把话结束了。

约翰·埃格林顿笑了。

“对，依我看就是这样，”他说，“毫无疑问，那是个优秀的民族，可在某些事物上，目光又短浅得令人厌烦。”[68]

豪华而情节呆板、内容夸张的凶杀剧。[69]

“罗伯特·格林曾称他作‘灵魂的刽子手’[70]，”斯蒂芬说，“他真不愧为屠夫的儿子，[71]在手心上啐口唾沫，就抡起磨得锃亮的杀牛斧。[72]为了他父亲这一条命，葬送掉了九条[73]。我们在炼狱中的父亲。[74]身着土黄色军服的哈姆莱特们毫不迟疑地开枪。[75]第五幕那浴血的惨剧[76]乃是斯温伯恩先生在诗中歌颂过的集中营的前奏[77]。”

克兰利，我是他的一名沉默寡言的传令兵，离得远远地观望着战斗。

对凶恶敌人之妇孺，

只有我们予以宽恕……

夹在萨克逊人的微笑与美国佬的饶舌之间。魔鬼与深渊之间。

“他想把《哈姆莱特》说成是个鬼怪故事，”约翰·埃格林顿替贝斯特先生解释说，“像《匹克威克》里的胖小子似的，他想把我们吓得毛骨悚然。[78]

听着，听着，啊，听着！[79]

我的肉身倾听着他的话，胆战心惊地听着。

要是你曾经……[80]

“什么是鬼魂?”斯蒂芬精神抖擞地说，“那不外乎就是一个人由于死亡，由于不在，由于形态的变化而消失到虚无飘渺中去。伊丽莎白女王时代的伦敦与斯特拉特福[81]相距之远，一如今天堕落的巴黎之于纯洁的都柏林。谁是那个离开了幽禁祖先的所在[82]而返回到己把他遗忘了的世界上来的鬼魂呢?谁是哈姆莱特王呢?”

约翰·埃格林顿挪动了一下他那瘦小的身躯，向后靠了靠，在做出判断。

情绪激昂了。

“那是六月中旬的一天，就在这个时辰，”斯蒂芬迅疾地扫视了大家一眼，好让人们注意倾听他的话，“河滨的剧场升起了旗子。旁边的巴黎园里，萨克逊大熊在栏中吼叫着。跟德雷克一道航过海的老水手们，混在池座的观众当中，嚼着香肠。[83]”

地方色彩。把自己晓得的统统揉进去。让他们做同谋者。

“莎士比亚离开了西尔弗街那所胡格诺派教徒的房子，沿着排列在河岸上的天鹅槛定去。然而他并不停下脚步来喂那赶着成群小天鹅朝灯心草丛中走去的母天鹅。埃文河的天鹅[84]别有心思。”

场子的构图。[85]依纳爵·罗耀拉啊，赶快来帮助我吧!

“戏开台了。一个演员从暗处[86]踱了过来。他身披宫廷里哪位花花公子穿剩的铠甲，体格魁悟，有着一副男低音的嗓子。这就是鬼魂，是国王，又不是国王，[87]演员乃是莎士比亚。[88]他毕生的岁月不曾虚度，都倾注在研究《哈姆莱特》上了，以便扮演幽灵这个角色。他隔着绷了一层蜡布[89]的架子，呼唤着站在自己对面的年轻演员伯比奇[90]的名字：

哈姆莱特。啊，我是你父亲的阴魂……[91]

并吩咐他听着。他是对儿子，自己的灵魂之子——王子，年轻的哈姆莱恃——说话;也对内身之子哈姆奈特[92]·莎士比亚说话——他死在斯特拉特福，以便让他的同名者获得永生。”

身为演员的莎士比亚，由于外出而做了鬼魂，身穿死后做了鬼魂的墓中的丹麦先王的服装[93]，他可不可能就是在对亲生儿子的名字(倘若哈姆奈特·莎士比亚不曾夭折，他就成为哈姆莱特王子的双生兄弟了)，说着自己的台词呢?我倒是想知道，他可不可能，有没有理由相信：他并不曾从这些前提中得出或并不曾预见到符合逻辑的结论：你是被废黜的儿子，我是被杀害的父亲，你母亲就是那有罪的王后，[94]娘家姓哈撒韦的安·莎士比亚?

“但是像这样来窥探一个伟大人物的家庭生活，那可……”拉塞尔不耐烦地开了腔。

你在那儿吗，老实人?[95]

“只有教区执事才对这有兴趣。我的意思是说，我们有剧本在手。也就是说，当我们读《李尔王》的诗篇时，该诗作者究竟是怎样生活过来的，干我们什么事?维利耶·德利尔曾说，我们的仆人们可以替我们活下去。[96]窥视并刺探演员当天在休息室里的飞短流长：诗人怎么酗酒啦，诗人如何负债啦。我们有《李尔王》，而那是不朽的。”

这话是说给贝斯特先生听的，他露出赞同的神色。

用你的波浪，你的海洋淹没他们吧，

马南南啊，马南南·麦克李尔……[97]

喂，老兄，你饿肚子的时候他借给你的那一镑钱哪儿去啦?[98]

哎唷，我需要那笔钱来着。

把这枚诺布尔[99]拿去吧。

去你的吧!你把大部分钱都花在牧师的女儿乔冶娜·约翰逊[100]的床上啦。内心的呵责。

你打算偿还吗?

嗯，当然。

什么时候?现在吗?

喏……不。

那么，什么时候?

我没欠过债。我没欠过债。

要镇定。他是从博伊恩河彼岸来的。在东北角上。[101]你欠了他钱。

且慢。已经过了五个月。分子统统起了变化。现在的我已换了个人。钱是另外那个我欠下的。

早过时啦![102]

然而我，生命原理，形态的形态，由于形态是不断变化的，在记忆之中，我恢然是我。[103]

我，曾经犯过罪，祈祷过，也守过斋戒。

康米从体罚中拯救过的一个孩子。[104]

我，我和我，我。

A·E·I·O·U·

“难道你想违反已经延续了三个世纪的传统吗?”约翰·埃格林顿用吹毛求疵的腔调问道，“至少她的亡灵已永远安息了。至少就文学来说，她还没出生之前就已去世。”

“她是在出生六十七年之后去世的，”斯蒂芥反驳说，“她看到他出世，以及离开人间。[105]她接受了他第一次的拥抱。她生下了他的娃娃们。在他弥留之际，她曾把几枚便士放在他眼睑上，好让他瞑目。”

母亲临终卧在床上。蜡烛。用布单罩起来的镜子。把我生到这世上的人躺在那里，眼睑上放着青铜币，在寥寥几朵廉价的花儿下。饰以百合的光明……[106]

我独自哭泣。

约翰·埃格林顿瞧着他那盏火苗纠缠在一起发出萤光的灯。[107]

“世人相信莎士比亚做错了一件事，”他说，“并尽快她用最巧妙的办法脱了身。”[108]

“那是胡扯!”斯蒂芬鲁莽地说，“天才是不会做错事的。他是明知故犯，那是认识之门。”

认识之门打开了，公谊会教徒——图书馆长走了进来，脚下的鞋轻轻地吱吱响着。他已歇顶，竖起耳朵，兢兢业业。

“很难想像，”约翰·埃格林顿卓有见识地说，“泼妇会是个有用的认识之门。苏格拉底从赞蒂贝[109]身上又认识到了什么呢?”

“辩证法[110]嘛，”斯蒂芬说，“还从他母亲那儿学会了怎样把思想带到人间。[111]他从另一个老婆默尔托[112](名字是无所谓的![113])——也就是说，‘好苏格拉底[114]的灵魂的分身[115]’——那儿学到了什么，任何男人或女人都永远不得而知。然而‘助产术’也罢，闺训[116]也罢，都末能从新芬党[117]的执政官与他们那杯毒芹下救他一命。[118]”

“可是安·哈澈韦呢?”贝斯特先生像是心不在焉似地以安详的口吻说，“是啊，我们好像忘记了她，正如莎士比亚本人也把她遗忘了。”

他的视线从冥思着的那个人的胡子扫到吹毛求疵者的脑壳，宛若在提醒他们，和颜悦色地责备他们，然后又转向那尽管无辜却受到迫害的罗拉德派[119]那粉红色的秃脑袋。

“他颇有点儿机智，”斯蒂芬说，“记忆力也不含糊。当他用口哨吹着《我撇下的姑娘》[120]，朝罗马维尔[121]吃力地走着的时候，他的行囊里就装有记忆。即便那场地震不曾记载下来[122]， 我们也应知道，该把蹲在窝里的可怜的小兔，猎犬的吠声，镂饰的缰绳，她那蓝色的窗户，[123]放在他一生的哪个时期。《维纳斯与阿都尼》中所描绘的那番记忆[124]， 存在于伦敦每个荡妇的寝室里。悍妇凯瑟丽娜[125]长得丑吗?霍坦西奥说她又年轻又漂亮。难道你以为《安东尼与克莉奥佩特拉》的作者，一个热情的香客[126]， 两眼竟长在脑后，单挑沃里克郡最丑的淫妇来跟自已睡觉吗?不错，他撇下了她，而获得了男人的世界[127]。然而由男童所扮演的女角儿们[128]是从一个男童 [129] 眼中看到的女人们。她们的生活、思想、语言，都是男人所赋予的。 难道他没选好吗?我觉得毋宁说他是被选的。[130]倘若其他女人能够从心所欲[131]，安自有她的办法。[132]的的确确，她该受责难。[133]是她这个二十六岁的甜姐儿[134]对他进行引诱的。好比是美妙的开场白[135]，灰眼女神[136]伏在少年阿都尼身上，屈就取胜。这就是厚脸皮的斯特拉特福荡妇，她曾把比自己年轻的情人[137]压翻在麦田里[138]。”

轮到我?什么时候?

