PREPARATORY TO ANYTHING ELSE MR BLOOM BRUSHED OFF THE GREATER bulk of the shavings and handed Stephen the hat and ashplant and bucked him up generally in orthodox Samaritan fashion, which he very badly needed. His (Stephen's) mind was not exactly what you would call wandering but a bit unsteady and on his expressed desire for some beverage to drink Mr Bloom, in view of the hour it was and there being no pumps of Vartry water available for their ablutions, let alone drinking purposes, hit upon an expedient by suggesting, off the reel, the propriety of the cabman's shelter, as it was called, hardly a stonesthrow away near Butt Bridge, where they might hit upon some drinkables in the shape of a milk and soda or a mineral. But how to get there was the rub. For the nonce he was rather nonplussed but inasmuch as the duty plainly devolved upon him to take some measures on the subject he pondered suitable ways and means during which Stephen repeatedly yawned. So far as he could see he was rather pale in the face so that it occurred to him as highly advisable to get a conveyance of some description which would answer in their then condition, both of them being e. d. ed, particularly Stephen, always assuming that there was such a thing to be found. Accordingly, after a few such preliminaries, as, in spite of his having forgotten to take up his rather soapsuddy handkerchief after it had done yeoman service in the shaving line, brushing, they both walked together along Beaver street, or, more properly, lane, as far as the farrier's and the distinctly fetid atmosphere of the livery stables at the corner of Montgomery street where they made tracks to the left from thence debouching into Amiens Street round by the corner of Dan Bergin's. But, as he confidently anticipated, there was not a sign of a Jehu plying for hire anywhere to be seen except a fourwheeler, probably engaged by some fellows inside on the spree, outside the North Star Hotel and there was no symptom of its budging a quarter of an inch when Mr Bloom, who was anything but a professional whistler, endeavoured to hail it by emitting a kind of a whistle, holding his arms arched over his head, twice.
This was a quandary but, bringing commonsense to bear on it, evidently there was nothing for it but put a good face on the matter and foot it which they accordingly did. So, bevelling around by Mullet's and the Signal House, which they shortly reached, they proceeded perforce in the direction of Amiens street railway terminus, Mr Bloom being handicapped by the circumstance that one of the back buttons of his trousers had, to vary the timehonoured adage, gone the way of all buttons, though, entering thoroughly into the spirit of the thing, he heroically made light of the mischance. So, as neither of them were particularly pressed for time, as it happened, and the temperature refreshing since it cleared up after the recent visitation of Jupiter Pluvius, they dandered along past by where the empty vehicle was waiting without a fare or a jarvey. As it so happened a Dublin United Tramways Company's sandstrewer happening to be returning the elder man recounted to his companion à propos of the incident his own truly miraculous escape of some little while back. They passed the main entrance of the Great Northern railway station, the starting point for Belfast, where of course all traffic was suspended at that late hour, and, passing the back door of the morgue (a not very enticing locality, not to say gruesome to a degree, more especially at night), ultimately gained the Dock Tavern and in due course turned into Store street, famous for its C division police station. Between this point and the high, at present unlit, warehouses of Beresford Place Stephen thought to think of Ibsen, associated with Baird's, the stonecutter's, in his mind somehow in Talbot Place, first turning on the right, while the other, who was acting as his fidus Achates, inhaled with internal satisfaction the smell of James Rourke's city bakery, situated quite close to where they were, the very palatable odour indeed of our daily bread, of all commodities of the public the primary and most indispensable. Bread, the staff of life, earn your bread, O tell me where is fancy bread? At Rourke's the baker's, it is said.

En route, to his taciturn, and, not to put too fine a point on it, not yet perfectly sober companion, Mr Bloom, who at all events, was in complete possession of his faculties, never more so, in fact disgustingly sober, spoke a word of caution re the dangers of nighttown, women of ill fame and swell mobsmen, which, barely permissible once in a while, though not as a habitual practice, was of the nature of a regular deathtrap for young fellows of his age particularly if they had acquired drinking habits under the influence of liquor unless you knew a little juijitsu for every contingency as even a fellow on the broad of his back could administer a nasty kick if you didn't look out. Highly providential was the appearance on the scene of Corny Kelleher when Stephen was blissfully unconscious that, but for that man in the gap turning up at the eleventh hour, the finis might have been that he might have been a candidate for the accident ward, or, failing that, the Bridewell and an appearance in the court next day before Mr Tobias, or, he being the solicitor, rather old Wall, he meant to say, or Malony which simply spelt ruin for a chap when it got bruited about. The reason he mentioned the fact was that a lot of those policemen, whom he cordially disliked, were admittedly unscrupulous in the service of the Crown and, as Mr Bloom put it, recalling a case or two in the A Division in Clanbrassil street, prepared to swear a hole through a ten gallon pot. Never on the spot when wanted but in quiet parts of the City, Pembroke Road, for example, the guardians of the law were well in evidence, the obvious reason being they were paid to protect the upper classes. Another thing he commented on was equipping soldiers with firearms or sidearms of any description, liable to go off at any time, which was tantamount to inciting them against civilians should by any chance they fall nut over anything. You frittered away your time, he very sensibly maintained, and health and also character besides which the squandermania of the thing, fast women of the demimonde ran away with a lot of #. s. d. into the bargain and the greatest danger of all was who you got drunk with though, touching the much vexed question of stimulants, he relished a glass of choice old wine in season as both nourishing and blood-making and possessing aperient virtues (notably a good burgundy which he was a staunch believer in) still never beyond a certain point where he invariably drew the line as it simply led to trouble all round to say nothing of your being at the tender mercy of others practically. Most of all he commented adversely on the desertion of Stephen by all his pubhunting confrères but one, a most glaring piece of ratting on the part of his brother medicos under all the circs.

-- And that one was Judas, said Stephen, who up to then had said nothing whatsoever of any kind.

Discussing these and kindred topics they made a beeline across the back of the Customhouse and passed under the Loop Line bridge when a brazier of coke burning in front of a sentrybox, or something like one, attracted their rather lagging footsteps. Stephen of his own accord stopped for no special reason to look at the heap of barren cobblestones and by the light emanating from the brazier he could just make out the darker figure of the corporation watchman inside the gloom of the sentrybox. He began to remember that this had happened, or had been mentioned as having happened, before but it cost him no small effort before he remembered that he recognised in the sentry a quondam friend of his father's Gumley. To avoid a meeting be drew nearer to the pillars of the railway bridge.

-- Someone saluted you, Mr Bloom said.

A figure of middle height on the prowl, evidently, under the arches saluted again, calling: Night! Stephen, of course, started rather dizzily and stopped to return the compliment. Mr Bloom, actuated by motives of inherent delicacy, inasmuch as he always believed in minding his own business, moved off but nevertheless remained on the qui vive with just a shade of anxiety though not funkyish in the least. Although unusual in the Dublin area, he knew that it was not by any means unknown for desperadoes who had next to nothing to live on to be about waylaying and generally terrorising peaceable pedestrians by placing a pistol at their head in some secluded spot outside the city proper, famished loiterers of the Thames embankment category they might be hanging about there or simply marauders ready to decamp with whatever boodle they could in one fell swoop at a moments notice, your money or your life, leaving you there to point a moral, gagged and garotted.

Stephen, that is when the accosting figure came to close quarters, though he was not in any over sober state himself, recognised Corley's breath redolent of rotten cornjuice. Lord John Corley, some called him, and his genealogy came about in this wise. He was the eldest son of Inspector Corley of the G Division, lately deceased, who had married a certain Katherine Brophy, the daughter of a Louth farmer. His grandfather, Patrick Michael Corley, of New Ross, had married the widow of a publican there whose maiden name had been Katherine (also) Talbot. Rumour had it, though not proved, that she descended from the house of the Lords Talbot de Malahide in whose mansion, really an unquestionably fine residence of its kind and well worth seeing, his mother or aunt or some relative had enjoyed the distinction of being in service in the washkitchen. This, therefore, was the reason why the still comparatively young though dissolute man who now addressed Stephen was spoken of by some with facetious proclivities as Lord John Corley.

Taking Stephen on one side he had the customary doleful ditty to tell. Not as much as a farthing to purchase a night's lodgings. His friends had all deserted him. Furthermore, he had a row with Lenehan and called him to Stephen a mean bloody swab with a sprinkling of other uncalled-for expressions. He was out of a job and implored of Stephen to tell him where on God's earth he could get something, anything at all to do. No, it was the daughter of the mother in the washkitchen that was fostersister to the heir of the house or else they were connected through the mother in some way, both occurrences happening at the same time if the whole thing wasn't a complete fabrication from start to finish. Anyhow, he was ill in.

-- I wouldn't ask you, only, pursued he, on my solemn oath and God knows I'm on the rocks.

-- There'll be a job tomorrow or the next day, Stephen told him, in a boys' school at Dalkey for a gentleman usher. Mr Garret Deasy. Try it. You may mention my name.

-- Ah, God, Corley replied, sure I couldn't teach in a school, man. I was never one of your bright ones, he added with a half laugh. Got stuck twice in the junior at the Christian Brothers.

-- I have no place to sleep myself, Stephen informed him.

Corley, at the first go-off, was inclined to suspect it was something to do with Stephen being fired out of his digs for bringing in a bloody tart off the street. There was a dosshouse in Marlborough street, Mrs Maloney's, but it was only a tanner touch and full of undesirables but M'Conachie told him you got a decent enough do in the Brazen Head over in Winetavern street (which was distantly suggestive to the person addressed of friar Bacon) for a bob. He was starving too though he hadn't said a word about it.

Though this sort of thing went on every other night or very near it still Stephen's feelings got the better of him in a sense though he knew that Corley's brandnew rigmarole, on a par with the others, was hardly deserving of much credence. However, haud ignarus malorum miseris succurrere disco, etcetera, as the Latin poet remarks, especially as luck would have it he got paid his screw after every middle of the month on the sixteenth which was the date of the month as a matter of fact though a good bit of the wherewithal was demolished. But the cream of the joke was nothing would get it Out of Corley's head that he was living in affluence and hadn't a thing to do but hand out the needful - whereas. He put his hand in a pocket anyhow, not with the idea of finding any food there, but thinking he might lend him anything up to a bob or so in lieu so that he might endeavour at all events and get sufficient to eat. But the result was in the negative for, to his chagrin, he found his cash missing. A few broken biscuits were all the result of his investigation. He tried his hardest to recollect for the moment whether he had lost, as well he might have, or left, because in that contingency it was not a pleasant lookout, very much the reverse, in fact. He was altogether too fagged out to institute a thorough search though he tried to recollect about biscuits he dimly remembered. Who now exactly gave them, or where was, or did he buy? However, in another pocket he came across what he surmised in the dark were pennies, erroneously, however, as it turned out.

-- Those are halfcrowns, man, Corley corrected him.

And so in point of fact they turned out to be. Stephen lent him one of them.

-- Thanks, Corley answered. You're a gentleman. I'll pay you back some time. Who's that with you? I saw him a few times in the Bleeding Horse in Camden street with Boylan the billsticker. You might put in a good word for us to get me taken on there. I'd carry a sandwichboard only the girl in the office told me they're full up for the next three weeks, man. God, you've to book ahead, man, you'd think it was for the Carl Rosa. I don't give a shite anyway so long as I get a job even as a crossing sweeper.

Subsequently, being not quite so down in the mouth after the two-and-six he got, he informed Stephen about a fellow by the name of Bags Comisky that he said Stephen knew well out of Fullam's, the shipchandler's bookkeeper there, that used to be often round in Nagle's back with O'Mara and a little chap with a stutter the name of Tighe. Anyhow, he was lagged the night before last and fined ten bob for a drunk and disorderly and refusing to go with the constable.

Mr Bloom in the meanwhile kept dodging about in the vicinity of the cobblestones near the brazier of coke in front of the corporation watchman's sentrybox, who, evidently a glutton for work, it struck him, was having a quiet forty winks for all intents and purposes on his own private account while Dublin slept. He threw an odd eye at the same time now and then at Stephen's anything but immaculately attired interlocutor as if he had seen that nobleman somewhere or other though where he was not in a position to truthfully state nor had he the remotest idea when. Being a levelheaded individual who could give points to not a few in point of shrewd observation, he also remarked on his very dilapidated hat and slouchy wearing apparel generally, testifying to a chronic impecuniosity. Probably he was one of his hangerson but for the matter of that it was merely a question of one preying on his next door neighbour all round, in every deep, so to put it, a deeper depth and for the matter of that if the man in the street chanced to be in the dock himself penal servitude, with or without the option of a fine, would be a very rara avis altogether. In any case he had a consummate amount of cool assurance intercepting people at that hour of the night or morning. Pretty thick that was certainly.

The pair parted company and Stephen rejoined Mr Bloom, who, with his practised eye, was not without perceiving that he had succumbed to the blandiloquence of the other parasite. Alluding to the encounter he said, laughingly, Stephen, that is:

-- He's down on his luck. He asked me to ask you to ask somebody named Boylan, a billsticker, to give him a job as a sandwichman.

At this intelligence, in which he seemingly evinced little interest, Mr Bloom gazed abstractedly for the space of a half a second or so in the direction of a bucket dredger, rejoicing in the farfamed name of Eblana, moored alongside Customhouse Quay and quite possibly Out of repair, whereupon he observed evasively:

-- Everybody gets their own ration of luck, they say. Now you mention it his face was familiar to me. But leaving that for the moment, how much did you part with, he queried, if I am not too inquisitive?

-- Half-a-crown, Stephen responded. I daresay he needs it to sleep somewhere.

-- Needs, Mr Bloom ejaculated, professing not the least surprise at the intelligence, I can quite credit the assertion and I guarantee he invariably does. Everyone according to his needs and everyone according to his deeds. But talking about things in general, where, added he with a smile, will you sleep yourself? Walking to Sandycove is Out of the question and, even supposing you did, you won't get in after what occurred at Westland Row station. Simply fag out there for nothing. I don't mean to presume to dictate to you in the slightest degree but why did you leave your father's house?

-- To seek misfortune, was Stephen's answer.

-- I met your respected father on a recent occasion, Mr Bloom diplomatically returned. Today, in fact, or, to be strictly accurate, on yesterday. Where does he live at present? I gathered in the course of conversation that he had moved.

-- I believe he is in Dublin somewhere, Stephen answered unconcernedly. Why?

-- A gifted man, Mr Bloom said of Mr Dedalus senior, in more respects than one and a born raconteur if ever there was one. He takes great pride, quite legitimately, Out of you. You could go back, perhaps, he hazarded, still thinking of the very unpleasant scene at Westland Row terminus when it was perfectly evident that the other two, Mulligan, that is, and that English tourist friend of his, who eventually euchred their third companion, were patently trying, as if the whole bally station belonged to them, to give Stephen the slip in the confusion.

There was no response forthcoming to the suggestion, however, such as it was, Stephen's mind's eye being too busily engaged in repicturing his family hearth the last time he saw it, with his sister, Dilly, sitting by the ingle, her hair hanging down, waiting for some weak Trinidad shell cocoa that was in the sootcoated kettle to be done so that she and he could drink it with the oatmeal water for milk after the Friday herrings they had eaten at two a penny, with an egg apiece for Maggy, Boody and Katey, the cat meanwhile under the mangle devouring a mess of eggshells and charred fish heads and bones on a square of brown paper in accordance with the third precept of the church to fast and abstain on the days commanded, it being quarter tense or, if not, ember days or something like that.

-- No, Mr Bloom repeated again, I wouldn't personally repose much trust in that boon companion of yours who contributes the humorous element, Dr Mulligan, as a guide, philosopher, and friend, if I were in your shoes. He knows which side his bread is buttered on though in all probability he never realised what it is to be without regular meals. Of course you didn't notice as much as I did but it wouldn't occasion me the least surprise to learn that a pinch of tobacco or some narcotic was put in your drink for some ulterior object.

He understood, however, from all he heard, that Dr Mulligan was a versatile allround man, by no means confined to medicine only, who was rapidly coming to the fore in his line and, if the report was verified, bade fair to enjoy a flourishing practice in the not too distant future as a tony medical practitioner drawing a handsome fee for his services in addition to which professional status his rescue of that man from certain drowning by artificial respiration and what they call first aid at Skerries, or Malahide was it? was, he was bound to admit, an exceedingly plucky deed which he could not too highly praise, so that frankly he was utterly at a loss to fathom what earthly reason could be at the back of it except he put it down to sheer cussedness or jealousy, pure and simple.

-- Except it simply amounts to one thing and he is what they call picking your brains, he ventured to throw out.

The guarded glance of half solicitude, half curiosity, augmented by friendliness, which he gave at Stephen's at present morose expression of features did not throw a flood of light, none at all in fact, on the problem as to whether he had let himself be badly bamboozled, to judge by two or three low spirited remarks he let drop, or, the other way about, saw through the affair, and, for some reason or other best known to himself, allowed matters to more or less... Grinding poverty did have that effect and he more than conjectured that, high educational abilities though he possessed, he experienced no little difficulty in making both ends meet.

Adjacent to the men's public urinal he perceived an icecream car round which a group of presumably Italians in heated altercation were getting rid of voluble expressions in their vivacious language in a particularly animated way, there being some little differences between the parties.

-- Putana madonna, che ci dia i quattrini! Ho ragione? Culo rotto!

-- Intendiamoci. Mezzo sovrano più

-- Dice lui, pero.

-- Farabutto! Mortacci sui!