来吧!

“裸麦地，”贝斯特先生欣喜快活地说，并且欣喜地、快活地高举着他那本新书。

然后，他喃喃地吟诵起来;那头金发使大家赏心悦目。

裸麦地的田垄间，

俊俏乡男村女眠。[139]

帕里斯，陶醉了的诱惑者。[140]

身穿毛茸茸的家织布衣的高个子[141]从阴影里站起来，掀开了他从合作社头来的怀表的盖子。

“看来我得到《家园报》去啦。”

去哪儿?到可开拓的土地上去。

“你要走了吗?”约翰·埃格林顿挑起眉毛问，“今儿晚上咱们在穆尔[142]家见面，好吗?派珀[143]要来哩。”

“派珀!”贝斯特先生尖声说，“派珀回来了吗?”

彼得·派珀噼噼啪啪地一点点挑选着啄食盐汁胡椒。[144]

“这就难说了。这是星期四嘛，我们还有会呢，要是我能及时脱身的话……”

道森套房里那间通神学家们的瑜伽魔室[145]。《揭去面纱的伊希斯》。[146]我们曾试图把他们这本巴利语[147]著作送进当铺。在暗褐色华盖的遮阴下，他盘腿坐在宝座上;在星界发挥机能的阿兹特克族的逻各斯[148]，他们的超灵[149]，大我[150]。已够入门资格的虔诚的秘义信徒们环绕着他，等待着启示。路易斯·H·维克托里[151]。T·考尔菲尔德·艾尔温[152]。莲花净土的少女们不断地注视着他们。[153]他们的松果体[154]熠熠发光。他内心里充满了神，登上宝座。芭蕉树下的佛陀。[155]吞入灵魂者，吞没者。[156]他的幽魂，她的幽魂，成群的幽魂。[157]他们呜呜哀号，被卷入漩涡，边旋转，边痛哭。[158]

万物精髓之琐事，

肉牢经年女魂栖。[159]

“他们说在文艺方面将有一桩惊人之举，”公谊会教徒一图书馆长友好而诚挚地说，“听说拉塞尔先生正在把我们年轻诗人的作品收成集子。[160]大家都在翘首企盼着哪。”

他借那圆锥形的灯光热切地扫视着。在灯光映照下，三张脸发着亮。

看吧，并且记在脑子里。

斯蒂芬俯视着横挂在他膝头的那根梣木手杖柄上的宽檐平顶帽。我的盔和剑。用两根食指轻轻地摸一下。亚理斯多德的试验。一个还是两个?必然性就在于此。人只能是自己，不可能是其他任何东西。[161]所以，一顶帽子就是一顶帽子。[162]

听着。[163]

年轻的科拉姆和斯塔基[164]。乔治·罗伯茨[165]负责商务方面。朗沃思[166]会在《快邮报》上把它大棒一通的。噢，他会吗?我喜欢科拉姆的《牲畜商》。对，我认为他具有那种古怪的东西——天才。你认为他真有天才吗?叶芝曾赞美过他这句诗:宛如一只埋在荒漠中的希腊瓶。[167]是吗?我希望今天晚上你能够来。玛拉基·穆利根也要来的。穆尔托他把海恩斯带来。你听到过米切尔小姐讲的关于穆尔和马丁的笑话吗?她说，穆尔是马丁的浪荡儿。[168]讲得真是巧妙，令人联想到堂吉诃德和桑丘·潘沙。西格尔逊博士[169]说，我们民族的史诗至今还没写出来。穆尔正是适当的人选。他是都柏林这里的一位愁容骑士[170]。奥尼尔·拉塞尔[171]穿一条桔黄色百褶短裙[172]吗?啊，对，他一定会讲庄重的古语。还有他那位杜尔西尼娅[173]呢?詹姆斯·斯蒂芬斯[174]正在写俏皮的小品文。看来我们变得越来越重要了。

考狄利娅。考德利奥。李尔那最孤独的女儿。[175]

偏僻荒蛮。现在该上你最拿手的法国磨光漆了。[176]

“非常感谢你，拉塞尔先生，”斯蒂芬边站起身来边说，“劳驾请把这封信交给诺曼先生……”

“啊，好的。假若他认为这重要，就会刊用的。我们的读者来稿踊跃极了。”

“我知道，”斯蒂芬说，“谢谢啦。”

天老爷犒劳你。[177]猪猡的报纸[178]。阉牛之友派。

辛格也曾答应我，要为《达娜》杂志[179]写篇稿子。我们的文章会有读者吗?我认为会有的。盖尔语联盟[180]要点用爱尔兰语写的东西。我希望今天晚上你肯来。把斯塔基也带来吧。

斯蒂芬坐了下来。

公谊会教徒－图书馆长向那些告辞的人们打完招呼之后，就走过来了。他泛红着假面具般的脸说：

“迪达勒斯先生，你的观点极有启发性。”

他踮起脚尖，脚步声橐橐地踱来踱去，鞋跟有多么厚，离天就靠近了多少[181]。然后在往外走的一片嘈杂声的掩盖下，他低声说：

“那么，你认为她对诗人不忠贞吗?”

那张神色惊愕的脸问我。他为什么走过来呢?是出于礼貌，还是得到了什么内心之光?[182]

“既然有和解，”斯蒂芬说，“当初想必就有过纷争。”

“可不是嘛。”

穿着鞣皮紧身裤的基督狐。一个亡命徒，藏到枯树杈里，躲避着喧嚣。他没同母狐狸打过交道。孑然一身，被追逐着。他赢得了女人们的心，都是些软心肠的人们：有个巴比伦娼妇，还有法官夫人们，以及胖墩墩的酒馆掌柜的娘儿们。[183]“狐入鹅群”[184]。在“新地”大宅[185]，有个慵懒的浪荡女人。想当初她曾经像肉桂那么鲜艳、娇嫩、可人，而今全部枝叶都已凋落，一丝不挂，对窄小的墓穴心怀畏惧，并且未得到宽恕。

“可不是嘛。那么，你认为……”

门在走出去的人们背后关上了。

一片静寂突然笼罩了这间幽深的拱顶斗室。是温暖和沉滞的空气带来的静寂。

维斯太[186]的一盏灯。

在这里，他冥想着一些莫须有的事，倘若恺撒相信预言家的警告而活下来的话，[187]那么他究竟会做些什么事呢?有可能发生的事。可能发生的、可能的情况的种种可能性。[188]不可知的事情。当阿戏留生活在女辈中间时，他用的是什么名字呢?[189]

我周围是封闭起来的思想，装在木乃伊匣里，填上语言香料保存起来。透特[190]，图书馆的神，头戴月冠的鸟神。我听见那位埃及祭司长的声音[191]：在那一间间堆满泥板书的彩屋里。

这些思维是沉寂的。它们在人的头脑里却曾经十分活跃。沉寂，但是它们内部却怀着对死亡的渴望，在我耳际讲个感伤的故事，敦促我表露他们的愿望。

“毫无疑问，”约翰·埃格林顿沉吟一下说，“在所有的伟人中间，他是最难以理解的。除了他曾生活过并且苦恼过而外，我们对他一无所知。不，连这一点也不清楚。旁人经受我们的置疑[192]。其余的都遮在阴影之下[193]。”

“然而《哈姆莱特》这个作品多么富于个人色彩啊，对吗?”贝斯特先生申辩说，“要知道，我是说，这是有关他的私生活的一种个人手记——我是说，他的生平。至于谁被杀或是谁是凶手，我倒丝毫也不在意……”

他把清白无辜的笔记本放在桌边上，面上泛着挑战似的微笑。用盖尔语所撰写的他的个人记录。船在陆上。我是个僧侣。[194]把它译成英文[195]吧，小个子约翰。[196]

小个子约翰·埃格林顿说：

“根据我听玛拉基·穆利根所谈起过的，对于这些奇谈怪论我是有准备的。不过我不妨忠告你，倘若你想动摇我对于莎士比亚就是哈姆莱特这一信念，那可不是轻而易举的。”

原谅我。[197]

斯蒂芬忍受着在皱起的眉毛下，严厉地闪着邪光的那双眼睛的剧毒。小王[198]。而一经它盯视，人就被蛊惑致死。[199]布鲁涅托[200]先生，我要为这句话而感谢你。

“正像我们，或母亲达娜[201]，一天天地编织再拆散我们的身子，[202]”斯蒂芬说，“肉体的分子来来回回穿梭;一位艺术家也这样把自己的人物形象编织起来再拆散。尽管我的肉身反复用新的物质编织起来，我右胸上那颗胎里带来的痣[203]还在原先的地方。同样地，没有生存在世上的儿子的形象，通过得不到安息的父亲的亡灵，在向前望着。想象力迸发的那一瞬间，用雪莱的话来说，当精神化为燃烧殆尽的煤[204]那一瞬间，过去的我成为现在的我，还可能是未来的我。因此，在未来(它是过去的姊妹)中，我可以看到当前坐在这里的自己，但反映的却是未来的我。”

霍索恩登的德拉蒙德[205]帮助你度过了难关。

“是啊，”贝斯特先生兴致勃勃地说，“我觉得哈姆莱特十分年轻。[206]他对世事那股子激愤可能来自他父亲，可是跟奥菲利娅的那些段落肯定来自他本人。”

这可就大错特错啦。他在我的父亲之中，我在他的儿子之中。

“那颗疮是无从消失的，[207]”斯蒂芬笑着说。

约翰·埃格林顿绷着脸皱起眉头。

“倘若那是天才的胎记，”他说，“天才就成了市场上的滞销货啦。勒南[208]所称赞不已的莎士比亚晚年的戏剧，呈现出的可是另一种精神。”

“和解的精神，”公谊会教徒一图书馆长低声说。

“和解又从何谈起，”斯蒂芬说，“除非先有过纷争。”

话就说到这里。

“倘若你想知道，《李尔王》、《奥瑟罗》、《哈姆莱特》和《特洛伊罗斯与克瑞西达》的可怕时刻，究竟被哪些事件罩上了阴影，你就得先留意这个阴影是什么时候和怎样消失的。在一场场可怕的风暴中，泰尔亲王配力克里斯的船翻了，他像另一个尤利西斯那样受尽磨难。[209]是什么给他的心带来慰藉呢?”

头戴红尖帽，受尽折磨，被泪水遮住了视线。[210]

“一个娃娃——放在他怀里的女孩儿玛丽娜[211]。”

“智者派容易误入外典[212]这一歧途的倾向是一条永恒不变的规律，”约翰·埃格林顿一语道破，“大道[213]固然冷清，然而它通向城市。”

好样儿的培根[214]。已经发了霉。莎士比亚即培根这一牵强附会的说法。[215]用密码来变戏法的[216]走在大道上。从事宏伟的探索的人们。到哪座城市去呀，各位好老爷?隐姓埋名:A·E·，永恒。马吉是约翰·埃格林顿[217]。太阳之东，月亮之西，[218]长生不老国[219]。两个人都脚蹬长靴，拄着拐杖。[220]

离都柏林[211]还有多远?

先生，还得走七十英里。

掌灯时分能到吗?

“布兰代斯认定，”斯蒂芬说，“它是晚期的头一部剧本。[222]”

“是吗?关于这一点，西德尼·李[223]先生——或照某些人的说法，原名叫西蒙·拉扎勒斯的——又怎么说呢?”

“玛丽娜是风暴的孩子[224]，米兰达是奇迹[225]，潘狄塔是失去了[226]。丢失了的，又还给他了;他女儿的娃娃。[227]配力克里斯曾说：‘我的最亲爱的妻子正像这个女郎一样。’[228]任何一个男人，倘若没有爱过母亲，他会爱女儿吗?[229]”

“做爷爷的艺术，”贝斯特先生开始咕哝道，“变得伟大的艺术……[230]”

[“他会不会参照自己年轻时代的记忆，在她身上看到另一个形象的新生呢?”

你知道自己在说些什么吗?爱——是的。大家都晓得的字眼。[231]爱乃由于给予对方之欲望，使之幸福。要某物，则属对自己愿望之满足。][232]

“对于一个具有那种叫作天才的古怪东西的人来说，他的形象就是一切经验的基准，不论是物质还是精神方面的。这样的共鸣会触动他的心弦。跟他同一血统的其他男子的形象，会引起他的反感。他会从中看到大自然预示或重复他自己的那种不伦不类的尝试。”

公谊会教徒－图书馆长那宽厚的前额被希望点燃了，泛着玫瑰色。

“为了启发大家，我希望迪达勒斯先生会完成他的这一学说。我们还必须提到另一位爱尔兰注释者乔治·萧伯纳[233]先生。我们也不可忘记弗兰克·哈里斯[234]先生。他在《星期六评论》上所发表的关于莎士比亚的论文着实精彩。说也奇怪，他也为我们描述了《十四行诗》[235]的作者和‘黑夫人’之间不幸的关系。受到这位女人青睐的情敌是彭布罗克伯爵－威廉·赫伯特[236]。我认为，倘若诗人非遭到拒绝不可，那么这样的拒绝——怎么说好呢?——似乎是和我们对于本来不应有的情况所抱观点毋宁是一致的。”[237]

他说完这番措词恰当的话之后，就在众人当中昂起温顺的头——一枚海雀蛋[238]，大家争夺的猎物。

他使用丈夫那种老式辞句——就像浑家啦，内助啦。卿爱否，米莉亚姆?[239]爱汝夫否?[240]

“这也可能吧，”斯蒂芬说，“马吉喜欢引用歌德的一句话：“当心你年轻时所抱的愿望，因为到了中年就会变为现实。[241]他为什么派一个小贵族[242] 去向一个花姑娘[243]求婚呢?她是人人行驶的海湾[244]，少女时代声名狼藉[245]的宫女。他本人是个语言贵族[246]，成为一位卑微的绅士，他还写了《罗密欧与朱丽叶》。为什么?他的自信心过早地被扼杀了。首先，他曾被压翻在麦田(可以说是裸麦地)里。打那以后，他在自己眼中再也不是赢者了，更不能在笑而躺下的游戏[247] 中取胜。不论怎样以唐磺[248]自居，也无济于事。后来再怎么弥补，也无法挽回最初的失败。他被野猪的獠牙咬伤了[249]，悍妇即使输了， 她手中也还有那看不见的女性武器。我感觉，他的言词中有着刺激肉身使其陷入新的激情的东西。 这是比最初的激情还要晦暗的影子，甚至使他对自己的认识都模糊起来。 同样的命运在等待着他，两种狂乱汇成一股漩涡。

他们在倾听。我往他们的耳腔内注入。

“灵魂已经受到了致命的一击，睡觉的时候，毒草汁被注入耳腔。[250]然而在睡眠中遇害的人不可能了解自己是怎样被害的，除非造物主赋予他们的灵魂以洞察来世的本事。倘若造物主不曾让他晓得，哈姆莱特王的鬼魂不可能知道毒杀以及促使这一行动的双背禽兽[251]的事。正因为如此，他的言辞(贫乏而且寒伧的英语[252])总是转到旁的方面，转到后面。既是凌辱者又是被凌辱者，既愿意又不愿意[253]，从鲁克丽丝那蓝纹纵横的象牙球般的双乳[254]，到伊摩琴袒露着的胸脯上那颗梅花形的痣[255]，一直紧紧缠绕着他。为了逃避自己，他积累起一大堆创作。如今对这些都已厌倦了，就像一只舔着旧时伤口的老狗似的折回去了。然而，由于失对他来说就是得，他就带着丝毫不曾减弱的人性步入永恒。他所写下的智慧也罢，他所阐明的法则也罢，都没有使他受到教益。他的脸甲掀起来了。[256]如今他成为亡灵，成为阴影;他成为从艾尔西诺的峰岩间刮过去的风;或是各遂所愿[257]，成了海洋的声音——只有作为影子的实体的那个人，与父同体的儿子，才听得见的声音。”

“啊们!”有个声音在门口回答说。

我的冤家呀，你找到我了吗？[258]

幕间休息[259]。

这时，形容猥琐、神态像副主教那样阴沉的勃克·穆利根身穿色彩斑斓的小丑服装，愉快地向笑脸相迎的人们走来。我的电报。[260]

“假若我没听错的话，你在谈论设有实质的脊椎动物[261]吧?”他问斯蒂芬。

他穿着淡黄色背心，把他摘下的巴拿马草帽当作丑角的帽子似的抡着，快活地致意。

大家向他表示欢迎。你尽管嘲弄他，也还是得侍奉他[262]。

一样嘲弄者，佛提乌，冒牌的小先知，[263]约翰·莫斯特[264]。

他，自我诞生之神，以圣灵为媒介，自己委派自己为赎罪者，来到自己和旁人之间，他受仇敌欺骗，被剥光衣服，遭到鞭笞，被钉在十字架上饿死，宛若蝙蝠钉于谷仓门上，听任自己被埋葬，重新站起，征服了地狱，[265]升入天堂。一千九百年来，坐于自己的实体之右。当生者全部死亡之日，将从彼而来，审判生死者。[266]

天 主 受 享 荣 福 于——天。[267]

他举起双手。圣器的帷幕垂下来了。啊，成簇的花儿!一座又一座又一座钟，响成一片。

“是呀，确实是，”公谊会教徒－图书馆长说，“那是一场最令人受教益的讨论。穆利根先生想必对莎士比亚的戏剧也自有他的高见。应该把人生的各个方面都谈一谈。”

他一视同仁地朝四面八方微笑着。

勃克·穆利根困惑地左思右想。

“莎士比亚?”他说，“我好像听说过这个名字。”

他那皮肉松弛的脸上闪过一丝开朗的微笑。

“没错儿，”他恍然大悟了，“就是写得像辛格[268]的那位老兄。”

贝斯特先生转向他。

“海恩斯找你哪，”他说，“你碰上他了吗?回头他要在都柏林面包公司跟你见面。他到吉尔书店买海德的《康纳特情歌》去了。”

“我是从博物馆穿过来的，”勃克·穆利根说，“他来过这儿吗?”

“‘大诗人’的同胞们也许对咱们这精彩的议论颇感厌烦了，”约翰·埃格林顿回答说，“我听说昨天晚上在都柏林，一位女演员[269]第四百零人次演出 《哈姆莱特》。维宁[270]提出，这位王子是个女的。有没有人发现他是个爱尔兰人呢?我相信审判官巴顿[271]正在查找什么线索。他(指王子殿下，而不是审判官大人) 曾凭着圣帕特里克的名义起过誓[272]。”

“最妙的是王水德的故事《威·休先生的肖像》，”贝斯特先生举起他那出色的笔记本说，“他在其中证明《十四行诗》是一个名叫威利·休斯的八面玲珑的人写的。”[273]

“那不是献给威利·休斯的吗?”公谊会教徒－图书馆长问。

要不就是休依·威尔斯?威廉先生本人。[274]W·H。我是谁?