Mr Bloom and Stephen entered the cabman's shelter, an unpretentious wooden structure, where, prior to then, he had rarely, if ever, been before; the former having previously whispered to the latter a few hints anent the keeper of it, said to be the once famous Skin-the-Goat, Fitzharris, the invincible, though he wouldn't vouch for the actual facts, which quite possibly there was not one vestige of truth in. A few moments later saw our two noctambules safely seated in a discreet corner, only to be greeted by stares from the decidedly miscellaneous collection of waifs and strays and other nondescript specimens of the genus homo, already there engaged in eating and drinking, diversified by conversation, for whom they seemingly formed an object of marked curiosity.

-- Now touching a cup of coffee, Mr Bloom ventured to plausibly suggest to break the ice, it occurs to me you ought to sample something in the shape of solid food, say a roll of some description.

Accordingly his first act was with characteristic sangfroid to order these commodities quietly. The hoi polloi of jarvies or stevedores, or whatever they were, after a cursory examination, turned their eyes, apparently dissatisfied, away, though one redbearded bibulous individual, a portion of whose hair was greyish, a sailor, probably, still stared for some appreciable time before transferring his rapt attention to the floor.

Mr Bloom, availing himself of the right of free speech, he having just a bowing acquaintance with the language in dispute though, to be sure, rather in a quandary over voglio, remarked to his protégé in an audible tone of voice, apropos of the battle royal in the street which was still raging fast and furious:

-- Beautiful language. I mean for singing purposes. Why do you not write your poetry in that language? Bella Poetria! it is so melodious and full. Belladonna voglio.

Stephen, who was trying his dead best to yawn, if he could, suffering from dead lassitude generally, replied:

-- To fill the ear of a cow elephant. They were haggling over money.

-- Is that so? Mr Bloom asked. Of course, he subjoined pensively, at the inward reflection of there being more languages to start with than were absolutely necessary, it may be only the southern glamour that surrounds it.

The keeper of the shelter in the middle of this tête-à-tête put a boiling swimming cup of a choice concoction labelled coffee on the table and a rather antediluvian specimen of a bun, or so it seemed, after which he beat a retreat to his counter. Mr Bloom determining to have a good square look at him later on so as not to appear to... for which reason he encouraged Stephen to proceed with his eyes while he did the honours by surreptitiously pushing the cup of what was temporarily supposed to be called coffee gradually nearer him.

-- Sounds are impostures, Stephen said after a pause of some little time. Like names, Cicero, Podmore, Napoleon, Mr Goodbody, Jesus, Mr Doyle. Shakespeares were as common as Murphies. What's in a name?

-- Yes, to be sure, Mr Bloom unaffectedly concurred. Of course. Our name was changed too, he added, pushing the socalled roll across.

The redbearded sailor, who had his weather eye on the newcomers, boarded Stephen, whom he had singled out for attention in particular, squarely by asking:

-- And what might your name be?

Just in the nick of time Mr Bloom touched his companion's boot but Stephen, apparently disregarding the warm pressure, from an unexpected quarter, answered:

-- Dedalus.

The sailor stared at him heavily from a pair of drowsy baggy eyes, rather bunged up from excessive use of boose, preferably good old Hollands and water.

-- You know Simon Dedalus? he asked at length.

-- I've heard of him, Stephen said.

Mr Bloom was all at sea for a moment, seeing the others evidently eavesdropping too.

-- He's Irish, the seaman bold affirmed, staring still in much the same way and nodding. All Irish.

-- All too Irish, Stephen rejoined.

As for Mr Bloom he could neither make head or tail of the whole business and he was just asking himself what possible connection when the sailor, of his own accord, turned to the other Occupants of the shelter with the remark: I seen him shoot two eggs off two bottles at fifty yards over his shoulder. The left hand dead shot.

Though he was slightly hampered by an occasional stammer and his gestures being also clumsy as it was still he did his best to explain.

-- Bottle Out there, say. Fifty yards measured. Eggs on the bottles. Cocks his gun over his shoulder. Aims.

He turned his body half round, shut up his right eye completely, then he screwed his features up some way sideways and glared out into the night with an unprepossessing cast of countenance.

-- Pom, he then shouted once.

The entire audience waited, anticipating an additional detonation, there being still a further egg.

-- Pom, he shouted twice.

Egg two evidently demolished, he nodded and winked, adding bloodthirstily:

Buffalo Bill shoots to kill,
Never missed nor he never will.
A silence ensued till Mr Bloom for agreeableness' sake just felt like asking him whether it was for a marksmanship competition like the Bisley.
-- Beg pardon, the sailor said.

-- Long ago? Mr Bloom pursued without flinching a hairsbreadth.

-- Why, the sailor replied, relaxing to a certain extent under the magic influence of diamond cut diamond, it might be a matter of ten years. He toured the wide world with Hengler's Royal Circus. I seen him do that in Stockholm.

-- Curious coincidence, Mr Bloom confided to Stephen unobtrusively.

-- Murphy's my name, the sailor continued, W. B. Murphy, of Carrigaloe. Know where that is?

-- Queenstown Harbour, Stephen replied.

-- That's right, the sailor said. Fort Camden and Fort Carlisle. That's where I hails from. My little woman's down there. She's waiting for me, I know. For England, home and beauty. She's my own true wife I haven't seen for seven years now, sailing about.

Mr Bloom could easily picture his advent on this scene - the homecoming to the mariner's roadside shieling after having diddled Davy Jones - a rainy night with a blind moon. Across the world for a wife. Quite a number of stories there were on that particular Alice Ben Bolt topic, Enoch Arden and Rip van Winkle and does anybody hereabouts remember Caoc O'Leary, a favourite and most trying declamation piece, by the way, of poor John Casey and a bit of perfect poetry in its own small way? Never about the runaway wife coming back, however much devoted to the absentee. The face at the window! Judge of his astonishment when he finally did breast the tape and the awful truth dawned upon him anent his better half, wrecked in his affections. You little expected me but I've come to stay and make a fresh start. There she sits, a grass widow, at the selfsame fireside. Believes me dead. Rocked in the cradle of the deep. And there sits uncle Chubb or Tomkin, as the case might be, the publican of the Crown and Anchor, in shirtsleeves, eating rumpsteak and onions. No chair for father. Boo! The wind! Her brandnew arrival is on her knee, post mortem child. With a high ro! and a randy ro! and my galloping tearing tandy O! Bow to the inevitable. Grin and bear it. I remain with much love your brokenhearted husband, W. B. Murphy.

The sailor, who scarcely seemed to be a Dublin resident, turned to one of the jarvies with the request:

-- You don't happen to have such a thing as a spare chaw about you, do you?

The jarvey addressed, as it happened, had not but the keeper took a die of plug from his good jacket hanging on a nail and the desired object was passed from hand to hand.

-- Thank you, the sailor said.

He deposited the quid in his gob and, chewing, and with some slow stammers, proceeded:

-- We come up this morning eleven o'clock. The threemaster Rosevean from Bridgwater with bricks. I shipped to get over. Paid off this afternoon. There's my discharge. See? W. B. Murphy, A. B. S.

In confirmation of which statement he extricated from an inside pocket and handed to his neighbours a not very clean looking folded document.

-- You must have seen a fair share of the world, the keeper remarked, leaning on the counter.

-- Why, the sailor answered, upon reflection upon it, I've circumnavigated a bit since I first joined on. I was in the Red Sea. I was in China and North America and South America. I seen icebergs plenty, growlers. I was in Stockholm and the Black Sea, the Dardanelles, under Captain Dalton the best bloody man that ever scuttled a ship. I seen Russia. Gospodi pomilooy. That's how the Russians prays.

-- You seen queer sights, don't be talking, put in a jarvey.

-- Why, the sailor said, shifting his partially chewed plug, I seen queer things too, ups and downs. I seen a crocodile bite the fluke of an anchor same as I chew that quid.

He took out of his mouth the pulpy quid and, lodging it between his teeth, bit ferociously.

-- Khaan! Like that. And I seen maneaters in Peru that eats corpses and the livers of horses. Look here. Here they are. A friend of mine sent me.

He fumbled out a picture postcard from his inside pocket, which seemed to be in its way a species of repository, and pushed it along the table. The printed matter on it stated: Choza de Indios. Beni, Bolivia.

All focused their attention on the scene exhibited, at a group of savage women in striped loincloths, squatted, blinking, suckling, frowning, sleeping, amid a swarm of infants (there must have been quite a score of them) outside some primitive shanties of osier.

-- Chews coca all day long, the communicative tarpaulin added. Stomachs like breadgraters. Cuts off their diddies when they can't bear no more children. See them there stark ballocknaked eating a dead horse's liver raw.

His postcard proved a centre of attraction for Messrs the greenhorns for several minutes, if not more.

-- Know how to keep them off? he inquired genially.

Nobody volunteering a statement, he winked, saying:

-- Glass. That boggles 'em. Glass.

Mr Bloom, without evincing surprise, unostentatiously turned over the card to peruse the partially obliterated address and postmark. It ran as follows: Tarjeta Postal. Se?or A. Boudin, Galeria Becche, Santiago, Chile. There was no message evidently, as he took particular notice. Though not an implicit believer in the lurid story narrated (or the eggsniping transaction for that matter despite William Tell and the Lazarillo-Don Cesar de Bazan incident depicted in Maritana on which occasion the former's ball passed through the latter's hat), having detected a discrepancy between his name (assuming he was the person he represented himself to be and not sailing under false colours after having boxed the compass on the strict q.t. somewhere) and the fictitious addressee of the missive which made him nourish some suspicions of our friend's bona fides, nevertheless it reminded him in a way of a longcherished plan he meant to one day realise some Wednesday or Saturday of travelling to London via long sea not to say that he had ever travelled extensively to any great extent but he was at heart a born adventurer though by a trick of fate he had consistently remained a landlubber except you call going to Holyhead which was his longest. Martin Cunningham frequently said he would work a pass through Egan but some deuced hitch or other eternally cropped up with the net result that the scheme fell through. But even suppose it did come to planking down the needful and breaking Boyd's heart it was not so dear, purse permitting, a few guineas at the outside, considering the fare to Mullingar where he figured on going was five and six there and back. The trip would benefit health on account of the bracing ozone and be in every way thoroughly pleasurable, especially for a chap whose liver was out of order, seeing the different places along the route, Plymouth, Falmouth, Southampton and so on, culminating in an instructive tour of the sights of the great metropolis, the spectacle of our modern Babylon where doubtless he would see the greatest improvement tower, abbey, wealth of Park Lane to renew acquaintance with. Another thing just struck him as a by no means bad notion was he might have a gaze around on the spot to see about trying to make arrangements about a concert tour of summer music embracing the most prominent pleasure resorts, Margate with mixed bathing and firstrate hydros and spas, Eastbourne, Scarborough, Margate and so on, beautiful Bournemouth, the Channel islands and similar bijou spots, which might prove highly remunerative. Not, of course, with a hole and corner scratch company or local ladies on the job, witness Mrs C. P. M'Coy type - lend me your valise and I'll post you the ticket. No, something top notch, an all star Irish cast, the Tweedy-Flower grand opera company with its own legal consort as leading lady as a sort of counterblast to the Elster Grimes and Moody-Manners, perfectly simple matter and he was quite sanguine of success, providing puffs in the local papers could be managed by some fellow with a bit of bounce who could pull the indispensable wires and thus combine business with pleasure. But who? That was the rub.

Also, without being actually positive, it struck him a great field was to be opened up in the line of opening up new routes to keep pace with the times apropos of the Fishguard-Rosslare route which, it was mooted, was once more on the tapis in the Circumlocution departments with the usual quantity of red tape and dillydallying of effete fogeydom and dunderheads generally. A great opportunity there certainly was for push and enterprise to meet the travelling needs of the public at large, the average man, i.e. Brown, Robinson and Co.

It was a subject of regret and absurd as well on the face of it and no small blame to our vaunted society that the man in the street, when the system really needed toning up, for a matter of a couple of paltry pounds, was debarred from seeing more of the world they lived in instead of being always cooped up since my old stick-in-the-mud took me for a wife. After all, hang it, they had their eleven and more humdrum months of it and merited a radical change of venue after the grind of city life in the summertime, for choice, when Dame Nature is at her spectacular best, constituting nothing short of a new lease of life. There were equally excellent opportunities for vacationists in the home island, delightful sylvan spots for rejuvenation, offering a plethora of attractions as well as a bracing tonic for the system in and around Dublin and its picturesque environs, even, Poulaphouca, to which there was a steam tram, but also farther away from the madding crowd, in Wicklow, rightly termed the garden of Ireland, an ideal neighbourhood for elderly wheelmen, so long as it didn't come down, and in the wilds of Donegal, where if report spoke true, the coup d'il was exceedingly grand, though the lastnamed locality was not easily getatable so that the influx of visitors was not as yet all that it might be considering the signal benefits to be derived from it, while Howth with its historic associations and otherwise, Silken Thomas, Grace O'Malley, George IV, rhododendrons several hundred feet above sealevel was a favourite haunt with all sorts and conditions of men, especially in the spring when young men s fancy, though it had its own toll of deaths by falling off the cliffs by design or accidentally, usually, by the way, on their left leg, it being only about three quarters of an hour's run from the pillar. Because of course uptodate tourist travelling was as yet merely in its infancy, so to speak, and the accommodation left much to be desired. Interesting to fathom, it seemed to him, from a motive of curiosity pure and simple, was whether it was the traffic that created the route or vice-versa or the two sides in fact. He turned back the other side of the card picture and passed it along to Stephen.

-- I seen a Chinese one time, related the doughty narrator, that had little pills like putty and he put them in the water and they opened, and every pill was something different. One was a ship, another was a house, another was a flower. Cooks rats in your soup, he appetisingly added, the Chinese does.

Possibly perceiving an expression of dubiosity on their faces, the globetrotter went on adhering to his adventures.

-- And I seen a man killed in Trieste by an Italian chap. Knife in his back. Knife like that.

Whilst speaking he produced a dangerous looking clasp knife, quite in keeping with his character, and held it in the striking position.

-- In a knockingshop it was count of a tryon between two smugglers. Fellow hid behind a door, come up behind him. Like that. Prepare to meet your God, says he. Chuck! It went into his back up to the butt.

His heavy glance, drowsily roaming about, kind of defied their further questions even should they by any chance want to. That's a good bit of steel, repeated he, examining his formidable stiletto.

After which harrowing dénouement sufficient to appal the stoutest he snapped the blade to and stowed the weapon in question away as before in his chamber of horrors, otherwise pocket.

-- They're great for the cold steel, somebody who was evidently quite in the dark said for the benefit of them all. That was why they thought the park murders of the invincibles was done by foreigners on account of them using knives.

At this remark, passed obviously in the spirit of where ignorance is bliss, Mr Bloom and Stephen, each in his own particular way, both instinctively exchanged meaning glances, in a religious silence of the strictly entre nous variety however, towards where Skin-the-Goat, alias the keeper, was drawing spurts of liquid from his boiler affair. His inscrutable face, which was really a work of art, a perfect study in itself, beggaring description, conveyed the impression that he didn't understand one jot of what was going on. Funny very.

There ensued a somewhat lengthy pause. One man was reading by fits and starts a stained by coffee evening journal; another, the card with the natives choza de; another, the seaman's discharge. Mr Bloom, so far as he was personally concerned, was just pondering in pensive mood. He vividly recollected when the occurrence alluded to took place as well as yesterday, some score of years previously, in the days of the land troubles when it took the civilised world by storm, figuratively speaking, early in the eighties, eightyone to be correct, when he was just turned fifteen.

-- Ay, boss, the sailor broke in. Give us back them papers.

The request being complied with, he clawed them up with a scrape.

-- Have you seen the Rock of Gibraltar? Mr Bloom inquired.

The sailor grimaced, chewing, in a way that might be read as yes, ay, or no.

-- Ah, you've touched there too, Mr Bloom said, Europa point, thinking he had, in the hope that the rover might possibly by some reminiscences but he failed to do so, simply letting spurt a jet of spew into the sawdust, and shook his head with a sort of lazy scorn.

-- What year would that be about? Mr Bloom interpolated. Can you recall the boats?

Our soi-disant sailor munched heavily awhile, hungrily, before answering.

-- I'm tired of all them rocks in the sea, he said, and boats and ships. Salt junk all the time.

Tired, seemingly, he ceased. His questioner, perceiving that he was not likely to get a great deal of change out of such a wily old customer, fell to woolgathering on the enormous dimensions of the water about the globe. Suffice it to say that, as a casual glance at the map revealed, it covered fully three fourths of it and he fully realised accordingly what it meant, to rule the waves. On more than one occasion - a dozen at the lowest - near the North Bull at Dollymount he had remarked a superannuated old salt, evidently derelict, seated habitually near the not particularly redolent sea on the wall, staring quite obliviously at it and it at him, dreaming of fresh woods and pastures new as someone somewhere sings. And it left him wondering why. Possibly he had tried to find out the secret for himself, floundering up and down the antipodes and all that sort of thing and over and under - well, not exactly under, tempting the fates. And the odds were twenty to nil there was really no secret about it at all. Nevertheless, without going into the minutiae of the business, the eloquent fact remained that the sea was there in all its glory and in the natural course of things somebody or other had to sail on it and fly in the face of providence though it merely went to show how people usually contrived to load that sort of onus on to the other fellow like the hell idea and the lottery and insurance, which were run on identically the same lines so that for that very reason, if no other, lifeboat Sunday was a very laudable institution to which the public at large, no matter where living, inland or seaside,-is the case might be, having it brought home to them like that, should extend its gratitude also to the harbourmasters and coastguard service who had to man the rigging and push off and out amid the elements, whatever the season, when duty called Ireland expects that every man and so on, and sometimes had a terrible time of it in the wintertime not forgetting the Irish lights, Kish and others, liable to capsize at any moment rounding which he once with his daughter had experienced some remarkably choppy, not to say stormy, weather.