“我认为是为威利·休斯而写的，”贝斯特先生顺口纠正自己的谬误说，“当然喽，这全是些似是而非的话。要知道，就像休斯和砍伐和色彩，[275]他的写法独特。要知道，这才是王尔德的精髓呢。落笔轻松。”

他泛着微笑，轻轻地扫视大家一眼。白肤金发碧眼的年轻小伙子。王尔德那柔顺的精髓。[276]

你着实鬼得很。用堂迪希的钱[277]喝了三杯威士忌。

我花了多少？哦，不过几个先令。

为了让一样新闻记者喝上一通。讲那些干净的和不干净的笑话。机智。为了把他打扮自己的那身青春的华服弄到手，你不惜舍弃你的五种机智。[278] 欲望得到满足的面貌。[279]

机会是很多的。交情的时候，把她让给你吧。天神啊，让他们过一个凉快的交尾期吧。[280]对，把她当作斑鸠那样地疼爱吧。

夏娃在赤裸的小麦色肚皮下面犯的罪孽。一条蛇盘绕着她，龇着毒牙跟她接吻。[281]

“你认为这不过是谬论吗?”公谊会教徒－图书馆长在问，“当嘲弄者最认真的时候，却从未被认真对待过。”

他们严肃地讨论起嘲弄者的真诚。

勃克·穆利根又把脸一耷拉，朝斯蒂芬瞅了几眼。然后摇头晃脑地凑过来，从兜里掏出一封折叠着的电报。他那灵活的嘴唇读时露出微笑，带着新的喜悦。

“电报!”他说，“了不起的灵感!电报!罗马教皇的训渝!”

他坐在桌子灯光照不到的一角，兴高采烈地大声读着：

“伤感主义者乃只顾享受而对所做之事不深觉歉疚之火。[282]署名：迪达勒斯。你是打哪儿打的电报?窑子吗?不。学院公园？你把四镑钱都喝掉了吧?姑妈说是要去拜访你那位非同体的父亲。电报!玛拉基·穆利根。下阿贝街‘船记’酒馆。噢，你这个举世无双的滑稽演员!哦，你这个以教士自居的混蛋金赤!”

他乐呵呵地将电报和封套塞到兜里，却又用爱尔兰土腔气冲冲地说：

“是这么回事。好兄弟，当海恩斯亲自把电报拿进来的时候，他和我都正觉得苦恼烦闷来着。我们曾嘟囔说，要足足地喝上它一杯，让行乞的修士都会起魔障。我正转着这个念头，他呢，跟姑娘们黏糊起来了。我们就乖乖儿地坐在康纳里[283]那儿，一个钟头，两个钟头，三个钟头地等下去，指望着每人喝上五六杯呢。”

他唉声叹气地说：

“我们就呆在那儿，乖乖[284]，把舌头耷拉得一码长，活像那想酒想得发昏的干嗓子教士。你呢，也不知道躲到哪儿去了，居然还给我们送来了这么个玩艺儿。”

斯蒂芬笑了。

勃克·穆利根像是要提出警告似地弯下腰去。

“流浪汉辛格[285]正在找你哪，”他说，“好把你宰了。他听说你曾往他那坐落在格拉斯特赫尔的房子的正门上撒尿。他趿拉着一双破鞋到处走， 说是要把你宰了。”

“我!”斯蒂芬喊道，“那可是你对文学做出的一桩贡献呀。”

勃克·穆利根开心地向后仰着，朝那黑咕隆咚偷听着的天花板大笑。

“宰了你!”他笑道。

在圣安德烈艺术街上，我一边吃着下水杂烩，一边望着那些严厉的怪兽形面孔。[286]用那对语言报以语言的语言，讲一通话。[287]莪相和帕特里克。[288]他在克拉玛尔森林遇见了抡着酒瓶的牧羊神。[289]那是圣星期五!杀人凶手爱尔兰人。他遇见了自己游荡着的形象。我遇见了我的。我在林中遇见一个傻子。[290]

“利斯特[291]先生，”一个工役从半掩着的门外招呼说。

“……每个人都能在其中找到自己的形象。审判官先生马登在他的《威廉·赛伦斯少爷日记》中找到了狞猎术语……[292]啊，什么事?”

“老爷，来了一位先生，”工役走过来，边递上名片边说，“是《自由人报》社的。他是想看看去年的《基尔肯尼民众报》[293]合订本。”

“好的，好的，好的。这位先生在……?”

他接过那张殷勤地递过来的名片，带看不看地瞥了一眼，放下来，并没有读，只是瞟着，边问边把鞋踩得橐橐作响。又问：

“他在……?哦，在那儿哪!”

他快步跳着五步舞[294]出去了。在浴满阳光的走廊上，他不辞劳苦，热情地、口若悬河地谈着，极其公正、极其和蔼地尽着本分，不愧为一名最忠诚的“宽边帽”[295]。

“是这位先生吗?《自由人报》?《基尔肯尼民众报》?对。您好，先生。《基尔肯尼……》……我们当然有喽……”

一个男子的侧影耐心地等待着，耹听着。

“主要的地方报纸全都有……《北方辉格》、《科克观察报》、《恩尼斯科尔西卫报》[296]。去年。一九0三……请您……埃文斯，给这位先生领路……您只要跟着这个工役……要么，还是我自己……这边……先生，请您……”

口若悬河，尽着本分，他领先到放着所有地方报纸的所在。一个鞠着躬的黑影儿尾随着他那匆忙的脚后跟。

门关上了。

“犹太佬!”勃克·穆利根大声说。

他一跃而起，一把抓住名片。

“他叫什么名字?艾克依·摩西[297]吗?布卢姆。”

他喋喋不休地讲下去：

“包皮的搜集者[298]耶和华已经不在了。刚才我在博物馆里遇见过他。我到那儿是去向海泡里诞生的阿佛洛狄忒致意的。这位希腊女神从来没有歪起嘴来祷告过。咱们每天都得向她致敬。生命的生命，你的嘴唇点燃起火焰。[299]”

他突然转向斯蒂芬：

“他认识你。他认识你的老头子。哦，我怕他，他比希腊人还要希腊化。他那双淡色的加利利[300]眼睛总盯着女神中央那道沟沟。美臀维纳斯。[301]啊，她有着怎样一副腰肢啊!天神追逐，女郎躲藏。[302]”

“我们还想再听听，”约翰·埃格林顿征得贝斯特先生的赞同后说，“我们开始对莎[303]太太感兴趣了。在这之前，即便我们想到过她， 也不过把她看作是一位有耐心的克雨雪达[304]，留守家中的潘奈洛佩[305]。”

“戈尔吉亚的弟子安提西尼[306]，”斯蒂芬说，“从曼涅劳王的妻子、阿凯人海伦手里把美的标志棕榈枝拿过来，交给了可怜的潘奈洛佩。二十位英雄在特洛伊那匹母木马[307]里睡过觉。他[308]在伦敦住了二十年， 其间有个时期领的薪水跟爱尔兰总督一样多。他的生活是丰裕的。他的艺术超越了沃尔特·惠特曼所说的封建主义艺术，[309]乃是饱满的艺术。热腾腾的鲜鱼馅饼、 绿杯里斟得满满的白葡萄酒、蜂蜜酱、蜜饯玫瑰、杏仁糖、醋栗填鸽、刺芹糖块。沃尔特·雷利爵士[310]被捕的时候，身上穿着值五十万法郎的衣服，包括一件精致的胸衣。放高利贷的伊丽莎·都铎[311]的内衣之多，赛得过示巴女王。[312]足足有二十年之久， 他徘徊在夫妻那纯洁缠绵的恩爱与娼妇淫荡的欢乐之间。你们可晓得曼宁汉姆那个关于一个市民老婆的故事吧，她看了迪克[313]·伯比奇在《理查三位》中的演出，就邀请他上自己的床。莎士比亚无意中听到了，没费多大力气[314]就制服了母牛。当伯比奇前来敲门的时候，他从阉鸡[315]的毯子下面回答说：‘征服者威廉已比理查三世捷足先登啦。’[316]快活的小夫人、情妇菲顿[317]噢的一声就骑了上去。[318]还有他那娇滴滴的婆娘潘奈洛佩·里奇。[319]这位端庄的上流夫人适合做个演员;而河堤上的娼妇，一回只要一便士。”

王后大道。再出二十苏吧。给你搞点小花样儿。玩小猫味?你愿意吗?[320]

“上流社会的精华。还有牛津的威廉·戴夫南特爵士[321]的母亲，只要是长得像金丝雀那样俊秀的男人，她就请他喝杯加那利酒[322]。”

勃克·穆利根虔诚地抬起两眼祷告道：

“圣女玛格丽特·玛丽·安尼科克[323]!”

“还有换过六个老婆的哈利的女儿。[324]再就是草地· 丁尼生、绅士诗人所唱的：附近邸舍的高贵女友。[325]这漫长的二十年间，你们猜猜，斯特拉持福的潘奈洛佩[326]在菱形窗玻璃后面都干什么来着?”

干吧，干吧，[327]干出成绩。他在药用植物学家杰勒德那座位于费特小巷的玫瑰花圃[328]里散步，赤褐色的头发已灰白了。像她的脉管一样蓝的风信子。[329]朱诺的艰睑，紫罗兰。[330]他散步。人生只有一次，肉体只有一具。干吧。专心致志地干。近处，在淫荡和污浊的臭气中，一双手放在白净的肉身上。

勃克·穆利根使劲敲着约翰·埃格林顿的桌子。

“你猜疑谁呢?”[331]他盘问。

“假定他是《十四行诗》里那位被舍弃的情人吧。被舍弃一回，就有第二回。然而宫廷里的那个水性扬花的女子是为了一个贵族——他的好友——而舍弃他的。[332]”

不敢说出口的爱。[333]

“你的意思是说，”刚毅的约翰·埃格林顿插进嘴去，“作为一个英国人，他爱上了一位贵族。”

蜥蜴们沿着古老的墙壁一闪而过。我在查伦顿[334]仔细观察过它们。

“好像是的，”斯蒂芬说，“为了这位贵族，并为所有其他特定的、未被耕耘过的处女的胎，[335]他想尽尽马夫对种马所尽的那种神圣职责。也许跟苏格拉底一样，不仅妻子是个悍妇，母亲也是个产婆呢。然而她，那个喜欢痴笑的水性扬花的女子，并不曾撕毁床头盟。[336]鬼魂[337]满脑子都是那两档子事：誓盟被破坏了，她移情于那个迟钝的乡巴佬——亡夫的兄弟身上。我相信可爱的安是情欲旺盛的。她向男人求过一次爱，就会求第二次。”

斯蒂芬在椅子上果敢地转了个身。

“证明这一点的责任在你们而不在我，”他皱着眉头说，“倘若你们否认他在《哈姆莱特》第五场里就给她打上了不贞的烙印，那么告诉我，为什么在他们结婚三十四年间，从迎娶那天直到她给他送殡，她始终只字没被提到过。这些女人统统为男人送了葬，玛丽送走了她的当家人约翰[338]，安送走了她那可怜的、亲爱的威伦[339];尽管对于比她先走感到愤懑，他还是死在她前头了。琼送走了她的四个弟弟。[340]朱迪斯[341]送走了她丈夫和所有的儿子。苏珊也送走了她丈夫。[342]苏珊的女儿伊丽莎白呢，用爷爷的话说：先把头一个丈夫杀了，再嫁给第二个。[343]哦，对啦。有人提到过。当他在京都伦敦过着豪华的生活时，她不得不向她父亲的牧羊人借四十先令来还债。[344]你们解释好了。还解释一下‘天鹅之歌’[345]，作者在诗中向后世颂扬了她。”

他面对着大家的沉默。

埃格林顿对他这么说：

你指的是遗嘱。

然而我相信法律家已做了诠释。

按照不成文法，她作为遗孀，

有权利继承遗产。法官们告诉我们，

他具有丰富的法律知识。

恶魔嘲弄他。

嘲弄者：

因此，他把她的名字

从最初的草稿中勾销了;然而他并未勾销对外孙女

和女儿们的赠予，

赠予他妹妹以及他在斯特拉特福和伦敦的挚友们的

礼物。因此，据我所知，

当他被提醒说，不要漏掉她的名儿

他才留给她

次好的

床。[346]

要点。[347]

留给她他那

次好的床

留给她他那

顶刮刮的床

次好的床

留给一张床。

喔啊!

“当时连俊俏的乡男村女[348]都几乎没什么家当，”约翰·埃格林顿说，“倘若我们的农民戏[349]反映得真实的话，他们至今也还是没有多少。”

“他是个富有的乡绅，”斯蒂芬说，“有着盾形纹章，还在斯特拉福德拥有一座庄园，在爱尔兰庭园有一栋房屋。他是个资本家和股东，证券发起人，还是个交纳什一税的农场主。倘若他希望她能在鼾声中平安地度过余生的话，为什么不把自己最好的床留给她呢?”

“他显然有两张床，一张最好的，另一张是次好的，”次好的贝斯特先生[350]乖巧地说。

“向饭桌和寝室告别，[351]”勃克·穆利根说得更透彻些，博得了大家一笑。

“关于一张张有名的床，古人说过不少话，”其次的埃格林顿噘起嘴来，像在床上那样地笑着，“让找想想看。”

“古人记载着那个斯塔基莱特的顽童和秃头的异教贤人的事，”斯蒂芬说，“他在流亡中弥留时，释放了他的奴隶们，留给他们资财，颂扬祖先， 在遗嘱中要求把自已合葬在亡妻的遗骨旁边，并托付友人好生照顾他生前的情妇(不要忘记内尔·格温·赫尔派利斯)，让她住在他的别墅里。[352]”

“你认为他是这么死的吗?”贝斯特先生略表关切地问道，“我是说……”

“他是喝得烂醉而死的，”勃克·穆利根劈头就说，“一夸脱浓啤酒，就连国王也喜爱。[353]哦，我得告诉你们多顿[354]说了些什么!”

“说了什么?”最好的埃格林顿[355]问。

威廉、莎士比亚股份有限公司。[356]人民的威廉。详情可询：爱·多顿，海菲尔德寓所……[357]

“真可爱!”勃克·穆利根情意绵绵地叹息说，“我问他， 关于人们指责那位大诗人有鸡奸行为，他做何感想。他举起双手说，我们所能说的仅仅是，当时的生活中充满了欣喜欢乐。[358]真可爱!

娈童。

“对美的意识使我们误人歧途，”沉浸在哀愁美中的贝斯特对正在变丑的埃格林顿说。

坚定的约翰严峻地回答道：

“博士可以告诉咱们那话是什么意思。你不能既吃了点心又还拿在手里。”[359]

你这么说吗?难道他们要从我们——从我这里夺去美的标志——棕搁枝[360]吗?

“还有对财产的意识，”斯蒂芬说，“他把夏洛克从他自己的长口袋[361]里拽了出来。作为啤酒批发商和放高利贷者的儿子，他本人也是个小麦批发商和放高利贷的。当由于闹饥荒而引发那场暴动时，他手里存有十托德[362]小麦。毫无疑问，向他借钱的那帮人是切特尔·福斯塔夫所说的信仰各种教派的人。他们都说，他公平交易。为了讨回几袋麦芽的款，他和同一个剧团的演员打官司，作为贷款的利息，索取对方的一磅肉。不然的话，奥布里[363]所说的那个马夫兼剧场听差怎么能这么快地就发迹了呢?为了赚钱，他什么都干得出。女王的侍医、犹太佬洛佩斯[364]那颗犹太心脏被活生生地剜出来，在上绞刑架之后，大解八块，紧接着就是一场对犹太人的迫害。这和夏洛克事件不谋而合。《哈姆莱特》和《麦克白》与有着焚烧女巫的嗜好的伪哲学家的即位赶在同一个时期。[365]在《爱的徒劳》中，被击败的无敌舰队[366]成了他嘲笑的对象。他的露天演出——也就是历史剧，在马弗京的一片狂热[367]中，粉墨登场了。当沃里克郡的耶稣会士受审判后，我们就听到过一个门房关于暧昧不清的说法。[368]‘海洋冒险号’从百慕大驶回国时，[369]勒南所称赞过的以我们的美国堂弟帕齐·凯列班[370]为主人公的那出戏写成了。继锡德尼之后，他也写了罄美的十四行诗组诗。[371]关于仙女伊丽莎白(又名红发贝斯)，那位胖处女授意而写成的《温莎的风流娘儿们》，就让哪位德国绅士耗用毕生心血去从洗衣筐的尽底儿上搜集吧，以便探明它的深邃含义。[372]”

我觉得自己颇有领会。那么，把神学论理学语言学什么学掺合在一起再看看。撒着尿，撒了尿，撒着尿的，撒尿。[373]

“证明他是个犹太人吧，”约翰·埃格林顿有所期待地将了一军，“你们学院的院长说他是个罗马天主教徒。”[374]

“我应该受到抑制。”[375]

“他是德国制造的[376]——”斯蒂芬回答说，“是一位用法国磨光漆[377]来涂饰意大利丑闻的高手。”

“一位拥有万众之心的人，”贝斯特先生提醒道，“柯尔律治[378]说他是一位拥有万众之心的人。”

泛言之，人类社会中，让众人之间存在友情，乃是至关重要的。[379]

“圣托马斯，”斯蒂芬开始说……

“为我等祈[380]，”僧侣穆利根边瘫坐在椅子上，边呻吟道。

从那儿，他凄凉地吟起北欧古哀诗来：

“吻我屁股!我心脏的搏动![381]从今天起，咱们毁灭啦!咱们确实毁灭啦!”[382]

大家各自泛出微笑。

“圣托马斯……”斯蒂芬笑眯眯地说，“那部卷帙繁多的书，我是从原文披阅并赞赏的。他是站在不同于马吉先生所提到的新维也纳学派[383]的立场上，来谈乱伦的问题的。他以他持有的睿智而奇待的方法，把乱伦比作在情感方面的贪得无厌。他指出，血统相近者之间滋生的这种爱情，对于那些可能渴望它的陌生人，却贪婪地被抑制住了。基督教徒谴责犹太人贪婪，而犹太人是所有的民族中最倾向于近亲通婚的。这一谴责是愤怒地发出的。基督教戒律使犹太人成为巨富(对他们来说，正如对罗拉德派一样，风暴为他们提供了避难所)，也用钢圈箍在他们的感情上。[384]这些戒律究竟是罪恶还是美德，神老爹[385]会在世界末日告诉我们的。然而一个人如此执着于债权，也同样会执着于所谓夫权。任何笑眯眯的邻居[386]也不可去贪图他的母牛、他的妻子、他的碑文或公驴。[387]

“或是他的母驴，”勃克·穆利根接着说道。

“温和的威尔[388]遭到了粗暴的对待，”温和的贝斯特先生温和地说。

“哪个威尔呀?”勃克·穆利根亲切地打了句诨，“简直都掺混不清了。”

“活下去的意志，”约翰·埃格林顿用哲理解释道，“对威尔的遗孀——可怜的安来说，就是为了迎接死亡的遗嘱。”[389]

“安息吧![390]”斯蒂芬祷告说。

当年雄心壮志何在?