-- There was a fellow sailed with me in the Rover, the old seadog, himself a rover, proceeded. Went ashore and took up a soft job as gentleman's valet at six quid a month. Them are his trousers I've on me and he gave me an oilskin and that jackknife. I'm game for that job, shaving and brushup. I hate roaming about. There's my son now, Danny, run off to sea and his mother got him took in a draper's in Cork where he could be drawing easy money.

-- What age is he? queried one hearer who, by the way, seen from the side, bore a distant resemblance to Henry Campbell, the townclerk, away from the carking cares of office, unwashed, of course, and in a seedy getup and a strong suspicion of nosepaint about the nasal appendage.

-- Why, the sailor answered with a slow puzzled utterance. My son Danny? He'd be about eighteen now, way I figure it.

The Skibbereen father hereupon tore open his grey or unclean anyhow shirt with his two hands and scratched away at his chest on which was to be seen an image tattooed in blue Chinese ink, intended to represent an anchor.

-- There was lice in that bunk in Bridgwater, he remarked. Sure as nuts. I must get a wash tomorrow or next day. It's them black lads I objects to. I hate those buggers. Sucks your blood dry, they does.

Seeing they were all looking at his chest, he accommodatingly dragged his shirt more open so that, on top of the time honoured symbol of the mariner's hope and rest, they had a full view of the figure 16 and a young man's sideface looking frowningly rather.

-- Tattoo, the exhibitor explained. That was done when we were lying becalmed off Odessa in the Black Sea under Captain Dalton Fellow the name of Antonio done that. There he is himself, a Greek.

-- Did it hurt much doing it? one asked the sailor.

That worthy, however, was busily engaged in collecting round the someway in his. Squeezing or...

-- See here, he said, showing Antonio. There he is, cursing the mate. And there he is now, he added. The same fellow, pulling the skin with his fingers, some special knack evidently, and he laughing at a yarn.

And in point of fact the young man named Antonio's livid face did actually look like forced smiling and the curious effect excited the unreserved admiration of everybody, including Skin-the-Goat who this time stretched over.

-- Ay, ay, sighed the sailor, looking down on his manly chest. He's gone too. Ate by sharks after. Ay, ay.

He let go of the skin so that the profile resumed the normal expression of before.

-- Neat bit of work, longshoreman one said.

-- And what's the number for? loafer number two queried.

-- Eaten alive? a third asked the sailor.

-- Ay, ay, sighed again the latter personage, more cheerily this time, with some sort of a half smile, for a brief duration only, in the direction of the questioner about the number. A Greek he was.

And then he added, with rather gallowsbird humour, considering his alleged end:

-- As bad as old Antonio,
For he left me on my ownio.
The face of a streetwalker, glazed and haggard under a black straw hat, peered askew round the door of the shelter, palpably reconnoitring on her own with the object of bringing more grist to her mill. Mr Bloom, scarcely knowing which way to look, turned away on the moment, flusterfied but outwardly calm, and picking up from the table the pink sheet of the Abbey street organ which the jarvey, if such he was, had laid aside, he picked it up and looked at the pink of the paper though why pink? His reason for so doing was he recognised on the moment round the door the same face he had caught a fleeting glimpse of that afternoon on Ormond Quay, the partially idiotic female, namely, of the lane, who knew the lady in the brown costume does be with you (Mrs B.), and begged the chance of his washing. Also why washing, which seemed rather vague than not?
Your washing. Still, candour compelled him to admit that he had washed his wife's undergarments when soiled in Holles Street and women would and did too a man's similar garments initialled with Bewley and Draper's marking ink (hers were, that is) if they really loved him, that is to say. Love me, love my dirty shirt. Still, just then, being on tenterhooks, he desired the female's room more than her company so it came as a genuine relief when the keeper made her a rude sign to take herself off. Round the side of the Evening Telegraph he just caught a fleeting glimpse of her face round the side of the door with a kind of demented glassy grin showing that she was not exactly all there, viewing with evident amusement the group of gazers round Skipper Murphy's nautical chest and then there was no more of her.

-- The gunboat, the keeper said.

-- It beats me, Mr Bloom confided to Stephen, medically I am speaking, how a wretched creature like that from the Lock Hospital, reeking with disease, can be barefaced enough to solicit or how any man in his sober senses, if he values his health in the least. Unfortunate creature! Of course, I suppose some man is ultimately responsible for her condition. Still no matter what the cause is from...

Stephen had not noticed her and shrugged his shoulders, merely remarking:

-- In this country people sell much more than she ever had and do a roaring trade. Fear not them that sell the body but have not power to buy the soul. She is a bad merchant. She buys dear and sells cheap.

The elder man, though not by any manner of means an old maid or a prude, said that it was nothing short of a crying scandal that ought to be put a stop to instanter to say that women of that stamp (quite apart from any oldmaidish squeamishness on the subject), a necessary evil, were not licensed and medically inspected by the proper authorities, a thing he could truthfully state he, as a paterfamilias, was a stalwart advocate of from the very first start. Whoever embarked on a policy of that sort, he said, and ventilated the matter thoroughly would confer a lasting boon on everybody concerned.

-- You, as a good catholic, he observed, talking of body and soul, believe in the soul. Or do you mean the intelligence, the brainpower as such, as distinct from any outside object, the table, let us say, that cup? I believe in that myself because it has been explained by competent men as the convolutions of the grey matter. Otherwise we would never have such inventions as X rays, for instance. Do you?

Thus cornered, Stephen had to make a superhuman effort of memory to try and concentrate and remember before he could say:

-- They tell me on the best authority it is a simple substance and therefore incorruptible. It would be immortal, I understand, but for the possibility of its annihilation by its First Cause, Who, from all I can hear, is quite capable of adding that to the number of His other practical jokes, corruptio per se and corruptio per accidens both being excluded by court etiquette.

Mr Bloom thoroughly acquiesced in the general gist of this though the mystical finesse involved was a bit out of his sublunary depth still he felt bound to enter a demurrer on the head of simple, promptly rejoining:

-- Simple? I shouldn't think that is the proper word. Of course, I grant you, to concede a point, you do knock across a simple soul once in a blue moon. But what I am anxious to arrive at is it is one thing for instance to invent those rays R?ntgen did, Or the telescope like Edison, though I believe it was before his time, Galileo was the man I mean. The same applies to the laws, for example, of a farreaching natural phenomenon such as electricity but it's a horse of quite another colour to say you believe in the existence of a supernatural God.

-- O, that, Stephen expostulated, has been proved conclusively by several of the best known passages in Holy Writ, apart from circumstantial evidence. On this knotty point, however, the views of the pair, poles apart as they were, both in schooling and everything else, with the marked difference in their respective ages, clashed.

-- Has been? the more experienced of the two objected, sticking to his original point. I'm not so sure about that. That's a matter of every man's opinion and, without dragging in the sectarian side of the business, I beg to differ with you in toto there. My belief is, to tell you the candid truth, that those bits were genuine forgeries all of them put in by monks most probably or it's the big question of our national poet over again, who precisely wrote them, like Hamlet and Bacon, as you who know your Shakespeare infinitely better than I, of course I needn't tell you. Can't you drink that coffee, by the way? Let me stir it and take a piece of that bun. It's like one of our skipper's bricks disguised. Still, no one can give what he hasn't got. Try a bit.

-- Couldn't, Stephen contrived to get out, his mental organs for the moment refusing to dictate further.

Faultfinding being a proverbially bad hat, Mr Bloom thought well to stir, or try to, the clotted sugar from the bottom and reflected with something approaching acrimony on the Coffee Palace and its temperance (and lucrative) work. To be sure it was a legitimate object and beyond yea or nay did a world of good. Shelters such as the present one they were in run on teetotal lines for vagrants at night, concerts, dramatic evenings, and useful lectures (admittance free) by qualified men for the lower orders. On the other hand, he had a distinct and painful recollection they paid his wife, Madam Marion Tweedy who had been prominently associated with it at one time, a very modest remuneration indeed for her pianoplaying. The idea, he was strongly inclined to believe, was to do good and net a profit, there being no competition to speak of. Sulphate of copper poison, SO4 or something in some dried peas he remembered reading of in a cheap eatinghouse somewhere but he couldn't remember when it was or where. Anyhow, inspection, medical inspection, of all eatables, seemed to him more than ever necessary which possibly accounted for the vogue of Dr Tibble's Vi-Cocoa on account of the medical analysis involved.

-- Have a shot at it now, he ventured to say of the coffee after being stirred.

Thus prevailed on to at any rate taste it, Stephen lifted the heavy mug from the brown puddle - it clopped out of it when taken up - by the handle and took a sip of the offending beverage.

-- Still, it's solid food, his good genius urged, I'm a stickler for solid food, his one and only reason being not gormandising in the least but regular meals as the sine qua non for any kind of proper work, mental or manual. You ought to eat more solid food. You would feel a different man.

-- Liquids I can eat, Stephen said. But oblige me by taking away that knife. I can't look at the point of it. It reminds me of Roman history.

Mr Bloom promptly did as suggested and removed the incriminated article, a blunt hornhandled ordinary knife with nothing particularly Roman or antique about it to the lay eye, observing that the point was the least conspicuous point about it.

-- Our mutual friend's stories are like himself, Mr Bloom, apropos of knives, remarked to his confidente sotto voce. Do you think they are genuine? He could spin those yarns for hours on end all night long and lie like old boots. Look at him.

Yet still, though his eyes were thick with sleep and sea air, life was full of a host of things and coincidences of a terrible nature and it was quite within the bounds of possibility that it was not an entire fabrication though at first blush there was not much inherent probability in all the spoof he got off his chest being strictly accurate gospel.

He had been meantime taking stock of the individual in front of him and Sherlockholmesing him up, ever since he clapped eyes on him. Though a wellpreserved man of no little stamina, if a trifle prone to baldness, there was something spurious in the cut of his jib that suggested a jail delivery and it required no violent stretch of imagination to associate such a weirdlooking specimen with the oakum and treadmill fraternity. He might even have done for his man, supposing it was his own case he told, as people often did about others, namely, that he killed him himself and had served his four or five goodlooking years in durance vile to say nothing of the Antonio personage (no relation to the dramatic personage of identical name who sprang from the pen Of our national poet) who expiated his crimes in the melodramatic manner above described. On the other hand he might be only bluffing, a pardonable weakness, because meeting unmistakable mugs, Dublin residents, like those jarvies waiting news from abroad, would tempt any ancient mariner who sailed the ocean seas to draw the long bow about the schooner Hesperus and etcetera. And when all was said and done, the lies a fellow told about himself couldn't probably hold a proverbial candle to the wholesale whoppers other fellows coined about him.

Mind you, I'm not saying that it's all a pure invention, he resumed. Analogous scenes are occasionally, if not often, met with. Giants, though, that is rather a far cry you see once in a way. Marcella, the midget queen. In those waxworks in Henry street I myself saw some Aztecs, as they are called, sitting bowlegged. They couldn't straighten their legs if you paid them because the muscles here, you see, he proceeded, indicating on his companion the brief outline, the sinews, or whatever you like to call them, behind the right knee, were utterly powerless from sitting that way so long cramped up, being adored as gods. There's an example again of simple souls.

However, reverting to friend Sinbad and his horrifying adventures (who reminded him a bit of Ludwig, alias Ledwidge, when he occupied the boards of the Gaiety when Michael Gunn was identified with the management in the Flying Dutchman, a stupendous success, and his host of admirers came in large numbers, everyone simply flocking to hear him though ships of any sort, phantom or the reverse, on the stage usually fell a bit flat as also did trains), there was nothing intrinsically incompatible about it, he conceded. On the contrary, that stab in the back touch was quite in keeping with those Italianos, though candidly he was none the less free to admit those ice creamers and friers in the fish way, not to mention the chip potato variety and so forth, over in little Italy there, near the Coombe, were sober thrifty hardworking fellows except perhaps a bit too given to pothunting the harmless necessary animal of the feline persuasion of others at night so as to have a good old succulent tuck in with garlic de rigueur off him or her next day on the quiet and, he added, on the cheap.

-- Spaniards, for instance, he continued, passionate temperaments like that, impetuous as Old Nick, are given to taking the law into their own hands and give you your quietus double quick with those poignards they carry in the abdomen. It comes from the great heat, climate generally. My wife is, so to speak, Spanish, half, that is. Point of fact she could actually claim Spanish nationality if she wanted, having been born in (technically) Spain, i.e. Gibraltar. She has the Spanish type. Quite dark, regular brunette, black. I, for one, certainly believe climate accounts for character. That's why I asked you if you wrote your poetry in Italian.

-- The temperaments at the door, Stephen interposed with, were very passionate about ten shillings. Roberto ruba roba sua.

-- Quite so, Mr Bloom dittoed.

-- Then, Stephen said, staring and rambling on to himself or some unknown listener somewhere, we have the impetuosity of Dante and the isosceles triangle, Miss Portinari, he fell in love with and Leonardo and san Tommaso Mastino.

-- It's in the blood, Mr Bloom acceded at once. All are washed in the blood of the sun. Coincidence, I just happened to be in the Kildare street Museum today, shortly prior to our meeting, if I can so call it, and I was just looking at those antique statues there. The splendid proportions of hips, bosom. You simply don't knock against those kind of women here. An exception here and there. Handsome, yes, pretty in a way you find, but what I'm talking about is the female form. Besides, they have so little taste in dress, most of them, which greatly enhances a woman's natural beauty, no matter what you say. Rumpled stockings - it may be, possibly is, a foible of mine, but still it's a thing I simply hate to see.

Interest, however, was starting to flag somewhat all round and the others got on to talking about accidents at sea, ships lost in a fog, collisions with icebergs, all that sort of thing. Shipahoy, of course, had his own say to say. He had doubled the Cape a few odd times and weathered a monsoon, a kind of wind, in the China seas and through all those perils of the deep there was one thing, he declared, stood to him, or words to that effect, a pious medal he had that saved him.

So then after that they drifted on to the wreck of Daunt's rock, wreck of that illfated Norwegian barque - nobody could think of her name for the moment till the jarvey who had really quite a look of Henry Campbell remembered it, Palme, on Booterstown Strand, that was the talk of the town that year (Albert William Quill wrote a fine piece of original verse of distinctive merit on the topic for the Irish Times) breakers running over her and crowds and crowds on the shore in commotion petrified with horror. Then someone said something about the case of the s. s. Lady Cairns of Swansea, run into by the Mona, which was on an Opposite tack, in rather muggyish weather and lost with all hands on deck. No aid was given. Her master, the Mona's, said he was afraid his collision bulkhead would give way. She had no water, it appears, in her hold.

At this stage an incident happened. It having become necessary for him to unfurl a reef, the sailor vacated his seat.

-- Let me cross your bows, mate, he said to his neighbour, who was just gently dropping off into a peaceful dose.

He made tracks heavily, slowly, with a dumpy sort of a gait to the door, stepped heavily down the one step there was out of the shelter and bore due left. While he was in the act of getting his bearings, Mr Bloom, who noticed when he stood up that he had two flasks of presumably ship's rum sticking one out of each pocket for the private consumption of his burning interior, saw him produce a bottle and uncork it, or unscrew, and, applying its nozzle to his lips, take a good old delectable swig out of it with a gurgling noise. The irrepressible Bloom, who also had a shrewd suspicion that the old stager went out on a manoeuvre after the counterattraction in the shape of a female, who, however, had disappeared to all intents and purposes, could, by straining, just perceive him, when duly refreshed by his rum puncheon exploit, gazing up at the piers and girders of the Loop Line, rather out of his depth, as of course it was all radically altered since his last visit and greatly improved. Some person or persons invisible directed him to the male urinal erected by the cleansing committee all over the place for the purpose but, after a brief space of time during which silence reigned supreme, the sailor, evidently giving it a wide berth, eased himself close at hand, the noise of his bilge-water some little time subsequently splashing on the ground where it apparently woke a horse of the cabrank.

A hoof scooped anyway for new foothold after sleep and harness jingled. Slightly disturbed in his sentrybox by the brasier of live coke, the watcher of the corporation, who, though now broken down and fast breaking up, was none other in stern reality than the Gumley aforesaid, now practically on the parish rates, given the temporary job by Pat Tobin in all human probability, from dictates of humanity, knowing him before - shifted about and shuffled in his box before composing his limbs again in the arms of Morpheus. A truly amazing piece of hard times in its most virulent form on a fellow most respectably connected and familiarised with decent home comforts all his life who came in for a cool #100 a year at one time which of course the double-barrelled ass proceeded to make general ducks and drakes of. And there he was at the end of his tether after having often painted the town tolerably pink, without a beggarly stiver. He drank, needless to be told, and it pointed only once more a moral when he might quite easily be in a large way of business if - a big if, however - he had contrived to cure himself of his particular partiality.

All, meantime, were loudly lamenting the falling off in Irish shipping, coastwise and foreign as well, which was all part and parcel of the same thing. A Palgrave Murphy boat was put off the ways at Alexandra Basin, the only launch that year. Right enough the harbours were there only no ships ever called.

There were wrecks and wrecks, the keeper said, who was evidently au fait.

What he wanted to ascertain was why that ship ran bang against the only rock in Galway Bay when the Galway Harbour scheme was mooted by a Mr Worthington or some name like that, eh? Ask her captain, he advised them, how much palmoil the British Government gave him for that day's work. Captain John Lever of the Lever line.

-- Am I right, skipper? he queried of the sailor now returning after his private potation and the rest of his exertions.

That worthy, picking up the scent of the fagend of the song or words, growled in wouldbe music, but with great vim, some Kind of chanty or other in seconds or thirds. Mr Bloom's sharp ears heard him then expectorate the plug probably (which it was), so that he must have lodged it for the time being in his fist while he did the drinking and making water jobs and found it a bit sour after the liquid fire in question. Anyhow in he rolled after his successful libation-cum-potation, introducing an atmosphere of drink into the soirée, boisterously trolling, like a veritable son of a seacook:

-- The biscuits was as hard as brass,
And the beef as salt as Lot's wife's arse.
O Johnny Lever!
Johnny Lever, O!
After which effusion the redoubtable specimen duly arrived on the scene and, regaining his seat, he sank rather than sat heavily on the form provided.
Skin-the-Goat, assuming he was he, evidently with an axe to grind, was airing his grievances in a forcible-feeble philippic anent the natural resources of Ireland, or something of that sort, which he described in his lengthy dissertation as the richest country bar none on the face of God's earth, far and away superior to England, with coal in large quantities, six million pounds' worth of pork exported every year, ten millions between butter and eggs, and all the riches drained out of it by England levying taxes on the poor people that paid through the nose always, and gobbling up the best meat in the market, and a lot more surplus steam in the same vein. Their conversation accordingly became general and all agreed that that was a fact. You could grow any mortal thing in Irish soil, he stated, and there was Colonel Everard down there in Cavan growing tobacco. Where would you find anywhere the like of Irish bacon? But a day of reckoning, he stated crescendo with no uncertain voice - thoroughly monopolising all the conversation - was in store for mighty England, despite her power of pelf on account of her crimes. There would be a fall and the greatest fall in history. The Germans and the Japs were going to have their little lookin, he affirmed. The Boers were the beginning of the end. Brummagem England was toppling already and her downfall would be Ireland, her Achilles heel, which he explained to them about the vulnerable point of Achilles, the Greek hero - a point his auditors at once seized as he completely gripped their attention by showing the tendon referred to on his boot. His advice to every Irishman was: stay in the land of your birth and work for Ireland and live for Ireland. Ireland, Parnell said, could not spare a single one of her sons.

Silence all round marked the termination of his finale. The impervious navigator heard these lurid tidings undismayed.

-- Take a bit of doing, boss, retaliated that rough diamond palpably a bit peeved in response to the foregoing truism.

To which cold douche, referring to downfall and so on, the keeper concurred but nevertheless held to his main view.

-- Who's the best troops in the army? the grizzled old veteran irately interrogated. And the best jumpers and racers? And the best admirals and generals we've got? Tell me that.

-- The Irish for choice, retorted the cabby like Campbell, facial blemishes apart.

-- That's right, the old tarpaulin corroborated. The Irish catholic peasant. He's the backbone of our empire. You know Jem Mullins?

While allowing him his individual opinions, as every man, the keeper added he cared nothing for any empire, ours or his, and considered no Irishman worthy of his salt that served it. Then they began to have a few irascible words, when it waxed hotter, both, needless to say, appealing to the listeners who followed the passage of arms with interest so long as they didn't indulge in recriminations and come to blows.

From inside information extending over a series of years Mr Bloom was rather inclined to poohpooh the suggestion as egregious balderdash for, pending that consummation devoutly to be or not to be wished for, he was fully cognisant of the fact that their neighbours across the channel, unless they were much bigger fools than he took them for, rather concealed their strength than the opposite. It was quite on a par with the quixotic idea in certain quarters that in a hundred million years the coal seam of the sister island would be played out and if, as time went On, that turned Out to be how the cat jumped all he could personally say on the matter was that as a host of contingencies, equally relevant to the issue, might occur ere then it was highly advisable in the interim to try to make the most of both countries, even though poles apart. Another little interesting point, the amours of whores and chummies, to put it in common parlance, reminded him Irish soldiers had as often fought for England as against her, more so, in fact. And now, why? So the scene between the pair of them, the licensee of the place, rumoured to be or have been Fitzharris, the famous invincible, and the other, obviously bogus, reminded him forcibly as being on all fours with the confidence trick, supposing, that is, it was prearranged, as the lookeron, a student of the human soul, if anything, the others seeing least of the game. And as for the lessee or keeper, who probably wasn't the other person at all, he (Bloom) couldn't help feeling, and most properly, it was better to give people like that the goby unless you were a blithering idiot altogether and refuse to have anything to do with them as a golden rule in private life and their felonsetting, there always being the offchance of a Dannyman coming forward and turning queen's evidence - or king's now - like Denis or Peter Carey, an idea he utterly repudiated. Quite apart from that, he disliked those careers of wrongdoing and crime on principle. Yet, though such criminal propensities had never been an inmate of his bosom in any shape or form, he certainly did feel, and no denying it (while inwardly remaining what he was), a certain kind of admiration for a man who had actually brandished a knife, cold steel, with the courage of his political convictions though, personally, he would never be a party to any such thing, off the same bat as those love vendettas of the south - have her or swing for her - when the husband frequently, after some words passed between the two concerning her relations with the other lucky mortal (the man having had the pair watched), inflicted fatal injuries on

his adored one as a result of an alternative postnuptial liaison by plunging his knife into her until it just struck him that Fitz, nicknamed Skin-the-Goat, merely drove the car for the actual perpetrators of the outrage and so was not, if he was reliably informed, actually party to the ambush which, in point of fact, was the plea some legal luminary saved his skin on. In any case that was very ancient history by now and as for our friend, the pseudo Skin-the-etcetera, he had transparently outlived his welcome. He ought to have either died naturally or on the scaffold high. Like actresses, always farewell - positively last performance then come up smiling again. Generous to a fault, of course, temperamental, no economising or any idea of the sort, always snapping at the bone for the shadow. So similarly he had a very shrewd suspicion that Mr Johnny Lever got rid of some #. s. d. in the course of his perambulations round the docks in the congenial atmosphere of the Old Ireland tavern, come back to Erin and so on. Then as for the others, he had heard not so long before the same identical lingo, as he told Stephen how he simply but effectually silenced the offender.

He took umbrage at something or other, that much injured but on the whole eventempered person declared, I let slip. He called me a jew, and in a heated fashion, offensively. So I, without deviating from plain facts in the least, told him his God, I mean Christ, was a jew too, and all his family, like me, though in reality I'm not. That was one for him. A soft answer turns away wrath. He hadn't a word to say for himself as everyone saw. Am I not right?

He turned a long you are wrong gaze on Stephen of timorous dark pride at the soft impeachment, with a glance also of entreaty for he seemed to glean in a kind of a way that it wasn't all exactly .

-- Ex quibus, Stephen mumbled in a noncommittal accent, their two or four eyes conversing, Christus or Bloom his name is, or, after all, any other, secundum carnem.

-- Of course, Mr Bloom proceeded to stipulate, you must look at both sides of the question. It is hard to lay down any hard and fast rules as to right and wrong but room for improvement all round there certainly is though every country, they say, our own distressful included, has the government it deserves. But with a little goodwill all round. It's all very fine to boast of mutual superiority but what about mutual equality? I resent violence or intolerance in any shape or form. It never reaches anything or stops anything. A revolution must come on the due instalments plan. It's a patent absurdity on the face of it to hate people because they live round the corner and speak another vernacular, so to speak.

-- Memorable bloody bridge battle and seven minutes' war, Stephen assented, between Skinner's alley and Ormond market.

-- Yes, Mr Bloom thoroughly agreed, entirely endorsing the remark, that was overwhelmingly right and the whole world was overwhelmingly full of that sort of thing.

-- You just took the words out of my mouth, he said. A hocuspocus of conflicting evidence that candidly you couldn't remotely.

All those wretched quarrels, in his humble opinion, stirring up bad blood - bump of combativeness or gland of some kind, erroneously supposed to be about a punctilio of honour and a flag - were very largely a question of the money question which was at the back of everything, greed and jealousy, people never knowing when to stop.

-- They accuse - remarked he audibly. He turned away from the others, who probably... and spoke nearer to, so as the others... in case they...

-- Jews, he softly imparted in an aside in Stephen's ear, are accused of ruining. Not a vestige of truth in it, I can safely say. History - would you be surprised to learn? - proves up to' the hilt Spain decayed when the Inquisition hounded the jews out and England prospered when Cromwell, an uncommonly able ruffian, who, in other respects, has much to answer for, imported them. Why? Because they are practical and are proved to be so. I don't want to indulge in any... because you know the standard works on the subject, and then, orthodox as you are... But in the economic, not touching religion, domain, the priest spells poverty. Spain again, you saw in the war, compared with goahead America. Turks, it's in the dogma. Because if they didn't believe they'd go straight to heaven when they die they'd try to live better - at least, so I think. That's the juggle on which the p.p.'s raise the wind on false pretences. I'm, he resumed, with dramatic force, as good an Irishman as that rude person I told you about at the outset and I want to see everyone, concluded he, all creeds and classes pro rata having a comfortable tidysized income, in no niggard fashion either, something in the neighbourhood of #300 per annum That's the vital issue at stake and it's feasible and would be provocative of friendlier intercourse between man and man. At least that's my idea for what it's worth. I call that patriotism. Ubi patria, as we learned a small smattering of in our classical day in Alma Mater, vita bene. Where you can live well, the sense is, if you work.

Over his untasteable apology for a cup of coffee, listening to this synopsis of things in general, Stephen stared at nothing in particular. He could hear, of course, all kinds of words changing colour like those crabs about Ringsend in the morning, burrowing quickly into all colours of different sorts of the same sand where they had a home somewhere beneath or seemed to. Then he looked up and saw the eyes that said or didn't say the words the voice he heard said - if you work.

-- Count me out, he managed to remark, meaning to work.

The eyes were surprised at this observation, because as he, the person who owned them pro. tem. observed, or rather, his voice speaking did: All must work, have to, together.

-- I mean, of course, the other hastened to affirm, work in the widest possible sense. Also literary labour, not merely for the kudos of the thing. Writing for the newspapers which is the readiest channel nowadays. That's work too. Important work. After all, from the little I know of you, after all the money expended on your education, you are entitled to recoup yourself and command your price. You have every bit as much right to live by your pen in pursuit of your philosophy as the peasant has. What? You both belong to Ireland, the brain and the brawn. Each is equally important.

-- You suspect, Stephen retorted with a sort of a half laugh, that I may be important because I belong to the faubourg Saint Patrice called Ireland for short.

-- I would go a step farther, Mr Bloom insinuated.

-- But I suspect, Stephen interrupted, that Ireland must be important because it belongs to me.

-- What belongs? queried Mr Bloom, bending, fancying he was perhaps under some misapprehension. Excuse me. Unfortunately I didn't catch the latter portion. What was it you?...

Stephen, patently crosstempered, repeated and shoved aside his mug of coffee, Or whatever you like to call it, none too politely, adding:

-- We can't change the country. Let us change the subject.

At this pertinent suggestion, Mr Bloom, to change the subject, looked down, but in a quandary, as he couldn't tell exactly what construction to put on belongs to which sounded rather a far cry. The rebuke of some kind was clearer than the other part. Needless to say, the fumes of his recent orgy spoke then with some asperity in a curious bitter way, foreign to his sober state. Probably the home life, to which Mr Bloom attached the utmost importance, had not been all that was needful or he hadn't been familiarised with the right sort of people. With a touch of fear for the young man beside him, whom he furtively scrutinised with an air of some consternation remembering he had just come back from Paris, the eyes more especially reminding him forcibly of father and sister, failing to throw much light on the subject, however, he brought to mind instances of cultured fellows that promised so brilliantly, nipped in the bud of premature decay, and nobody to blame but themselves. For instance, there was the case of O'Callaghan, for one, the half crazy faddist, respectably connected, though of inadequate means, with his mad vagaries, among whose other gay doings when rotto and making himself a nuisance to everybody all round he was in the habit of ostentatiously sporting in public a suit of brown paper (a fact). And then the usual dénouement after the fun had gone on fast and furious he got landed into hot water and had to be spirited away by a few friends, after a strong hint to a blind horse from John Mallon of Lower Castle Yard, so as not to be made amenable under section two of the Criminal Law Amendment Act, certain names of those subpoenaed being handed in but not divulged, for reasons which will occur to anyone with a pick of brains. Briefly, putting two and two together, six sixteen, which he pointedly turned a deaf ear to, Antonio and so forth, jockeys and esthetes and the tattoo which was all the go in the seventies or thereabouts, even In the House of Lords, because early in life the occupant of the throne, then heir apparent, the other members of the upper ten and other high personages simply following in the footsteps of the head of the state, he reflected about the errors of notorieties and crowned heads running counter to morality such as the Cornwall case a number of years before under their veneer in a way scarcely intended by nature, a thing good Mrs Grundy as the law stands was terribly down on, though not for the reason they thought they were probably, whatever it was, except women chiefly, who were always fiddling more or less at one another, it being largely a matter of dress and all the rest of it. Ladies who like distinctive underclothing should, and every well tailored man must, trying to make the gap wider between them by innuendo and give more of a genuine fillip to acts of impropriety between the two, she unbuttoned his and then he untied her, mind the pin, whereas savages in the cannibal islands, say, at ninety degrees in the shade not caring a continental. However, reverting to the original, there were on the other hand others who had forced their way to the top from the lowest rung by the aid of their bootstraps. Sheer force of natural genius, that. With brains, sir.

For which and further reasons he felt it was interest and duty even to wait on and profit by the unlooked for occasion, though why, he could not exactly tell, being, as it was, already several shillings to the bad, having, in fact, let himself in for it. Still, to cultivate the acquaintance of someone of no uncommon calibre who could provide food for reflection would amply repay any small... Intellectual stimulation as such was, he felt, from time to time a firstrate tonic for the mind. Added to which was the coincidence of meeting, discussion, dance, row, old salt, of the here today and gone tomorrow type, night loafers, the whole galaxy of events, all went to make up a miniature cameo of the world we live in, especially as the lives of the submerged tenth, viz., coalminers, divers, scavengers, etc., were very much under the microscope lately. To improve the shining hour he wondered whether he might meet with anything approaching the same luck as Mr Philip Beaufoy if taken down in writing. Suppose he were to pen something out of the common groove (as he fully intended doing) at the rate of one guinea per column, My Experiences, let us say, in a Cabman's Shelter.

The pink edition, extra sporting, of the Telegraph, tell a graphic lie, lay, as luck would have it, beside his elbow and as he was just puzzling again, far from satisfied, over a country belonging to him and the preceding rebus the vessel came from Bridgwater and the postcard was addressed to A. Boudin, find the captain's age, his eyes went aimlessly over the respective captions which came under his special province, the allembracing give us this day our daily press. First he got a bit of a start but it turned out to be only something about somebody named H. du Boyes, agent for typewriters or something like that. Great battle Tokio. Lovemaking in Irish #200 damages. Gordon Bennett. Emigration swindle. Letter from His Grace William. Ascot Throwaway recalls Derby of '92 when Captain Marshall's dark horse, Sir Hugo , captured the blue riband at long odds. New York disaster, thousand lives lost. Foot and Mouth. Funeral of the late Mr Patrick Dignam.

So to change the subject he read about Dignam, R.I.P., which, he reflected, was anything but a gay sendoff.

-- This morning (Hynes put it in, of course), the remains of the late Mr Patrick Dignam were removed from his residence, no 9 Newbridge Avenue, Sandymount, for internment in Clasnevin. The deceased gentleman was a most popular and genial personality in city life and his demise, after a brief illness, came as great shock to citizens of all classes by whom he is deeply regretted. The obsequies, at which many friends of the deceased were present, were carried out (certainly Hynes wrote it with a nudge from Corny) by Messrs. H. J. O'Neill & Son, 164 North Strand road. The mourners included: Patk. Dignam (son), Bernard Corrigan (motherinlaw), John Henry Menton, solr., Martin Cunningham, John Power eatondph 1/8 ador dorador douradora (must be where he called Monks the dayfather about Keyes's ad), Thomas Kernan, Simon Dedalus, Stephen Dedalus, B. A., Edward J. Lambert, Cornelius Kelleher, Joseph M'C. Hynes, L. Boom, C. P. M'Coy, - M'Intosh, and several others.

Nettled not a little by L. Boom (as it incorrectly stated) and the line of bitched type, but tickled to death simultaneously by C. P. M'Coy and Stephen Dedalus, B. A., who were conspicuous, needless to say, by their total absence (to say nothing of M'Intosh), L. Boom pointed it out to his companion B. A., engaged in stifling another yawn, half nervousness, not forgetting the usual crop of nonsensical howlers of misprints.

-- Is that first epistle to the Hebrews, he asked, as soon as his bottom jaw would let him, in? Text: open thy mouth and put thy foot in it.

-- It is, really, Mr Bloom said (though first he fancied he alluded to the archbishop till he added about foot and mouth with which there could be no possible connection) overjoyed to set his mind at rest and a bit flabbergasted at Myles Crawford's after all managing the thing, there.