早已烟消云散。[391]

“尽管你们证明当时的床就像今天的汽车那样珍贵，而床上的雕饰也令七个教区感到惊异;却不能改变她——那蒙面皇后[392]穿着青衣僵硬地挺在那次好的床上这一事实。在晚年，她跟那些传福音的打得火热——其中的一个跟她一道住在‘新地’大宅，共饮那由镇议会付款的一夸脱白葡萄酒。然而，他究竟睡在哪张床上，就不得而知了。她听说自己有个灵魂。她读(或者请旁人读给她听)他那些沿街叫卖的廉价小册子。她喜欢它们更甚于《温莎的风流娘儿们》。她每天晚上跨在尿盆上撒尿，[393]驰想着《信徒长裤上的钩子和扣眼》以及《使最虔诚的信徒打喷嚏的最神圣的鼻烟盒》。[394]维纳斯歪起嘴唇祷告着。内心的呵责。悔恨之心。这是一个精疲力竭的淫妇衰老后在寻觅着神的时代。”

“历史表示这是真实的，”编年学家埃格林顿引证说，[395]“时代不断地更迭。然而一个人最大的仇敌乃是他自己家里的人和家族[396]，这话是有可靠根据的。我觉得拉塞尔是对的。我们何必去管他的老婆或者父亲的事呢?依我说，只有家庭诗人才过家庭生活。福斯塔夫并不是个守在家里的人。我觉得这个胖骑士才是他所创造的绝妙的人物。”

瘦骨嶙嶙的他往椅背上靠了靠。出于羞涩，否定你的同族吧，[397]你这个自命清高的人。[398]他羞涩地跟那些不信神的人一道吃饭，还偷酒杯。[399]这是住在阿尔斯特省安特里姆[400]的一位先生这样嘱咐他的。每年四季结帐时就来找他。马吉先生，有位先生要来见您。我?他说他是您的父亲，先生。请把我的华兹华斯[401]领进来。大马吉·马修[402]进来了。这是个满脸皱纹、粗鲁、蓬头乱发的庄稼汉[403]，穿着胯间有个前兜的紧身短裤，[404]布袜子[405]上沾了十座树林的泥污，[406]手里拿着野生苹果木杖。[407]

你自己的呢?他认得你那老头子[408]——一个鳏夫。

我从繁华的巴黎朝临终前的她那肮脏的床头赶去。在码头上摸了摸他的手。他说着话儿，嗓音里含着新的温情。鲍勃·肯尼大夫[409]在护理她。那双眼睛向我祝福，然而并不了解我。

“一个父亲，”斯蒂芬说，“在抑制着绝望情绪，这是无可避免的苦难。他是在父亲去世数月之后写的那出戏。[410]这位头发开始花白、有着两个已届婚龄的女儿[411]的年方三十五岁的男子，正当人生的中途，[412]却已有了五十岁的人的阅历。倘若你认为他就是威登堡那个没长胡子的大学生，[413]那么你就必须把他那位七十岁的老母看作淫荡的王后。不，约翰·莎士比亚的尸体并不在夜晚到处徘徊。[414]它一小时一小时地腐烂下去。[415]他把那份神秘的遗产[416]留给儿子之后，就摆脱了为父的职责，开始安息了。卜伽丘的卡拉特林[417]是空前绝后的一个自己认为有了身孕的男人。从有意识地生育这个意义上来说，男人是缺乏父性这一概念的。那是从唯一的父到唯一的子之间的神秘等级，是使徒所继承下来的。教会不是建立在乖巧的意大利智慧所抛给欧洲芸芸众生的那座圣母像上，而是建立在这种神秘上——牢固地建立在这上面。因为正如世界，正如大宇宙和小宇宙，它是建立在虚空之上，建立在无常和不定之上的。主生格和宾生格的母爱[418]也许是人生中唯一真实的东西。[419]父性可能是法律上的假定。谁是那位受儿子的爱戴，或是疼爱儿子的为人之父呢?”

你究竟要扯些什么呢?

我晓得。闭嘴。该死的。我自有道理。

越发。更加。再者。其后[420]。

你注定要这么做吗?

“难以自拔的肉体上的耻辱使父子之间产生隔阂。世上的犯罪年鉴虽被所有其他乱伦与兽奸的记录所玷污，却几乎还没记载过这类越轨行为。子与母、父与女、姐妹之间的同性恋，难以说出口的爱，侄子与祖母，囚犯与钥匙孔，皇后与良种公牛。[421]儿子未出世前便损害了美。出世之后，带来痛苦，分散爱情，增舔操劳。他是个新的男性：他的成长乃是他父亲的衰老;他的青春乃是他父亲的妒嫉;他的朋友乃是他父亲的仇敌。”

在王子街[422]上，我想过此事。

“在自然界，是什么把这二者结合起来的呢?是盲目发情的那一瞬间。”

我是个父亲吗?倘若我是的话?

皱缩了的、没有把握的手。

“非洲的撒伯里乌[423]，野生动物中最狡猾的异教的开祖，坚持说，圣父乃是他自己的圣子。没有不能驾御的语言的斗犬阿奎那[424]驳斥了他。那么，倘若没有儿子的父亲就不成其为父亲，那么没有父亲的儿子能成真为儿子吗？当拉特兰·培根·南安普敦·莎士比亚[425]或错误的喜剧里的另一个同名[426]诗人撰写《哈姆莱特》的时候，他不仅是自己的儿子之父，而且还由于他不再是儿子了，他就成为、自己也感到成为整个家庭之父——他自己的祖父之父，他那末出世的孙儿之父。顺便提一下，那个孙儿从未诞生过，因为照马吉先生的理解，大自然是讨厌完美无缺的。[427]”

埃格林顿两眼洋溢着喜悦，羞怯而恍然似有所悟地抬头望着。这个愉快的清教徒隔着盘绕在一起的野蔷薇，[428]乐呵呵地望着。

恭维一番。极偶然地。然而恭维一番吧。

“他本人就是他自己的父亲，[429]”儿子穆利根喃喃自语。 “且慢。我怀孕了。我脑中有个尚未出世的娃娃。明智女神雅典娜[430]!一出戏!关键在于这出戏![431]让我分娩吧!”

他用那双接生的手抱住自已突出的前额。

“至于他的家庭，”斯蒂芬说，“他母亲的名字还活在亚登森林里。[432]她的死促使他在《科利奥兰纳斯》中写出伏伦妮姬的场景。[433]《约翰王》中少年亚瑟咽气的场面就描述了他的幼子之死。身着丧服的哈姆莱特王子是哈姆奈特·莎士比亚。我们晓得《暴风雨》、《配力克里斯》、《冬天的故事》中的少女们都是谁。埃及的肉锅克莉奥佩特拉[434]和克瑞西达[435]以及维纳斯都是谁，我们也猜得出。 然而他的眷属中还有一个被记载下来的人。”

“情节变得复杂啦，”约翰·埃格林顿说。

公谊会教徒－图书馆长震颤着，悄悄地走了进来。颤着他那张没有表情的脸，很快地颤着，颤着，颤着。[436]

门关上了。斗室。白昼。

他们倾听着。三个。他们。

我、你、他、他们。

来吧，开饭啦。

斯蒂芬

他有三个弟兄，吉尔伯持、埃德蒙、理查[437]。吉尔伯特进入老年后，对几个绅士说，有一次他去望弥撒，教堂收献金的送了他一张免票。于是他就去了，瞅见他哥哥——剧作家伍尔在伦敦上演一出打斗戏，背上还骑着个男人。[438]戏园子里的香肠[439]吉尔伯特吃得可开心啦。哪儿也见不到他。然而可爱的威廉却在作品里记下了一个埃德蒙和一个理查。

马吉·埃格林、约翰

姓名!姓名有什么意义?[440]

贝斯特

理查就是我的名字，你晓得吗？我希望你替理查说句好话。要知道，是为了我的缘故。

(笑声)

勃克·穆利根

(轻柔地，渐弱)[441]

于是，医科学生迪克

对他的医科同学戴维说了……[442]

斯蒂芬

他笔下的黑心肠的三位一体——那帮恶棍扒手：伊阿古、罗锅儿理查和《李尔王》中的爱德蒙，其中两个的名字都跟他们那坏蛋叔叔一样。何况当他写成或者正在撰写这最后一部戏的时候，他的胞弟爱德蒙正奄奄一息地躺在萨瑟克[443]。

贝斯特

我巴不得爱德蒙遭殃，我不要理查这个名字……

(笑声)

公谊会教徒利斯特

(恢复原速)可是他偷去了我的好名声……[444]

斯蒂芬

(渐快)他把自己的名字——威廉这个美好的名字，隐藏在戏里。这出戏里是配角，那出戏里又是丑角。就像从前的意大利画家在画布的昏暗角落里画上了自己的肖像似的，他在满是“威尔”字样的《十四行诗》[445]里， 表明了这一点。就像冈特·欧·约翰[446]一样，对他来说姓名是宝贵的， 就像他拼命巴结到手的纹章——黑地右斜线[447]上绘有象征荣誉的[448]矛或银刃的纹章——那样宝贵。比当上本国最伟大的剧作家这一荣誉还更要宝贵。姓名有什么意义?[449]那正是当我们幼时被告知自己的姓名，并把它写下来之际，所问过自己的。他诞生的时候，出现了一颗星[450]，一颗晨星，一条喷火龙[451]。白天，它在太空中独自闪烁着，比夜间的金星还要明亮。夜里，它照耀在标志着他的首字W[452]、横卧于群星中的仙后座那三角形上。午夜，当他离开安·哈撒韦的怀抱，从肖特利[453]回去时， 他一边走在困倦的夏天田野上， 一边放眼望着那低低地躺在大熊座东边的地平线上的这颗星。

两个人都感到满意，我也满意。

不要告诉他们，当那颗星消失的时候，他年方九岁[454]。

而且从她的怀抱当中。

等待着被求爱并占有。[455]哎，你这个懦夫，[456]谁会向你求爱呢?