While the other was reading it on page two Boom (to give him for the nonce his new misnomer) whiled away a few odd leisure moments in fits and starts with the account of the third event at Ascot on page three, his sidevalue 1,000 sovs., with 3,000 sovs. In specie added for entire colts and fillies, Mr F. Alexander's Throwaway, b.h. by Rightaway, 5 yrs, 9 st 4 lbs, Thrale (W. Lane) 1. Lord Howard de Walden's Zinfandel (M. Cannon) 2. Mr W. Bass's Sceptre, 3. Betting 5 to 4 on Zinfandel, 20 to 1 Throwaway (off). Throwaway and Zinfandel stood close order. It was anybody's race then the rank outsider drew to the fore got long lead, beating lord Howard de Walden's chestnut colt and Mr W. Bass's bay filly Sceptre on a 2 1/2 mile course. Winner trained by Braine so that Lenehan's version of the business was all pure buncombe. Secured the verdict cleverly by a length. 1,000 sovs., with 3,000 in specie. Also ran J. de Bremond's (French horse Bantam Lyons was anxiously inquiring after not in yet but expected any minute) Maximum II. Different ways of bringing off a coup. Lovemaking damages. Though that halfbaked Lyons ran off at a tangent in his impetuosity to get left. Of course, gambling eminently lent itself to that sort of thing though, as the event turned out, the poor fool hadn't much reason to congratulate himself on his pick, the forlorn hope. Guesswork it reduced itself to eventually.

-- There was every indication they would arrive at that, Mr Bloom said.

-- Who? the other, whose hand by the way was hurt, said.

One morning you would open the paper, the cabman affirmed, and read, Return of Parnell. He bet them what they liked. A Dublin fusilier was in that shelter one night and said he saw him in South Africa. Pride it was killed him. He ought to have done away with himself or lain low for a time after Committee Room No. 15 until he was his old self again with no-one to point a finger at him. Then they would all to a man have gone down on their marrowbones to him to come back when he had recovered his senses. Dead he wasn't. Simply absconded somewhere. The coffin they brought over was full of stones. He changed his name to De Wet, the Boer general. He made a mistake to fight the priests. And so forth and so on.

All the same Bloom (properly so dubbed) was rather surprised at their memories for in nine cases out of ten it was a case of tarbarrels, and not singly but in their thousands, and then complete oblivion because it was twenty odd years. Highly unlikely, of course, there was even a shadow of truth in the stories and, even supposing, he thought a return highly inadvisable, all things considered. Something evidently riled them in his death. Either he petered out too tamely of acute pneumonia just when his various different political arrangements were nearing completion or whether it transpired he owed his death to his having neglected to change his boots and clothes after a wetting when a cold resulted and failing to consult a specialist he being confined to his room till he eventually died of it amid widespread regret before a fortnight was at an end or quite possibly they were distressed to find the job was taken out of their hands. Of course nobody being acquainted with his movements even before, there was absolutely no clue as to his whereabouts which were decidedly of the Alice, where art thou order even prior to his starting to go under several aliases such as Fox and Stewart, so the remark which emanated from friend cabby might be within the bounds of possibility. Naturally then, it would prey on his mind as a born leader of men, which undoubtedly he was, and a commanding figure, a sixfooter or at any rate five feet ten or eleven in his stockinged feet, whereas Messrs So-and-So who, though they weren't even a patch on the former man, ruled the roost after their redeeming features were very few and far between. It certainly pointed a moral, the idol with feet of clay. And then seventytwo of his trusty henchmen rounding on him with mutual mudslinging. And the identical same with murderers. You had to come back - that haunting sense kind of drew you - to show the understudy in the title r?le how to. He saw him once on the auspicious occasion when they broke up the type in the Insuppressible or was it United Ireland, a privilege he keenly appreciated, and, in point of fact, handed him his silk hat when it was knocked off and he said Thank you, excited as he undoubtedly was under his frigid expression notwithstanding the little misadventure mentioned between the cup and the lip - what's bred in the bone. Still, as regards return, you were a lucky dog if they didn't set the terrier at you directly you got back. Then a lot of shillyshally usually followed. Tom for and Dick and Harry against. And then, number one, you came up against the man in possession and had to produce your credentials, like the claimant in the Tichborne case, Roger Charles Tichborne. Bella was the boat's name to the best of his recollection he, the heir, went down in, as the evidence went to show, and there was a tattoo mark too in Indian ink, Lord Bellew, was it? As he might very easily have picked up the details from some pal on board ship and then, when got up to tally with the description given, introduce himself with, Excuse me, my name is So-and-So or some such commonplace remark. A more prudent course, Mr Bloom said to the not over effusive, in fact like the distinguished personage under discussion beside him, would have been to sound the lie of the land first.

-- That bitch, that English whore, did for him, the shebeen proprietor commented. She put the first nail in his coffin.

-- Fine lump of a woman, all the same, the soi-disant town-clerk, Henry Campbell remarked, and plenty of her. I seen her picture in a barber's. Her husband was a captain or an officer.

-- Ay, Skin-the-Goat amusingly added. He was, and a cottonball one.

This gratuitous contribution of a humorous character occasioned a fair amount of laughter among his entourage. As regards Bloom, he, without the faintest suspicion of a smile, merely gazed in the direction of the door and reflected upon the historic story which had aroused extraordinary interest at the time when the facts, to make matters worse, were made public with the usual affectionate letters that passed between them, full of sweet nothings. First, it was strictly platonic till nature intervened and an attachment sprang up between them, till bit by bit matters came to a climax and the matter became the talk of the town till the staggering blow came as a welcome intelligence to not a few evildisposed however, who were resolved upon encouraging his downfall though the thing was public property all along though not to anything like the sensational extent that it subsequently blossomed into. Sino their names were coupled, though, since he was her declared favourite, where was the particular necessity to proclaim it to the rank and file from the housetops, the fact namely, that he had shared her bedroom, which came out in the witnessbox on oath when a thrill went through the packed court literally electrifying everybody in the shape of witnesses swearing to having witnessed him on such and such a particular date in the act of scrambling out of an upstairs apartment with the assistance of a ladder in night apparel, having gained admittance in the same fashion, a fact that the weeklies, addicted to the lubric a little, simply coined shoals of money out of. Whereas the simple fact of the case was it was simply a case of the husband not being up to the scratch with nothing in common between them beyond the name and then a real man arriving on the scene, strong to the verge of weakness, falling a victim to her siren charms and forgetting home ties. The usual sequel, to bask in the loved one's smiles. The eternal question of the life connubial, needless to say, cropped up. Can real love, supposing there happens to be another chap in the case, exist between married folk? Though it was no concern of theirs absolutely if he regarded her with affection carried away by a wave of folly. A magnificent specimen of manhood he was truly, augmented obviously by gifts of a high order as compared with the other military supernumerary, that is (who was just the usual everyday farewell, my gallant captain kind of an individual in the light dragoons, the 18th hussars to be accurate), and inflammable doubtless (the fallen leader, that is, not the other) in his own peculiar way which she of course, woman, quickly perceived as highly likely to carve his way to fame, which he almost bid fair to do till the priests and ministers of the gospel as a whole, his erstwhile staunch adherents and his beloved evicted tenants for whom he had done yeoman service in the rural parts of the country by taking up the cudgels on their behalf in a way that exceeded their most sanguine expectations, very effectually cooked his matrimonial goose, thereby heaping coals of fire on his head, much in the same way as the fabled ass's kick. Looking back now in a retrospective kind of arrangement, all seemed a kind of dream. And the coming back was the worst thing you ever did because it went without saying you would feel out of place as things always moved with the times. Why, as he reflected, Irishtown Strand, a locality he had not been in for quite a number of years, looked different somehow since, as it happened, he went to reside on the north side. North or south however, it was just the wellknown case of hot passion, pure and simple, upsetting the applecart with a vengeance and just bore out the very thing he was saying, as she also was Spanish or half so, types that wouldn't do things by halves, passionate abandon of the south, casting every shred of decency to the winds.

-- Just bears out what I was saying, he with glowing bosom said to Stephen. And, if I don't greatly mistake, she was Spanish too.

-- The king of Spain's daughter, Stephen answered, adding something or other rather muddled about farewell and adieu to you Spanish onions and the first land called the Deadman and from Ramhead to Scilly was so and so many.

-- Was she? Bloom ejaculated surprised, though not astonished by any means. I never heard that rumour before. Possible, especially there it was, as she lived there. So, Spain.

Carefully avoiding a book in his pocket Sweets of, which reminded him by the by of that Capel street library book out of date, he took out his pocketbook and, turning over the various contents rapidly, finally he.

-- Do you consider, by the by, he said, thoughtfully selecting a fades photo which he laid on the table, that a Spanish type?

Stephen, obviously addressed, looked down on the photo showing a large sized lady, with her fleshy charms on evidence in an open fashion, as she was in the full bloom of womanhood, In evening dress cut ostentatiously low for the occasion to give a liberal display of bosom, with more than vision of breasts, her full lips parted, and some perfect teeth, standing near, ostensibly with gravity, a piano, on the rest of which was In old Madrid, a ballad, pretty in its way, which was then all the vogue. Her (the lady's) eyes, dark, large, looked at Stephen, about to smile about something to be admired, Lafayette of Westmoreland street, Dublin's premier photographic artist, being responsible for the esthetic execution.

Mrs Bloom, my wife the prima donna, Madam Marion Tweedy, Bloom indicated. Taken a few years since. In or about '96. Very like her then.

Beside the young man he looked also at the photo of the lady now his legal wife who, he intimated, was the accomplished daughter of Major Brian Tweedy and displayed at an early age remarkable proficiency as a singer having even made her bow to the public when her years numbered barely sweet sixteen. As for the face, it was a speaking likeness in expression but it did not do justice to her figure, which came in for a lot of notice usually and which did not come out to the best advantage in that getup She could without difficulty, he said, have posed for the ensemble, not to dwell on certain opulent curves of the... He dwelt, being a bit of an artist in his spare time, on the female form in general developmentally because, as it so happened, no later than that afternoon, he had seen those Grecian statues, perfectly developed as works of art, in the National Museum. Marble could give the original, shoulders, back, all the symmetry. All the rest, yes, Puritanism. It does though, St Joseph's sovereign... whereas no photo could, because it simply wasn't art, in a word.

The spirit moving him, he would much have liked to follow Jack Tar's good example and leave the likeness there for a very few minutes to speak for itself on the plea he... so that the other could drink in the beauty for himself, her stage presence being, frankly, a treat in itself which the camera could not at all do justice to. But it was scarcely professional etiquette so, though it was a warm pleasant sort of a night now yet wonderfully cool for the season considering, for sunshine after storm... And he did feel a kind of need there and then to follow suit like a kind of inward voice and satisfy a possible need by moving a motion. Nevertheless, he sat tight, just viewing the slightly soiled photo creased by opulent curves, none the worse for wear, however, and looked away thoughtfully with the intention of not further increasing the other's possible embarrassment while gauging her symmetry of heaving embonpoint. In fact, the slight soiling was only an added charm, like the case of linen slightly soiled, good as new, much better, in fact, with the starch out. Suppose she was gone when he?... I looked for the lamp which she told me came into his mind but merely as a passing fancy of his because he then recollected the morning littered bed etcetera and the book about Ruby with met him pike hoses (sic) in it which must have fell down sufficiently appropriately beside the domestic chamberpot with apologies to Lindley Murray.

The vicinity of the young man he certainly relished, educated, distingué, and impulsive into the bargain, far and away the pick of the bunch, though you wouldn't think he had it in him... yet you would. Besides he said the picture was handsome which, say what you like, it was, though at the moment she was distinctly stouter. And why not? An awful lot of make-believe went on about that sort of thing involving a lifelong slur with the usual splash page of letterpress about the same old matrimonial tangle alleging misconduct with professional golfer or the newest stage favourite instead of being honest and aboveboard about the whole business. How they were fated to meet and an attachment sprang up between the two so that their names were coupled in the public eye was told in court with letters containing the habitual mushy and compromising expressions, leaving no loophole, to show that they openly cohabited two or three times a week at some wellknown seaside hotel and relations, when the thing ran its normal course, became in due course intimate. Then the decree nisi and the King's Proctor to show cause why and, he failing to quash it, nisi was made absolute. But as for that, the two misdemeanants, wrapped up as they largely were in one another, could safely afford to ignore it as they very largely did till the matter was put in the hands of a solicitor, who filed a petition for the party wronged in due course. He, Bloom, enjoyed the distinction of being close to Erin's uncrowned king in the flesh when the thing occurred in the historic fracas when the fallen leader's - who notoriously stuck to his guns to the last drop even when clothed in the mantle of adultery - (leader's) trusty henchmen to the number of ten or a dozen or possibly even more than that penetrated into the printing works of the Insuppressible or no it was United Ireland (a by no means, by the by, appropriate appellative) and broke up the typecases with hammers or something like that all on account of some scurrilous effusions from the facile pens of the O'Brienite scribes at the usual mudslinging occupation, reflecting on the erstwhile tribune's private morals. Though palpably a radically altered man, he was still a commanding figure, though carelessly garbed as usual, with that look of settled purpose which went a long way with the shillyshallyers till they discovered to their vast discomfiture that their idol had feet of clay, after placing him upon a pedestal, which she, however, was the first to perceive. As those were particularly hot times in the general hullaballoo Bloom sustained a minor injury from a nasty prod of some chap's elbow in the crowd that of course congregated lodging some place about the pit of the stomach, fortunately not of a grave character. His hat (Parnell's) was inadvertently knocked off and, as a matter of strict history, Bloom was the man who picked it up in the crush after witnessing the occurrence meaning to return it to him (and return it to him he did with the utmost celerity) who, panting and hatless and whose thoughts were miles away from his hat at the time, being a gentleman born with a stake in the country, he, as a matter of fact, having gone into it more for the kudos of the thing than anything else, what's bred in the bone, instilled into him in infancy at his mother's knee in the shape of knowing what good form was came out at once because he turned round to the donor and thanked him with perfect aplomb, saying: Thank you, sir though in a very different tone of voice from the ornament of the legal profession whose headgear Bloom also set to rights earlier in the course of the day, history repeating itself with a difference; after the burial of a mutual friend when they had left him alone in his glory after the grim task of having committed his remains to the grave.

On the other hand what incensed him more inwardly was the blatant jokes of the cabmen and so on, who passed it all off as a jest, laughing immoderately, pretending to understand everything, the why and the wherefore, and in reality not knowing their own minds, it being a case for the two parties themselves unless it ensued that the legitimate husband happened to be a party to it owing to some anonymous letter from the usual boy Jones, who happened to come across them at the crucial moment in a loving position locked in one another's arms drawing attention to their illicit proceedings and leading up to a domestic rumpus and the erring fair one begging forgiveness of her lord and master upon her knees and promising to sever the connection and not receive his visits any more if only the aggrieved husband would overlook the matter and let bygones be bygones, with tears in her eyes, though possibly with her tongue in her fair cheek at the same time, as quite possibly there were several others. He personally, being of a sceptical bias, believed, and didn't make the smallest bones about saying so either, that man, or men in the plural, were always hanging around on the waiting list about a lady, even supposing she was the best wife in the world and they got on fairly well together for the sake of argument, when, neglecting her duties, she chose to be tired of wedded life, and was on for a little flutter in polite debauchery to press their attentions on her with improper intent, the upshot being that her affections centred on another, the cause of many liaisons between still attractive married women getting on for fair and forty and younger men, no doubt as several famous cases of feminine infatuation proved up to the hilt.

It was a thousand pities a young fellow blessed with an allowance of brains, as his neighbour obviously was, should waste his valuable time with profligate women, who might present him with a nice dose to last him his lifetime. In the nature of single blessedness he would one day take unto himself a wife when Miss Right came on the scene but in the interim ladies' society was a conditio sine qua non though he had the gravest possible doubts, not that he wanted in the smallest to pump Stephen about Miss Ferguson (who was very possibly the particular lodestar who brought him down to Irishtown so early in the morning), as to whether he would find much satisfaction basking in the boy and girl courtship idea and the company of smirking misses without a penny to their names bi- or tri-weekly with the orthodox preliminary canter of complimentpaying and walking out leading up to fond lovers' ways and flowers and chocs. To think of him house and homeless, rooked by some landlady worse than any stepmother, was really too bad at his age. The queer suddenly things he popped out with attracted the elder man who was several years the other's senior or like his father. But something substantial he certainly ought to eat, were it only an eggflip made on unadulterated maternal nutriment or, failing that, the homely Humpty Dumpty boiled.

-- At what o'clock did you dine? he questioned of the slim form and tired though unwrinkled face.

-- Some time yesterday, Stephen said.

-- Yesterday, exclaimed Bloom till he remembered it was already tomorrow, Friday. Ah, you mean it's after twelve!

-- The day before yesterday, Stephen said, improving on himself.

Literally astounded at this piece of intelligence, Bloom reflected. Though they didn't see eye to eye in everything, a certain analogy there somehow was, as if both their minds were travelling, so to speak, in the one train of thought. At his age when dabbling in politics roughly some score of years previously when he had been a quasi aspirant to parliamentary honours in the Buckshot Foster days he too recollected in retrospect (which was a source of keen satisfaction in itself) he had a sneaking regard for those same ultra ideas. For instance, when the evicted tenants' question, then at its first inception, bulked largely in people's minds though, it goes without saying, not contributing a copper or pinning his faith absolutely to its dictums, some of which wouldn't exactly hold water, he at the outset in principle, at all events, was in thorough sympathy with peasant possession, as voicing the trend of modern Opinion, a partiality, however, which, realising his mistake, he was subsequently partially cured of, and even was twitted with going a step further than Michael Davitt in the striking views he at one time inculcated as a backtothelander, which was one reason he strongly resented the innuendo put upon him in so barefaced a fashion at the gathering of the clans in Barney Kiernan's so that he, though often considerably misunderstood and the least pugnacious of mortals, be it repeated, departed from his customary habit to give him (metaphorically) one in the gizzard though so far as politics themselves were concerned, he was only too conscious of the casualties invariably resulting from propaganda and displays of mutual animosity and the misery and suffering it entailed as a foregone conclusion on fine young fellows, chiefly, destruction of the fittest, in a word.

Anyhow, upon weighing the pros and cons, getting on for one as it was, it was high time to be retiring for the night. The crux was it was a bit risky to bring him home as eventualities might possibly ensue (somebody having a temper of her own sometimes) and spoil the hash altogether as on the night he misguidedly brought home a dog (breed unknown) with a lame paw, not that the cases were either identical or the reverse, though he had hurt his hand too, to Ontario Terrace, as he very distinctly remembered, having been there, so to speak. On the other hand it was altogether far and away too late for the Sandymount or Sandycove suggestion so that he was in some perplexity as to which of the two alternatives... Everything pointed to the fact that it behoved him to avail himself to the full of the opportunity, all things considered. His initial impression was that he was a bit standoffish or not over effusive but it grew on him someway. For one thing he mightn't what you call jump at the idea, if approached, and what mostly worried him was he didn't know how to lead up to it or word it exactly, supposing he did entertain the proposal, as it would afford him very great personal pleasure if he would allow him to help to put coin in his way or some wardrobe, if found suitable. At all events he wound up by concluding, eschewing for the nonce hidebound precedent, a cup of Epps's cocoa and a shakedown for the night plus the use of a rug or two and overcoat doubled into a pillow. At least he would be in safe hands and as warm as a toast on a trivet. He failed to perceive any very vast amount of harm in that always with the proviso no rumpus of any sort was kicked up. A move had to be made because that merry old soul, the grasswidower in question, who appeared to be glued to the spot, didn't appear in any particular hurry to wend his way home to his dearly beloved Queenstown and it was highly likely some sponger's bawdyhouse of retired beauties off Sheriff street lower would be the best clue to that equivocal character's whereabouts for a few days to come, alternately racking their feelings (the mermaids') with sixchamber revolver anecdotes verging on the tropical calculated to freeze the marrow of anybody's bones and mauling their largesized charms betweenwhiles with rough and tumble gusto to the accompaniment of large potations of potheen and the usual blarney about himself for as to who he in reality was let XX equal my right name and address, as Mr Algebra remarks passim. At the same time he inwardly chuckled over his repartee to the blood and ouns champion about his God being a jew. People could put up with being bitten by a wolf but what properly riled them was a bite from a sheep. The most vulnerable point too of tender Achilles, your God was a jew, because mostly they appeared to imagine he came from Carrick-on-Shannon or somewhere about in the county Sligo.

-- I propose, our hero eventually suggested, after mature reflection while prudently pocketing her photo, as it's rather stuffy here, you just come with me and talk things over. My diggings are quite close in the vicinity. You can't drink that stuff. Wait, I'll just pay this lot.

The best plan clearly being to clear out, the remainder being plain sailing, he beckoned, while prudently pocketing the photo, to the keeper of the shanty, who didn't seem to...

-- Yes, that's the best, he assured Stephen, to whom for the matter of that Brazen Head or him or anywhere else was all more or less.

All kinds of Utopian plans were flashing through his (Bloom's) busy brain. Education (the genuine article), literature, journalism, prize titbits, up to date billing, hydros and concert tours in English watering resorts packed with theatres, turning money away, duets in Italian with the accent perfectly true to nature and a quantity of other things, no necessity of course to tell the world and his wife from the housetops about it and a slice of luck. An opening was all was wanted. Because he more than suspected he had his father's voice to bank his hopes on which it was quite on the cards he had so it would be just as well, by the way no harm, to trail the conversation in the direction of that particular red herring just to.

The cabby read out of the paper he had got hold of that the former viceroy, earl Cadogan, had presided at the cabdrivers' association dinner in London somewhere. Silence with a yawn or two accompanied this thrilling announcement. Then the old specimen in the corner who appeared to have some spark of vitality left read out that Sir Anthony MacDonnell had left Euston for the chief secretary's lodge or words to that effect. To which absorbing piece of intelligence echo answered why. - Give us a squint at that literature, grandfather, the ancient mariner put in, manifesting some natural impatience.

-- And welcome, answered the elderly party thus addressed.

The sailor lugged out from a case he had a pair of greenish goggles which he very slowly hooked over his nose and both ears.

-- Are you bad in the eyes? the sympathetic personage like the town clerk queried.

-- Why, answered the seafarer with the tartan beard, who seemingly was a bit of a literary cove in his own small way, staring out of sea-green portholes as you might well describe them as, I uses goggles reading. Sand in the Red Sea done that. One time I could read a book in the dark, manner of speaking. The Arabian Nights' Entertainment was my favourite and Red as a Rose is She.

Thereupon he pawed the journal open and pored upon Lord only knows what, found drowned or the exploits of King Willow, Iremonger having made a hundred and something second wicket not out for Notts, during which time (completely regardless of Ire) the keeper was intensely occupied loosening an apparently new or secondhand boot which manifestly pinched him, as he muttered against whoever it was sold it, all of them who were sufficiently awake enough to be picked out by their facial expressions, that is to say, either simply looking on glumly or passing a trivial remark.

To cut a long story short Bloom, grasping the situation, was the first to rise to his feet so as not to outstay their welcome having first and foremost, being as good as his word that he would foot the bill for the occasion, taken the wise precaution to unobtrusively motion to mine host as a parting shot a scarcely perceptible sign when the others were not looking to the effect that the amount due was forthcoming, making a grand total of fourpence (the amount he deposited unobtrusively in four coppers, literally the last of the Mohicans) he having previously spotted on the printed pricelist for all who ran to read opposite to him in unmistakable figures, coffee 2d., confectionery do., and honestly well worth twice the money once in a way, as Wetherup used to remark. - Come, he counselled, to close the séance.

Seeing that the ruse worked and the coast was clear, they left the shelter or shanty together and the élite society of oil skin and company whom nothing short Of an earthquake would move out of their dolce far niente. Stephen, who confessed to still feeling poorly and fagged out, paused at the, for a moment... the door to...

-- One thing I never understood, he said, to be original on the spur of the moment, why they put tables upside down at night, I mean chairs upside down on the tables In cafes.

To which impromptu the never failing Bloom replied without a moment's hesitation, saying straight off:

-- To sweep the floor in the morning.

So saying he skipped around nimbly, considering frankly, at the same time apologetic, to get on his companion's right, a habit of his, by the by, the right side being, in classical idiom, his tender Achilles. The night air was certainly now a treat to breathe though Stephen was a bit weak on his pins.

-- It will (the air) do you good, Bloom said, meaning also the walk, in a moment. The only thing is to walk then you'll feel a different man. It's not far. Lean on me.

Accordingly he passed his left arm in Stephen's right and led him on accordingly.

-- Yes, Stephen said uncertainly, because he thought he felt a strange kind of flesh of a different man approach him, sinewless and wobbly and all that.

Anyhow, they passed the sentrybox with stones, brazier, etc. where the municipal supernumerary, ex-Gumley, was still to all intents and purposes wrapped in the arms of Murphy, as the adage has it, dreaming of fresh fields and pastures new. And apropos of coffin of stones, the analogy was not at all bad, as it was in fact a stoning to death on the part of seventytwo out of eighty odd constituencies that ratted at the time of the split and chiefly the belauded peasant class, probably the selfsame evicted tenants he had put in their holdings.

So they passed on to chatting about music, a form of art for which Bloom, as a pure amateur, possessed the greatest love, as they made tracks arm-in-arm across Beresford place. Wagnerian music, though confessedly grand in its way, was a bit too heavy for Bloom and hard to follow at the first go-off but the music of Mercadante's Huguenots, Meyerbeer's Seven Last Words on the Cross, and Mozart's Twelfth Mass, he simply revelled in, the Gloria in that being to his mind the acme of first class music as such, literally knocking everything else into a cocked hat. He infinitely preferred the sacred music of the catholic church to anything the opposite shop could offer in that line such as those Moody and Sankey hymns or Bid me to live and I will live thy protestant to be. He also yielded to none in his admiration of Rossini's Stabat Mater, a work simply abounding in immortal numbers, in which his wife, Madam Marion Tweedy, made a hit, a veritable sensation, he might safely say greatly adding to her other laurels and putting the others totally in the shade in the jesuit fathers' church in Upper Gardiner street, the sacred edifice being thronged to the doors to hear her with virtuosos, or virtuosi rather. There was the unanimous opinion that there was none to come up to her and, suffice it to say in a place of worship for music of a sacred character, there was a generally voiced desire for an encore. On the whole, though favouring preferably light opera of the Don Giovanni description, and Martha, a gem in its line, he had a penchant, though with only a surface knowledge, for the severe classical school such as Mendelssohn. And talking of that, taking it for granted he knew all about the old favourites, he mentioned par excellence Lionel's air in Martha, M'appari, which, curiously enough, he heard, or overheard, to be more accurate, on yesterday, a privilege he keenly appreciated, from the lips of Stephen's respected father, sung to perfection, a study of the number, in fact, which made all the others take a back seat. Stephen, in reply to a politely put query, said he didn't but launched out into praises of Shakespeare's songs, at least of in or about that period, the lutenist Dowland who lived in Fetter Lane near Gerard the herbalist, who anno ludendo hausi, Doulandus, an instrument he was contemplating purchasing from Mr Arnold Dolmetsch, whom Bloom did not quite recall, though the name certainly sounded familiar, for sixtyfive guineas and Farnaby and son with their dux and comes conceits and Byrd (William), who played the virginals, he said, in the Queen's Chapel or anywhere else he found them and one Tomkins who made toys or airs and John Bull.

On the roadway which they were approaching whilst still speaking beyond the swing chain, a horse, dragging a sweeper, paced on the paven ground, brushing a long swathe of mire up so that with the noise Bloom was not perfectly certain whether he had caught a right the allusion to sixtyfive guineas and John Bull. He inquired if it was John Bull the political celebrity of that ilk, as it struck him, the two identical names, as a striking coincidence.

By the chains, the horse slowly swerved to turn, which perceiving Bloom, who was keeping a sharp lookout as usual plucked the other's sleeve gently, jocosely remarking:

-- Our lives are in peril tonight. Beware of the steamroller.

They thereupon stopped. Bloom looked at the head of a horse not worth anything like sixtyfive guineas, suddenly in evidence in the dark quite near, so that it seemed new, a different grouping of bones and even flesh, because palpably it was a fourwalker, a hipshaker, a blackbuttocker, a taildangler, a headhanger, putting his hind foot foremost the while the lord of his creation sat on the perch, busy with his thoughts. But such a good poor brute, he was sorry he hadn't a lump of sugar but, as he wisely reflected, you could scarcely be prepared for every emergency that might crop up. He was just a big foolish nervous noodly kind of a horse, without a second care in the world. But even a dog, he reflected, take that mongrel in Barney Kiernan's, of the same size, would be a holy horror to face. But it was no animal's fault in particular if he was built that way like the camel, ship of the desert, distilling grapes into potheen in his hump. Nine tenths of them all could be caged or trained, nothing beyond the art of man barring the bees; whale with a harpoon hairpin, alligator, tickle the small of his back and he sees the joke; chalk a circle for a rooster; tiger, my eagle eye. These timely reflections anent the brutes of the field occupied his mind, somewhat distracted from Stephen's words, while the ship of the street was manoeuvring and Stephen went on about the highly interesting old...

-- What's this I was saying? Ah, yes! My wife, he intimated, plunging in medias res, would have the greatest of pleasure in making your acquaintance as she is passionately attached to music of any kind.

He looked sideways in a friendly fashion at the sideface of Stephen, image of his mother, which was not quite the same as the usual blackguard type they unquestionably had an indubitable hankering after as he was perhaps not that way built.

Still, supposing he had his father's gift, as he more than suspected, it opened up new vistas in his mind, such as Lady Fingall's Irish industries concert on the preceding Monday, and aristocracy in general.

Exquisite variations he was now describing on an air Youth here has End by Jans Pieter Sweelinck, a Dutchman of Amsterdam where the frows come from. Even more he liked an old German song of Johannes Jeep about the clear sea and the voices of sirens, sweet murderers of men, which boggled Bloom a bit:

Von der Sirenen Listigkeit
Tun die Poeten dichten.
These opening bars he sang and translated extempore. Bloom, nodding, said he perfectly understood and begged him to go on by all means, which he did.
A phenomenally beautiful tenor voice like that, the rarest of boons, which Bloom appreciated at the very first note he got out, could easily, if properly handled by some recognised authority on voice production such as Barraclough and being able to read music into the bargain, command its own price where baritones were ten a penny and procure for its fortunate possessor in the near future an entrée into fashionable houses in the best residential quarters, of financial magnates in a large way of business and titled people where, with his university degree of B. A. (a huge ad in its way) and gentlemanly bearing to all the more influence the good impression he would infallibly score a distinct success, being blessed with brains which also could be utilised for the purpose and other requisites, if his clothes were properly attended to, so as to the better worm his way into their good graces as he, a youthful tyro in society's sartorial niceties, hardly understood how a little thing like that could militate against you. It was in fact only a matter of months and he could easily foresee him participating in their musical and artistic conversaziones during the festivities of the Christmas season, for choice, causing a slight flutter in the dovecotes of the fair sex and being made a lot of by ladies out for sensation, cases of which, as he happened to know, were on record, in fact, without giving the show away, he himself once upon a time, if he cared to, could easily have... Added to which of course, would be the pecuniary emolument by no means to be sneezed at, going hand in hand with his tuition fees. Not, he parenthesised, that for the sake of filthy lucre he need necessarily embrace the lyric platform as a walk in life for any lengthy space of time but a step in the required direction it was, beyond yea or nay, and both monetarily and mentally it contained no reflection on his dignity in the smallest and it often turned in uncommonly handy to be handed a cheque at a muchneeded moment when every little helped. Besides, though taste latterly had deteriorated to a degree, original music like that, different from the conventional rut, would rapidly have a great vogue, as it would be a decided novelty for Dublin's musical world after the usual hackneyed run of catchy tenor solos foisted on a confiding public by Ivan St Austell and Hilton St Just and their genus omne. Yes, beyond a shadow of a doubt, he could, with all the cards in his hand and he had a capital opening to make a name for himself and win a high place in the city's esteem where he could command a stiff figure and, booking ahead, give a grand concert for the patrons of the King street house, given a backerup, if one were forthcoming to kick him upstairs, so to speak - a big if, however - with some impetus of the goahead sort to obviate the inevitable procrastination which often tripped up a too much feted prince of good fellows and it need not detract from the other by one iota as, being his own master, he would have heaps of time to practise literature in his spare moments when desirous of so doing without its clashing with his vocal career or containing anything derogatory whatsoever as it was a matter for himself alone. In fact, he had the ball at his feet and that was the very reason why the other, possessed of a remarkably sharp nose for smelling a rat of any sort, hung on to him at all.

The horse was just then... and later on, at a propitious opportunity he purposed (Bloom did), without anyway prying Into his private affairs on the fools step in where angels principle advising him to sever his connection with a certain budding practitioner, who, he noticed, was prone to disparage, and even, to a slight extent, with some hilarious pretext, when not present, deprecate him, or whatever you like to call it, which, in Bloom's humble opinion, threw a nasty sidelight on that side of a person's character - no pun intended.

The horse, having reached the end of his tether, so to speak, halted, and, rearing high a proud feathering tail, added his quota by letting fall on the floor, which the brush would soon brush up and polish, three smoking globes of turds. Slowly, three times, one after another, from a full crupper, he mired. And humanely his driver waited till he (or she) had ended, patient in his scythed car.

Side by side Bloom, profiting by the contretemps, with Stephen passed through the gap of the chains, divided by the upright, and, stepping over a strand of mire, went across towards Gardiner street lower, Stephen singing more boldly, but not loudly, the end of the ballad:

Und alle Schiffe brücken
The driver never said a word, good, bad or indifferent. He merely watched the two figures, as he sat on his lowbacked car, both black - one full, one lean - walk towards the railway bridge, to be married by Father Maher. As they walked, they at times stopped and walked again, continuing their tête-à-tête (which of course he was utterly out of), about sirens, enemies of man's reason, mingled with a number of other topics of the same category, usurpers, historical cases of the kind while the man in the sweeper car or you might as well call it in the sleeper car who in any case couldn't possibly hear because they were too far simply sat in his seat near the end of lower Gardiner street and looked after their lowbacked car.