读一读天空吧。虐己者。[457]斯蒂芬的公牛精神。[458]你的星座在哪里?斯蒂芬，斯蒂芬，面包要切匀。S·D·他的情妇。不错——他的。杰林多打定主意不去恋慕S·D·[459]

“迪达勒斯先生，那是什么呀?”公谊会教徒——图书馆长问道，“是天体现象吗?”

“夜间有星宿，”斯蒂芬说，“白天有云柱。”[460]

此外还有什么可说的呢?

斯蒂芬瞅了瞅自己的帽子、手杖和靴子。

斯蒂法诺斯[461]，我的王冠。我的剑。他的靴子使我的脚变了形。买一双吧。我的短袜净是窟窿。手绢也一样。

“你善于在名字上做文章，”约翰·埃格林顿承认道，“你自己的名字也够别致的了。我看这就正好说明你这个喜欢幻想的性格。”

我、马吉和穆利根。

神话中的工匠。[462]长得像鹰的人。你飞走了。飞向哪里?从纽黑文到迪耶普[463]，统舱客。往返巴黎。风头麦鸡。[464]伊卡洛斯。[465]父亲啊，帮助我吧。[466]被海水溅湿，一头栽下去，翻滚着。你是一只风头麦鸡，变成一只风头麦鸡。

贝斯特先生热切地、安详地举起他的笔记本来说：

“那非常有趣儿。因为，要知道，在爱尔兰传说中，我们也能找到弟兄这一主题。跟你讲的一模一样。莎士比亚哥儿仨。格林[467]里也有。要知道，那些童话里，三弟总是跟睡美人结婚，并获得头奖。”

贝斯特弟兄们当中最好[468]的。好，更好，最好。

公谊会教徒－图书馆长来到旁边，像弹簧松了似的突然站住了。

“我想打听一下，”他说，“是你的哪一位弟兄……假若我没理解错的话，你曾暗示说，你们弟兄当中有一个行为不轨……然而，也许我理解得过了头?”

他察觉到自己失言了，四下里望望大家，把底下的话咽了下

去。

一个工役站在门口嚷道：

“利斯特先生!迪宁神父[469]要见……”

“澳，迪宁神父!马上就来。”

他立刻把皮鞋踩得囊囊响，随即径直走了出去。

约翰·埃格林顿提出了挑战。

“喂，”他说，“咱们听听足下关于理查和爱德蒙有何高见。你不是把他们留到最后吗?”

“我曾请你们记住那两位高贵的亲族[470]——里奇叔叔和爱德蒙叔叔，”斯蒂芬回答说，“我觉得我也许要求得过多了。弟兄正像一把伞一样，很容易就被人忘记。”

风头麦鸡。

你的弟弟在哪儿?在药剂师的店里。[471]砥砥我者，他，还有克兰利，穆利根。[472]现在是这帮人。夸夸其谈。然而要采取行动。把言语付诸实践。他们嘲弄你是为了考验你。采取行动吧。让他们在你身上采取行动。

风头麦鸡。

我对自己的声音感到厌烦了，对以扫的声音感到厌烦了。[473]愿用我的王位换一杯酒。[474]

继续说下去吧。

“你会说，这些名字早就写在被他当作戏剧素材的纪年记里了。他为什么不采用旁的，而偏偏采用这些呢?理查，一个娘子养的畸形的罗锅儿，向寡妇安(姓名有什么意义?)求婚并赢得了她——一个婊子养的风流寡妇。三弟——征服者理查，继被征服者威廉之后而来。这个剧本的其他四幕，松松散散地接在第一幕后面。在莎士比亚笔下所有的国王中，理查是世界上的天使[475]中他唯一不曾怀着崇敬心情加以庇护的。《李尔王》中爱德蒙登场的插话取自锡德尼的《阿卡迪亚》，为什么要把它填补到比历史还古老的凯尔特传说中去呢?”[476]

“那是威尔惯用的手法，”约翰·埃格林顿辩护说，“我们现在就不可能把北欧神话和乔治·梅瑞狄斯的长篇小说的摘录连结在一起。穆尔就会说：‘这有什么办法呢?’[477]他把波希米亚搬到海边，[478]让尤利西斯引用亚理斯多德。”[479]

“为什么呢?”斯蒂芬自问自答，“因为对莎士比亚来说，撒谎的弟兄、篡位的弟兄、通奸的弟兄，或者三者兼而有之的弟兄，是总也离不开的题材，而穷人却不常跟他在一起。[480]从心里被放逐，从家园被放逐，自《维洛那二绅士》起，这个放逐的旋律一直不间断地响下去，直到普洛斯彼罗折断他那根杖，将它埋在地下数噚深处，并把他的书抛到海里。[481]他进入中年后，这个旋律的音量加强了一倍，反映到另一个人生，照序幕、展开部、最高潮部、结局[482]来复奏一遍。当他行将就木时，这个旋律又重奏一遍。有其母必有其女。那时，他那个已出嫁的女儿苏珊娜被指控以通奸罪。[483]然而使他的头脑变得糊涂、削弱他的意志、促使他强烈地倾向于邪恶的，乃是原罪。照梅努斯的主教大人们说来，原罪者，正因为是原罪，尽管系旁人所犯，其中也自有他的一份罪愆。[484]在他的临终遗言里，透露了这一点。这话铭刻在他的墓石上。她的遗骨不得葬在下面。[485]岁月不曾使它磨灭。美与和平也不曾使它消失。在他所创造的世界各个角落，都变幻无穷地存在着。[486]在《爱的徒劳》中，两次在《皆大欢喜》中，在《暴风雨》中，《哈姆莱特》中，《一报还一报》中——以及其他所有我还没读过的剧作中。”

为了把心灵从精神的羁绊中解放出来，他笑了。

审判官埃格林顿对此加以概括。

“真理在两者之间，”他斩钉截铁地说，“他是圣灵，又是王子。他什么都是。”[487]

“可不是嘛，”斯蒂芬说，“第一幕里的少年就是第五幕中的那个成熟的男人。他什么都是。在《辛白林》，在《奥瑟罗》中，他是老鸨[488]，给戴上了绿头巾，他采取行动，也让别人在他身上采取行动。他抱有理想，或趋向堕落，就像荷西那样杀死那活生生的嘉尔曼。[489]他那冷酷严峻的理性就有如狂怒的依阿古，不断地巴望自己内心的摩尔人[490]会受折磨。”

“咕咕!咕咕!”穆利根用淫猥的声调啼叫着，“啊，可怕的声音!”[491]

黑暗的拱形顶棚接受了这声音，发出回响。[492]

“伊阿古是怎样的一个人物啊!”无所畏惧的约翰·埃格林顿喊叫着说，“归根结底，小仲马(也许是大仲马[493]吧?”说得对：天主之外，莎士比亚创造的最多。”

“男人不能使他感到喜悦;不，女人也不能使他感到喜悦，[494]”斯蒂芬说，“离开一辈子后，他又回到自己出生的那片土地上。从小到大[495]，他始终是那个地方的一名沉默的目击者。在那里，他走完了人生的旅途。他在地里栽下自己的那棵桑树，[496]然后溘然长逝。呼吸停止了。[497]掘墓者埋葬了大哈姆莱特和小哈姆莱特。[498]国王和王子在音乐伴奏下终于死去了。遭到谋杀也罢，被陷害也罢，又有何干?因为不论他是丹麦人还是都柏林人，所有那些柔软心肠的人们都会为之哀泣，悼念死者的这份悲伤乃是她们不肯与之离婚的唯一的丈夫。倘若你喜欢尾声，那么就仔细端详一下吧。幸福的普洛斯彼罗[499]是得到好报的善人、丽齐[500]是外公的宝贝疙瘩;里奇叔叔这个歹徒按照因果报应的原则被送进坏黑人注定去的地方了。[501]结局圆满，幕终。他发现，内在世界有可能实现的，外在世界就己经成为现实了。梅特林克说：‘倘若苏格拉底今天离家，他会发现贤人就坐在他门口的台阶上。倘若犹大今晚外出，他的脚会把他引到犹大那儿去。’[502]每一个人的一生都是许多时日，一天接一天。我们从自我内部穿行[503]，遇见强盗，鬼魂，巨人，老者，小伙子，妻子，遗蠕，恋爱中的弟兄们，然而，我们遇见的总是我们自己。编写世界这部大书而且写得很蹩脚的那位剧作家(他先给了我们光，隔了两天才给太阳[504])，也就是被天主教徒当中罗马味最足的家伙称之为煞神[505]——绞刑吏之神的万物之主宰;毫无疑问，他什么都是，[506]存在于我们一切人当中：既是马夫，又是屠夫，也是老鸨，并被戴上了绿头巾。然而倘若在天堂实行节约，像哈姆莱特所预言的那样，那么就再也不要什么婚娶；或者有什么光彩的人，半阴半阳的天使，将成为自己的妻子。”[507]

“我发现啦!”[508]勃克·穆利根大声说，“我发现啦？”

他突然高兴了，跳起来，一个箭步窜到约翰·埃格林顿的书桌跟前。

“可以吗?”弛说，“玛拉基接受了神谕。[509]”

他在一片纸上胡乱涂写起来。

往外走的时候，从柜台上拿几张纸条儿吧。

“已经结婚的，”安详的使者贝斯特先生说，“除了一个人，都将活下去。没有结婚的，不准再结婚。”[510]

他这个未婚者对独身的文学士埃格林顿·约翰尼斯笑了笑。

他们没有家室，没有幻想，存着戒心，每天晚上边摸索各自那部有诸家注释的《驯悍记》，边在沉思。

“你这是谬论，”约翰·埃格林顿率直地对斯蒂芬说，“你带着我们兜了半天圈子，不过是让我们看到一个法国式的三角关系。你相信自己的见解吗?”

“不，”斯蒂芬马上说。

“你打算把它写下来吗?”贝斯特先生问，“你应该写成问答体。知道吧，就像王尔德所写的柏拉图式的对话录。”

约翰·埃克列克提康[511]露出暖昧的笑容。

“喏，倘若是那样，”他说，“既然连你自己都不相信，我就不明白你怎么还能指望得到报酬呢。多顿[512]相信《哈姆莱特》中有些神秘之处，然而他只说到这里为止。派珀在柏林遇见的勃莱布楚先生正在研究关于拉特兰[513]的学说，他相信个中秘密隐藏在斯特拉特福的纪念碑里。派珀说，他即将去拜访当前这位公爵，并向公爵证明，是他的祖先写下了那些戏剧。这会出乎公爵大人的意料，然而勃莱布楚相信自己的见解。

“我信，噢，主啊，但是我的信心不足，求您帮助我”[514]就是说，帮助我去信，或者帮助我不去信。谁来帮助我去信?我自己。[515]谁来帮助我不去信呢?另一个家伙。

“在给《达娜》[516]撰稿的人当中，你是唯一要求付酬的。像这样的话，下一期如何就难说了。弗雷德·瑞安[517]还要保留些篇幅来刊登一篇有关经济学的文章呢。”

弗莱德琳。他借给过我两枚银币。好歹应付一下吧。经济学。

“要是付一基尼，”斯蒂芬说，“你就可以发表这篇访问记了。”

面带笑容正在潦潦草草写着什么的勃克·穆利根，这时边笑边站起来，然后笑里藏刀，一本正经地说：

“我到‘大诗人’金赤在上梅克伦堡街的夏季别墅那里去拜访过他，发现他正和两个生梅毒的女人——新手内莉和煤炭码头上的婊子罗莎莉[518]——一道埋头研究《反异教大全》[519]呢。”

他把话顿了一顿。

“来吧，金赤，来吧，飘忽不定的飞鸟之神安古斯[520]。”

出来吧，金赤，你把我们剩的都吃光了。[521]嗯，我把残羹剩饭和下水赏给你吃。

斯蒂芬站起来了。

人生不外乎一天接一天。今天即将结束了。

“今天晚上见，”约翰·埃格林顿说，“我们的朋友[522]穆尔说，务必请勃克·穆利根来。”

勃克·穆利根挥着那纸片和巴拿马帽。

“穆尔先生，[523]”他说，“爱尔兰青年的法国文学讲师。我去。来吧，金赤，‘大诗人’们非喝酒不可。你不用扶能走吗?”

他边笑着，边……

痛饮到十一点，爱尔兰的夜宴。

傻大个儿……

斯蒂芬跟在一个傻大个儿后面……

有一天，我们在国立图书馆讨论过一次。莎士。[524]然后，我跟在傻乎乎的他背后走。我和他的脚后跟挨得那么近，简直可以蹭破那上面的冻疮了。[525]

斯蒂芬向大家致意，然后垂头丧气地[526]跟着那个新理过发、头梳得整整齐齐、爱说笑话的傻大个儿，从拱顶斗室走入没有思想的灿烂骄阳中去。

我学到了什么?关于他们?关于我自己?

眼下就像海恩斯那样走吧。

长期读者阅览室。在阅览者签名簿上，卡什尔·博伊尔·奥康纳·菲茨莫里斯·菲斯德尔·法雷尔用龙飞凤舞的字体写下了他那多音节的名字。研究项目：哈姆莱特发疯了吗?歇顶的公谊会教徒正在跟一个小教士虔诚地谈论着书本。

“啊，请您务必……那我真是太高兴啦……”

勃克·穆利根觉得有趣，自己点点头，愉快地咕哝道：

“心满意足的波顿。[527]”

旋转栅门。

难道是……?饰有蓝绸带的帽子……?胡乱涂写着……?什么?……看见了吗？

弧形扶栏。明契乌斯河缓缓流着，一平如镜。[528]

迫克[529]·穆利根，头戴巴拿马盔，一边走着，一边忽高忽低地唱着：

约翰·埃格林顿，我的乖，约翰，[530]

你为啥不娶个老婆?

他朝半空中啐了一口，唾沫飞溅。

“噢，没下巴的中国佬!靳张艾林唐[531]。我们曾到过他们那戏棚子，海恩斯和我，在管子工会的会馆。我们的演员们正在像希腊人或梅特林克先生那样，为欧洲创造一种新艺术。阿贝剧院!我闻见了僧侣们阴部的汗臭味。”[532]

他漠然地啐了口唾沫。

一古脑儿全抛在脑后了，就像忘记了可恶的路希那顿鞭子一样。[533]也忘记了撇下那个三十岁的女人[534]的事。为什么没再生个娃娃呢?而且，为什么头胎是个女孩儿呢?

事后聪明。从头来一遍。

倔强的隐士依然在那儿呢(他把点心拿在乎里[535])，还有那个文静的小伙子，小乖乖[536]，菲多那囝囝般的金发。[537]

呃……我只是呃……曾经想要……我忘记了……呃……

“朗沃思和麦考迪·阿特金森也在那儿[538]……”

迫克·穆利根合辙押韵，颤声吟着：

每逢喊声传邻里，

或听街头大兵语，

我就忽然间想起，

弗·麦考迪·阿特金森，

一条木腿是假的，

穿着短裤不讲道理，

渴了不敢把酒饮，

嘴缺下巴的马吉，

活了一世怕娶妻，

二人成天搞手淫。[539]

继续嘲弄吧。认识自己。[540]

一个嘲弄者在我下面停下脚步，望着我。我站住了。

“愁眉苦脸的戏子，”勃克·穆利根慨叹道，“辛格为了活得更自然，不再穿丧服了。只有老鸨、教士和英国煤炭才是黑色的。”[541]

他唇边掠过一丝微笑。

“自从你写了那篇关于狗鳕婆子格雷戈里的文章，”他说，“朗沃思就感到非常烦闷。哦，你这个好窥人隐私、成天酗酒的犹太耶稣会士!她在报馆里替你谋一份差事，你却骂她是蹩脚演员，写了那些蠢话。你难道不能学点叶芝的笔法吗?[542]”

他歪鼻子斜眼地走下楼梯，优雅地抡着胳膊吟诵着：

“我国当代一部最美的书。它令人想到荷马。”

他在楼梯下止住了步子。

“我为哑剧演员们构思了一出戏，”他认真地说。

有着圆柱的摩尔式大厅，阴影交错。九个头戴有标志的帽子的男人跳的摩利斯舞[543]结束了。

勃克·穆利根用他那甜润、抑扬顿挫的嗓音读着那个法

版：[544]

人人是各自的妻

或

到手的蜜月

(由三次情欲亢进构成的、国民不道德剧)

作者

巴洛基·穆利根[545]

他朝斯蒂芬装出一脸快乐的傻笑，说：

“就怕伪装得不够巧妙。可是且听下去。”

他读道，清晰地：[546]

登场人物

托比·托斯托夫(破了产的波兰人)

克雷布(土匪)[547]

医科学生迪克

和一石二鸟

医科学生戴维

老枢葛罗甘(送水者)

新手内莉

以及

罗莎莉(煤炭码头上的婊子)

他摇头晃脑地笑了，继续往前走，斯蒂芬跟在后面。他对着影子——对着人们的灵魂快快乐乐地说着话儿：

“啊，坎姆顿会堂[548]的那个夜晚啊！——你躺在桑椹色的、五彩续纷的大量呕吐物当中。为了从你身上迈过去，爱琳[549]的女儿们得撩起她们的裙子!”

“她们为之撩起裙子的，”斯蒂芬说，“是爱琳最天真无邪的儿子。”

正要走出门口的当儿，他觉出背后有人，便往旁边一闪。

走吧。现在正是时机。那么，去哪儿呢?倘若苏格拉底今天离开家，倘若犹大今晚外出。为什么?它横在我迟早会无可避免地要到达的空间。

我的意志。与我遥遥相对的是他的意志。中间隔着汪洋大海。

一个男人边鞠躬边致意，从他们之间穿过。

“又碰见了，”勃克·穆利根说。

有圆柱的门廊。

为了占卜凶吉，我曾在这里眺望过鸟群。[550]飞鸟之神安古斯。它们飞去又飞来。昨天晚上我飞了。飞得自由自在。人们感到惊异。随后就是娼妓街。他捧着一只淡黄色蜜瓜朝我递过来。进来吧。随你挑[551]。

“一个流浪的犹太人，[552]”勃克、穆利根战战兢兢地装出一副小丑的样子悄悄地说，“你瞅见他的眼神了吗?他色迷迷地盯着你哩。我怕你，老水手。[553]哦，金赤。你的处境危险呀。去买条结实的裤衩吧。”

牛津派头。

白昼。拱形桥的上空，悬着状似独轮手车的太阳。

黑色的脊背方着豹一般的步伐，走在他们前面，从吊门的[554]倒刺下边钻了出去。

他们跟在后面。

继续对我大放厥词吧，说下去。

柔和的空气使基尔戴尔街的房屋外角轮廓鲜明。没有鸟儿。两缕轻烟从房顶袅袅上升，形成羽毛状，被一阵和风柔和地刮走。

别再厮斗了。辛白林的德鲁伊特祭司们的安宁，阐释秘义：在辽阔的大地上筑起一应祭坛。

让我们赞美神明;

让袅袅香烟从我们神圣的祭坛