布卢姆先生首先把沾在斯蒂芬衣服上的刨花掸掉大半，把帽子木手杖递给他，正像个好撒马利亚人[1] 那样给以鼓舞，而这也正是斯蒂芬所迫切需要的。他（斯蒂芬）的精神虽还说不上是错乱，但不大稳定。当他表示想喝点儿什么的时候，布卢姆先生考虑到在这个时刻，连洗手用的瓦尔特里[2] 水泵都找不到，饮用的水就更说不上了。他猛然想出个应急办法，提出不如到离巴特桥左不过一箭之遥的那家通称“马车夫棚”的店铺去，兴许还能喝上杯牛奶苏打水或矿泉水呢。难就难在怎样走到那里。眼下他不知该怎么办才好，然而这又是个义不容辞、刻不容缓的问题。正当他在千方百计琢磨着办法的时候，斯蒂芬连连打着哈欠。他看得出，斯蒂芬的脸色有些苍白。他们两人（尤其是斯蒂芬）都已精疲力竭，在这种情况下，要是能找到什么代步的话，就再好不过了。他认为总会找得到的。他那块略沾肥皂味的手绢尽到掸刨花的责任后，就掉在地上了，他忘记把它拾起来，却用手去揩拭。准备就绪后，他们二人就一道沿着比弗街（或说得更确切些，比弗巷）一直走到蒙哥马利街角那座钉马掌的棚子和散发着强烈臭气的出租马车行那儿，向左转，又在丹·伯金那家店跟前拐弯，走进阿缅斯街。他原来蛮有把握，可不料哪里也看不到等待顾客的车夫的踪影。仅只在北星饭店门外停着一辆四轮马车，那也许是在里面狂欢者雇的。尽管向来不会吹哨，布卢姆先生还是高举双臂，在头上弯成拱形，使劲学着吹上两声口哨，朝那辆马车打招呼，可它丝毫没有移动的迹象。

处境真是狼狈啊。情况摆得很清楚，唯一的办法显然只好若无其事地步行。他们就这么做了。不久，他们来到牟累特食品店和信号所跟前，斜插过去，只得朝着阿缅斯街电车终点站走去。布卢姆先生裤子后面的一个钮扣，套用一句古谚，像所有的钮扣那样终于不中用啦。布卢姆先生尽管处在如此尴尬的境地，由于他透彻地理解事态的本质，就英勇地容忍了这种不便。他们二人都没有什么急事在身，适才雨神一阵造访，如今业已放晴，天朗气清。他们溜溜达达地从那既无乘客又无车夫、空荡荡地等候着的马车旁走过去。这时，恰好一辆都柏林联合电车公司的撒沙车开了回来。于是，年长者[3] 就和同伴谈起有关自己刚才真正奇迹般地捡了一条命的事。他们经过大北部火车站的正面入口，这是驶往贝尔法斯特的起点站。深更半夜的，一切交通自然均都已断绝。他们走过停尸所的后门（即便不令人有些毛骨悚然，这反正也不是具有吸引力的所在，尤其在夜晚），终于来到码头酒店，接着就进了以C区警察局而驰名的货栈街。在从这里走到贝雷斯福德街那目前已熄了灯的高耸的货栈的路上，易卜生兜上斯蒂芬的心头。这所坐落在塔博特街右手第一个拐角处的石匠贝尔德的作坊不知怎地引起了他的联想[4] 。这时，充当斯蒂芬的忠实的阿卡帖斯[ 5] 的另一位，怀着由衷的欣喜闻着近在咫尺的詹姆斯·鲁尔克都市面包房[ 6] 的气味，那是我们的日用粮[7] 的芬香，确实可口，在公众的日用商品中，它是头等重要、最不可缺少的。面包，生命的必需品，挣你的面包[ 8] ，哦，告诉我花式面包在何方[9]？ 据说就在这家鲁尔克面包房里。

路上[10]，不但丝毫不曾失去理智、确实比平素还更加无比清醒的布卢姆先生，对他那位沉默寡言的--说得坦率些，酒尚未完全醒的同伴，就[11]夜街之危险告诫了一番。他说，与妓女或服饰漂亮、打扮成绅士的扒手偶尔打一次交道犹可，一旦习以为常，尤其要是嗜酒成癖，成了酒鬼，对斯蒂芬这个年龄的小伙子来说乃是一种致命的陷阱。除非你会点防身的柔术，不然的话，一不留神，已经被仰面朝天摔倒下去的那个家伙也会卑鄙地踢上你一脚。亏得斯蒂芬幸运地失去知觉的当儿，科尼·凯莱赫来到了。这真是上天保佑。倘若不是他在最后这节骨眼儿上出现，到头来[12]斯蒂芬就会成为被抬往救护所的候补者，要么就成为蹲监狱的候补者；第二天落个在法庭上去见托拜厄斯[13]的下场。不，他是个律师，或许得去见老沃尔[14]，要么就是马奥尼[15]。这档子事传出去之后，你就非身败名裂不可。布卢姆先生为什么这么说呢，因为说实在的，他由衷地厌恶的那些警察，为了效忠皇上，简直就公然不择手段。布卢姆先生回想起克兰布拉西尔甲区的一两个案子，那帮家伙硬是捏造事实，颠倒黑白。需要他们的时候，他们从来也不在现场；可是城里像彭布罗克街那样太平无事的区域，到处都是法律的维护者。显然他们是被雇来保护上流阶级的。他还谈到用随时能射击的步枪和手枪把士兵武装起来，说一旦市民们不知怎样一来闹起纠纷，这不啻是煽动士兵向市民寻衅。他明智地指出，你这是在荒废光阴，糟践身子，损害人格。这还不算，又挥霍成性，听任花柳界[16]那帮放荡女人大笔大笔地把你的英镑、先令和便士骗到手，然后逃之夭夭。说起来，最危险的一点是你跟什么样的伙伴一道喝得醉醺醺的。就拿这个非常令人困扰的酒精饮料来说吧，他本人总是按时津津有味地喝上一盅精选的陈葡萄酒，既滋补，又能造血，而且还是轻泻剂（尤其对优质勃艮第的灵效，他坚信不疑）。然而他从来也不超过自己规定的酒量，否则确实会惹出无穷的麻烦，就只好干脆听任旁人的善心来摆布了。他用严厉谴责的口吻说，除了一个人而外，斯蒂芬那些酒友[17]统统抛弃了他，无论如何，这是医科同学对他最大的背叛。

“而那家伙是个犹大[18] ，”一直保持沉默的斯蒂芬说。

他们扯着诸如此类的话题，抄近路打海关后面走过，并从环行线的陆桥下穿行。这时，岗亭（或类似的所在）前燃着一盆焦炭，把正拖着颇为沉重的脚步走着的他们吸引住了。斯蒂芬没有什么特别的原因就自发地站住了，并瞧着那堆光秃秃的鹅卵石。借着火盆发出的微光，他隐约辩认出幽暗的岗亭里市政府守夜人那更黑的身影。他开始记起以前曾经发生过这样的事，或者听说发生过。他绞尽脑汁才忆起这位守夜人就是他父亲旧日的朋友冈穆利[19]。为了避免打个照面，他紧靠铁道陆桥的柱子那边走。

“有人跟你打招呼哪，”布卢姆先生说。

在陆桥的拱顶下悄悄地踱来踱去的一个中等身材的人影又招呼了一一声。

“晚安！”[20 ]

斯蒂芬当然吃了一惊，昏头昏脑地停下脚步，还了礼。布卢姆先生生来对人体贴周到！，又一向认为不应去多管旁人的闲事，所以移步走开了。他虽然丝毫也没感到害怕，却稍微有点儿放心不下，就警惕地停留在那里。尽管这在都柏林区是罕见的，然而还会有缺衣少食的亡命之徒埋伏在荒郊僻野处，把手枪顶在安分守已的路人头部加以威胁。他们可能像泰晤士河堤岸上那些饥饿的穷流浪汉似的到处荡来荡去，对你进行突然袭击，逼你交出钱来，否则就要你的命。把你抢个精光之后，还往你嘴里塞上东西，脖子用绳索勒起，把你丢在那儿，以便警告旁人，他们就逃之夭夭。

当那个打招呼的男子的身影挨近时，斯蒂芬本人虽宿酒未醒，却闻出科利[21]的呼吸发散着馊臭的玉米威士忌酒气味。有些人称此人作约翰·科利勋爵，其家谱如下：他是新近去世的G地区科利警官的长子。那位警官娶了洛什的农场主的闺女，名叫凯瑟琳。布罗菲。他的祖父--新罗斯[22]的帕特里克·迈克尔，科利，娶的是当地一位客栈老板的女儿，也叫凯瑟琳，娘家姓塔尔伯特。尽管并未得到证实，据传她出身于塔尔伯特·德·马拉海德[23]勋爵家。毫无疑问，勋爵的府第确实是座精美的宅邸，很有看头，她的妈妈或伯母或什么亲戚曾有幸在府第的洗衣房里当过差。因此，现在和斯蒂芬打招呼的这位年纪还较轻却放荡不羁的人，就被某些好事之徒戏称作约翰·科利勋爵。

他把斯蒂芬拉到一旁，照例可怜巴巴地诉起苦来。他囊空如洗，无法投宿。朋友们统统遗弃了他。这还不算，他又和利内翰吵了一架。他对斯蒂芬把利内翰痛骂了一通：什么卑鄙该死的蠢货啦，以及其他一连串莫须有的恶言恶语。他失业了，并且央求斯蒂芬告诉他，在这茫茫大地上，到哪儿才能好歹混个事儿做做。不，在那家洗衣房干活的那位母亲的闺女，跟女继承人是干姐妹；要么就是她们两人的母亲跟这一支有些什么关系。这是同一个时期发生的两件事，除非整个情节从头到尾完全出于捏造。反正他简直疲倦极了。

“我并不想向你告帮，”他继续说下去，“但我庄严地发誓，天主晓得我身上一文不名啦。”

“明后天你就能找到饭碗啦，”斯蒂芬告诉他，“去多基的一家男校当上一名代课教师。加勒特·迪希[24]先生。试试看。你可以提我的名字。”

“啊，天哪，”科利回答说，“我可绝不是当教师的材料，老兄。我从来也不是像你们这样的秀才，”他半笑着补充一句，“我在基督教兄弟会[25]的初级班里留过两次级呢。”

“我自己也没地方睡，”斯蒂芬告诉他。

科利立即猜想，斯蒂芬是因为从大街上把一名烂婊子带进了公寓，才被轰出来的。马尔巴勒街上倒是有一家马洛尼太太经营的尔客栈，可那不过是个六便士一宿的破地方，挤满了不三不四的人。然而麦科纳奇告诉他，在酒店街的黄铜头（听者依稀联想到了修士培根[26]），只消花上一先令就能舒舒服服地住上一夜。他正饿着肚子，却只字未提。

尽管这类事情每隔一夜（或者几乎是如此）就能遇上一次，斯蒂芬还是为之怦然心动。他晓得科利方才那套新近胡乱编造的话照例是不大可信的，然而，正如拉丁诗人所说：“我对不幸遭遇并非一无所知，故深知拯救处于厄运中者。”[27] 况且刚巧赶上月中的十六日，他领了薪水，不过这笔款项实际上已花掉不少。最令人啼笑皆非的是，科利一门心思认定斯蒂芬生活富裕，成天无所事事，到处施舍。其实呢。不管怎样，他把手伸进兜儿里，倒不是想在那儿找到什么吃的，而是打算借给科利一两先令，这样他就可以努把力，挣钱好歹糊上口。但是结果扑了个空！使他懊恼的是，他发觉自己的钱不翼而飞了，只找到几块饼干渣子。这时，他搜索枯肠去回忆究竟是把钱丢失了呢，还是遗忘在哪儿了--因为这种可能也是有的。这一意外事件非但不容乐观，老实说，还真令人懊丧。他试图追想模模糊糊留在记忆中的饼干的事，但已精疲力竭，无从透彻地弄明白。确切他说，到底是谁给他的呢，又是在哪儿给的呢，要么，难道是他买的吗、不管怎样，在另一个兜儿里他倒是找到了--在一片黑暗中，他以为那是几枚便士，却搞错了。

“是几枚半克朗硬币哩，老兄，”科利纠正他说。

果不其然。斯蒂芬借了一枚给他。

“谢谢喽，”科利回答说，“你是一位君子。迟早我会还给你的。跟你在一道的那个人是谁呀，我在卡姆登街的血马酒吧瞧见过他几回，跟贴广告的博伊兰在一起。你替我说个情，让他们雇用我好不好，我想当个广告人[28]，但是办公室里的那个女孩子[29]告诉我，今后三个星期内部已经排满了。老兄。天哪，你得预先登记，老兄，简直让人觉得是为了观赏卡尔·罗莎[30]哩。哪怕能混上个清扫人行横道的活儿做做，我都满不在乎。”

这样，两先令六便士既然到了手，他也就没那么沮丧了。于是他告诉斯蒂芬，在富拉姆船具店当帐房的那个叫作巴格斯·科米斯基的--他说是斯蒂芬的一个熟人，这家伙和奥马拉以及名叫泰伊的小个儿结巴颏子，是内格尔酒吧单间儿里的常客。反正前天晚上他喝得烂醉，撒酒疯来着。警察要带他走，他又抗拒。结果被抓了去，并罚款十先令。

这当儿，布卢姆先生躲在一旁，在离市政府守夜人的岗亭前面那盆炭火不远的一大堆鹅卵石左近踅来踅去。那位守夜人显然是个忠于职守的人，可此刻，既然整个都柏林都已入睡，看来也正自顾自地悄悄打起盹儿来了。他还不时地朝斯蒂芬那个无论如何也说不上是衣着整洁的谈话对手投以异样的目光，觉得他好像在什么地方见过那位“贵族”，但又说不清究竟是在哪儿见的。至于是什么时候，那就更一点都想不起来了。布卢姆先生是个头脑冷静的人，观察敏锐，轻易不落人后。从破旧的帽子和浑身上下的衣着邋遢，他看穿了那是个患慢性缺钱症的人。他大概就是揩斯蒂芬的油的家伙之一。说到揩油，此人对左邻右舍无不进行欺诈，越陷越深，可谓更深的深处[31]。说起来，街头的这种流浪汉万一站到法庭的被告席上，不管被判以能用或不能用罚款来代替的徒刑，都还算是很难得的[32]呢。反正在夜间，或者不如说是凌晨，像这样路上拦住人，脸皮也真够厚的了。手段确实让人难以容忍。

两个人分了手，斯蒂芬重新和布卢姆先生结伴。布卢姆先生那双饱经世事的眼睛立即看出，那个寄生虫凭着一番花言巧语已令斯蒂芬上了当。他--也就是说，斯蒂芬--笑着这么提到适才那番邂逅：

“那家伙可潦倒啦。他要我拜托你去向贴广告的博伊兰说说情，让博伊兰雇用他去当个广告人。”

布卢姆先生脸上露出对此事漠不关心的神色，茫然地朝着那艘陈旧的挖泥船--它被取了艾布拉那[33] 这一雅号，看来已无法修理了--的方向望了半秒钟光景，于是就闪烁其词他说：

“俗话说得好，每个人都有份内的造化。经你这么一提，我倒想起跟他挺面熟的。这个且不去谈它了，”接着，他又问道，“你究竟给了他多少钱呢？请原谅我这么刨根问底。”

“半克朗，”斯蒂芬回答说，“我认为，要找个地方睡觉的话，他得需要这么多钱。”

“需要！”布卢姆先生听了这话，丝毫也不曾表示惊奇，他突然叫嚷道，“我完全相信你的话，我敢担保他无论如何需要这钱。每个人都根据自己的需要或按照自己的行径而活着。然而，说句家常话，”他笑吟吟地加了一句，“你自己究竟打算睡在哪儿呢？走回到沙湾是根本不可能了。而且即使你这么做了，在韦斯特兰横街车站发生了那么一档子事之后，你也进不去啦[34]。白白地弄得筋疲力尽。我一点儿也不想对你指手划脚，可你为什么要离开你父亲的家呢？”

斯蒂芬的回答是：“去寻求厄运。”

“最近我刚巧见到了令尊大人，”布卢姆先生回了他一句外交辞令，“其实就在今天，或者说得更确切一些，是昨天。他目前住在哪儿？从谈话中我听出，他已经搬了家。”

“我相信他住在都柏林的什么地方，”斯蒂芬漫不经心地回答说，“你为什么问这个？”

“他是个有天分的人，”关于老迪达勒斯先生，布卢姆先生这么说，”不只在一个方面。他比谁都檀长讲故事[35]。他非常以你为骄傲，这也是理所当然的事。你也许可以回家去。”他委婉地说，心里却仍回顾着在韦斯特兰终点站的不愉快场面：另外两个家伙--即穆利根和他那英国旅伴，就好像那座讨厌的车站属于他们似的，显然试图趁乱把斯蒂芬甩掉，并终于让他们的第三个伙伴上了当。

然而，他这建议并没有得到回应。这是由于斯蒂芬正忙于在心目中重温他最后一次与家人团聚的景象。披长发的迪丽坐在炉边等候着巴满煤烟的壶里那稀薄的特立尼达可可豆[36]煮沸，好和代替牛奶的燕麦水一道喝。那是星期五[37]，他们刚吃完一便士两条的鲱鱼，另外让玛吉、布律和凯蒂每人都各吃了一个鸡蛋。那天正赶上四季大斋或是什么日子，根据教会在指定的日子守斋并节制的第三戒律，猫儿也正在轧液机底下吞食着一方块褐色纸上的那簇蛋壳和鱼头鱼骨。

“可不是嘛，”布卢姆先生又重复了一遍，“要是处在你的地位，我个人是不大信任你那位以向导、哲学家和朋友的身分提供笑料的穆利根大夫。他大概从来也没尝过揭不开锅的滋味，然而只要涉及自己的利益，他可精明到家啦。当然喽，你注意到的没有我多，然而，倘若有人告诉我，他出于某种动机，往你的饮料里投放一撮烟草或什么麻醉剂，我一点儿也不感到惊奇。”

根据他过去所听说的一切，他晓得穆利根大夫是个全能的多面手，绝不仅仅局限在医学方面。他在本行中迅速地出人头地。倘使所传属实的话，在不久的将来他就会成为一位走红的医生，诊疗费滚滚而来。除了职业上的这一身分，他还在斯凯利或马拉海德[38]用人工呼吸和所谓急救措旋使一个差点儿溺毙的人起死回生。必须承认这是一种怎样称赞也不过分的无比勇敢的行为。他对穆利根所感到的厌恶倘若不是纯粹出于恶意或嫉妒，骨子里究竟又有什么理由，就实在难以捉摸了。

“归根结蒂，他干脆就是大家所的偷你的思维那号人，”他试着步这么说。

眼下斯蒂芬愁眉苦脸。他出于友谊，就对斯蒂芬投以关怀与好奇交加的谨慎目光。然而未能弄明问题，确实一点儿也没能弄明。从斯蒂芬所吐露的意气消沉的三言两语来看，这个青年到底是被狠狠地捉弄了一番呢，还是截然相反：尽管已经看穿事情的本质，出于只有他自己才最明白的理由，却多少加以默认。这是赤贫必然导致的后果，完全可以理解。尽管斯蒂芬作为教师有着很高的才分，为了使收支相抵，他也吃尽了苦头。

他瞧见有辆冰淇淋车停在男子公共小便池附近。车子周围估计是一群意大利人，相互之间有点龃龉，正在操着他们那生气勃勃的语言，口若悬河，格外激烈地展开着舌战。

“圣母玛利亚的婊子，该给俺钱的是他哩！你敢说个不字吗？他妈的！”

“咱们把帐清一清。再添半金镑……”

“反正他不就是这么说的嘛！”

“恶棍！他祖宗缺了德！”[39]

布卢姆先生和斯蒂芬走进了马车夫棚，那是一座简陋的木结构房屋，以前他轻易下曾进去过。关于那里的老板--一那位一度以“剥山羊皮”[40]闻名的，也就是说，“常胜军”菲茨哈里斯--他事先悄悄地对斯蒂芬讲了几句。当然，老板本人并不承认确有其事，而且很可能完全是无稽之谈。几秒钟后，我们这两位梦游病患者就在一个不显眼的角落里安然坐了下来。先来的那些人正吃吃喝喝，海阔天空地闲扯着，显然都是些杂七杂八、胡乱凑在一起的流浪者、二流子以及其他不三不四的人[41]中标本。这时，就用凝视来迎接他们。在那帮人眼里，他们像是极能引起好奇心的对象。

“现在喝杯咖啡吧，”布卢姆先生试图打破沉寂，就委婉地这样倡议道，“我觉得你应该吃点硬食，比方说，一个面包卷之类的东西。”

因此，他的第一个行动就是以他独特的冷静[42]安详地点了这些吃食。二轮马车的车把式或搬运工人以及其他各类下等人都朝他们匆促地审视了一番，显然大失所望，就把视线移开了。可是，有个头发已花白了的红胡子酒鬼（也许是个水手）继续朝他们目不转晴地盯了好半晌，才把热切的视线移到地板上。

说实在的，布卢姆先生尽管对我要[43]的发音感到困惑，却多少懂得一些正在用来争辩的那种语言。于是，就行使言论自由的权利，针对仍在户外开展着的激烈舌战，对自己的被保护者大声说：

“美丽的语言。我是指用来唱歌的时候。你为什么不用这种语言来写诗呢、美丽的希[44]！音调多么优美响亮。美丽的女忍。我要。”

斯蒂芬百无聊赖，竭力想打个哈欠，回答说：

“让母象去听吧。他们在讨价还价哪。”

“是吗？”布卢姆先生问道。他边暗自想着，本来是绝不需要这么多种语言的，边接下去说：“让人觉得好听，也许仅仅是周围那南国魅力的关系。”

他们正促膝谈心[45]时，马车夫棚老板将一杯热气腾腾、几乎漫出来的美其名为咖啡的高级混合饮料摆在桌上，还有一个小圆面包--毋宁说是远古时代的品种，或者看上去是这样。随后他又回到柜台那儿去了。布卢姆先生打定主意呆会儿要仔细端详他一番，可又不能让他有所察觉……为此，他边以目示意，要斯蒂芬接着说下去，边悄悄地把那杯暂时可能叫作咖啡的玩艺儿慢慢往斯蒂芬跟前推去。

“声音是富于欺骗性的，”斯蒂芬沉吟了半晌，说，“就拿姓名来说吧。西塞罗、帕德摩尔。拿破仑，古德巴迪先生。耶稣，多伊尔先生。[46]莎士比亚这个姓与墨菲同样平凡。姓名有什么意义？[47]”

“是啊，当然喽，”布卢姆先生直率地表示赞同，“可不是嘛。我家的姓也变了。[48]他一边补充说，一边把那所谓的面包卷推过去。

红胡子水手一直用那双饱经世故、时刻警惕着的眼睛打量新来者，对斯蒂芬更是格外留意。这时就直截了当地向斯蒂芬问道：

“你究竟姓啥？”

这一瞬间，布卢姆先生轻轻地碰了一下伙伴的长统靴子，但是斯蒂芬显然不曾理睬来自意想不到的方向的温和的压力，回答说：

“迪达勒斯。”

水手用那双昏昏欲睡、松弛下垂的眼睛迟钝地瞪着斯蒂芬。由于贪杯痛饮，尤其是兑水荷兰杜松子酒喝得过了头，水手的眼泡都肿了。

“你认得西蒙·迪达勒斯吗？”过了半晌，他问道。

“我听说过，”斯蒂芬说。

布卢姆先生发觉其他人明显地也在偷听，一时感到茫然。

“他是个爱尔兰人，”那海员依然瞪着两眼，并且点点头，斩钉截铁他说，“地地道道的爱尔兰人。”

“爱尔兰得过了头，”斯蒂芬搭腔道。

至于布卢姆先生，他对整个这番谈话简直不摸头脑。他正暗自琢磨这一问一答究竟有什么联系时，水手自发地转向呆在棚子里的其他人们，说：

”我曾看见过他从肩膀上把摆在五十英码开外的瓶子上的两个鸡蛋射下来。左撇子，可他百发百中。”

尽管他不时地有些结巴，因而话就略顿一下，手势也拙笨得很，然而他还是尽力解释得一清二楚。

“喏，瓶子就在那边，相距足足五十英码。瓶子上放着鸡蛋。把枪托在肩上，扣扳机。瞄准。”

他把身子侧过来，紧紧阖上右眼，脸稍微歪扭着，然后以令人不愉快的表情瞪着夜晚的黑暗。

“砰！”于是他这么嚷了一声。

听众全都等候着，期待另一声枪响，因为还有一只鸡蛋呢。

“砰！”果然他又嚷了一声。

第二个鸡蛋显然也被击破了[49]，他点点头，眨眨眼，凶狠狠他说：

水牛比尔杀人魔，

百发百中神枪手。

接着是一阵沉寂。布卢姆先生出于礼貌，觉得理应问问他，是不是打算参加像在比斯利[50]举行的那种射击比赛呢？

“对不起，你说啥？”水手说。

“是老早以前的事了吧？”布卢姆先生刻不容缓地追问。

“喏，”水手回答说，这种硬碰硬的语言交锋倒产生了一定程度上的缓和，“约莫十年前吧。他跟着亨格勒皇家马戏团[51]周游世界作巡回演出。俺在斯德哥尔摩见过他表演这一手。”

“奇妙的巧合，”布卢姆先生含蓄地跟斯蒂芬打耳喳说。

“俺姓墨菲，”水手接下去说，“叫作w. B. 墨菲，是卡利加勒[52]人。你晓得它在哪儿吗？”

“王后镇的港口，”斯蒂芬回答说。

“说得对，”水手说，”卡姆登要塞和卡莱尔要塞[53]。俺就是那儿出生的。俺的小娘儿们就在那儿。她等着俺哪。俺晓得哩。为了英国，为了家园和丽人。[54]她不折不扣是俺自个儿的老婆。俺老是在海上转悠，已经有七年没见着她啦。”

布卢姆先生能够毫不费力地设想他出现的场面：逃出海妖[55] 的掌心之后，回到路边的水手家园---座窝棚里。那是酝酿着一场雨的夜晚，一轮月亮昏昏暗暗的[56]。为了老婆，横跨过世界。有不少关于艾丽斯·卡·博尔特[57]这一特定题材的故事。伊诺克·阿登[58]和端普·凡·温格尔。这里可有人记得盲人奥利里[59] 吗？顺便提一下，那是可怜的约翰·凯西[60]所写的深受欢迎却又令人心酸、音调铿锵的作品，结构完美的小小诗篇。做老婆的不论曾经多么忠实于外出者，一旦跟人跑了，就再也不会回来了。窗口的那张脸！想想看，好不容易才回到家，晓得了关于爱妻的可怕真相，感情触了礁，这时该是多么令人心碎啊！你再也没想到我会回来，然而我要住下来，重新打鼓另开张。守活寡的老婆还像从前那样坐在同一座炉边。她相信我已经死掉了，到海底深处坐摇篮[61]去了。傻瓜叔叔，要么就是“王冠与锚”酒馆老板汤姆金斯叔叔，身上只随随便便穿了件衬衫，大嚼着牛腿扒配葱头。没有椅子给爹坐。呸！刮风啦！她抱在腿上的是刚生下的娃娃，一个遗腹儿[62]。高啊高！兰迪，噢！我那乘风破浪的丹迪，哦[63]！这是躲不开的，只能屈从，苦笑着逆来顺受呗。我将永永远远热烈地爱着你，你那心碎了的丈夫，w. B. 墨菲。

那位水手几乎不像是个都柏林居民，他转过身来朝着一名马车夫央求说：

“你身上带没带着富余的烟草?”

被招呼的车夫不巧没带着，可是老板却从挂在钉子上的一件考究的茄克衫里掏出一块骰子大小的板烟，就由顾客们把它传递到他手里。

“谢谢你，”水手说。

他往嘴里塞进一口，边嚼边慢腾腾地稍微结巴着说下去：

“俺们是今天上午十一点钟进港的。就是那艘从布里奇沃特运砖来的三桅纵帆船罗斯韦思号[64]。俺是为了到这儿来才搭上那条船的。今儿下午发了工钱，就被解雇了。你们瞧，这是俺的解雇证书。一级水手w. B. 墨菲。”

为了证实这番话，他从内兜里掏出一份看上去不大干净的、折叠起来的证书，递给在他身旁的那位。

“你的见识一定很广喽，”老板倚着柜台说。

“可不，”水手回答说，“回想起来，自打乘上船以来，俺也环绕地球航行过一些地方。俺到过红海。俺去过中国和北美和南美。俺见过好多冰山，还有小冰山哪。俺到过斯多哥尔摩、黑海和达达尼尔海峡[65]。俺在多尔顿手下干过活，他可是个天下无双的沉船能手啊。俺见过俄国。葛斯波第·波米露依。俄国人就是这么祷告的。”

“不消说，你准见过不少稀奇古怪的东西喽，”一个马车夫插嘴道。

“当然喽，”水手把他那嚼了一半的板烟挪了挪位置，“俺也瞧见过古怪玩艺儿，有趣儿的和可怕的。俺看见过鳄鱼啃锚钩，就像俺嚼这块烟草一样。”

他从嘴里掏出那块嚼软了的板烟，把它塞到牙缝里，狠狠地咬了一口。

“嘎吱！就像这样。俺还在秘鲁瞧见过吃死尸和马肝的食人族。瞧这个。这就是他们。是俺的一个朋友寄给俺的。”

他从好像充作一种仓库的内兜里胡乱摸索一番，掏出一张带图的明信片，从桌面上推过来。上面印有：玻利维亚国贝尼，印第安人的茅棚。[66]

大家都把注意力集中在出示给他们的图片上：一群未开化的妇女腰间缠着条纹布，蹲在柳条编成的原始窝棚前面，在成群的娃娃（足有二十来个）簇拥下，边眨巴眼睛，让娃娃叼着乳房，边皱起眉头，打着盹儿。

“她们成天嚼着古柯叶，”饶舌的水手补充说，“她们的胃囊就跟粉碎机一样。再也生不出娃娃后，就把乳房割掉。俺瞧见过这帮人一丝不挂地正生吃一条死马的肝脏哪。”

足有几分钟，他的明信片成为这些没开过眼界的先生们注意的中心。

“你们知道咋能把他们轰跑吗？”他向大家[67]问道。

没有一个吱声的。于是他眨巴了一下眼睛，说：

“镜子。那会叫他们吓破了胆。镜子。”

布卢姆先生并未露出吃惊的神色。他只悄悄地把明信片翻过去，辨认那一部分已模糊不清的地址和邮戳。是这么写的：邮政明信片。A. 布丁先生收，智利国圣地亚哥市贝赤游廊。[68]他特别留意到明信片上显然一句话也没写。[69]

尽管他并不轻信适才所讲的那种可怕的故事（还有击落鸡蛋之举，不过，倒也有威廉·退尔的故事，以及《玛丽塔娜》[70]中所描述的拉扎利洛与堂塞萨尔·德·巴桑事件。在那次事件中，前者的子弹穿透了后者的帽子）。他看穿了水手的名字（假定他果真就是所自称的那个人，而不是在某地悄悄地使船调换方向，挂上别国国旗航行的话）与明信片上的收信人姓名有出入，再加上那个编造的发信地址，使他颇为怀疑我们这位朋友诚实[71]与否。然而看了这张明信片，他便不知怎地想起了在心里酝酿了好久、迟早打算实现的一个计划：星期三或星期六乘船远航到伦敦。尽管他从未远游过，骨子里却是个冒险家；只是由于命运的捉弄，迄今没出过海--除非你把霍利黑德[72] 之行也算作航海的话。那是他生平最远的一次旅行了。马丁·坎宁翰常说他要拜托伊根给布卢姆弄张免费船票，然而每一次总是好事多磨，泡了汤。即便立刻支付得出那笔必要的款子，让博伊德伤伤心[73]，只要囊中并不羞涩，其实数目也不大大，最多不过是两三基尼；而他指望着要去的穆林加尔的往返旅费，估计要五先令六便士。由于空气爽朗新鲜，旅行有益于健康，从各方面来说都舒适之至。对肝脏有病的人就更是这样。沿途可以看到普利茅斯、法尔茅斯、南安普敦[74]等形形色色的地方。这次富于教育意义的游览的高潮是观赏大都会（我们时代的巴比伦）的景物。毫无疑问，他会在这里再一次看到大加修缮的塔和教堂，富丽堂皇的公园街[75]。忽然间他还兴起另一个挺不坏的念头：何不筹组一次包括最著名的游乐胜地的夏季演奏旅行，前往各地漫游：马盖待[76]的男女混浴场、第一流的矿泉和温泉疗养地，伊斯特本，斯卡伯勒[77]马盖特等；还有景色优美的伯恩茅斯，海峡群岛[78]以及诸如此类小巧精致的地方。说不定还大有赚头呢。班子当然不是鬼头鬼脑临时东拼西凑的，更不会雇用C. P. 麦科伊太太那种类型的本地歌女--借我用用你的手提箱，我就寄张免费船票给你。才不是呢，而是最高级的，是爱尔兰首屈一指的名角会演，由特威迪- 弗罗尔大型歌剧团团长的正式夫人担任主角，足以和埃尔斯特·格莱姆斯[79]与穆迪- 曼纳斯[80]一比高低。这是十分简单的事，他对此举的成功充满自信。关键在于得有个能够在背后操持料理的家伙，能让当地的报纸给大吹大擂一番。这样，就既可盈利又能饱览风光了。然而，由谁来承担此职呢？嗯，难就难在这儿[81]。

此外，虽然不到具体实施的程度，他脑子里还浮现出一个想法：为了与时代步调一致，应开拓新天地，开辟新航路。恰当的例子就是菲什加德- 罗斯莱尔航路[82]。人们纷纷说，经交通省提出后，照例由于衙门冗繁的文牍主义，因循姑息，吊儿郎当，净是蠢才，至今仍在反复审议中[83]。为了满足一般庶民大众旅行的需要，这里确实给布朗- 鲁宾逊公司等提供了一个积极开展事业的大好机会。

正当普通市民确实需要加强体质的时候，由于舍不得区区两三英镑，就不去看看自己所生活在其中的大千世界。这位老古板自从娶了老婆，就一直关在家里。真是令人遗憾，一望可知是很荒唐的事，这在相当程度上要归罪于我们这个自负的社会，不管怎么说，真是岂有此理。他们每年要过上不止十一个月单调无聊的日子，在城市生活中受尽折磨后，夏季理应随心所欲地彻底换换环境。在这个季节里，自然女神打扮得格外花枝招展，一切有生之物无不复苏。在故乡的岛屿度假的人们也有同样的良机。这里有令人赏心悦目、有助于恢复青春的森林地带，都柏林市内外以及风光绮丽的近郊，不仅富于无上魅力，而且还能促进身体健康。有一条蒸气火车铁轨一直铺设到噗啦呋咔瀑布。还有威克洛那越发远离尘嚣[84]、对“爱尔兰庭园”[85]这一称谓当之无愧的所在。只要不下雨，那一带是供年长的人们骑自行车的理想田园，再有就是多尼戈尔的荒野，倘若传闻属实，景色[86]也极为壮观。不过，由于最后提到的这一地区交通不便，尽管此行可获益匪浅，前往的游客毕竟有限，收入也微不足道。相形之下，霍斯山凭借绢骑士托马斯、格蕾斯·奥马利和乔治四世留下的遗迹，以及遍布于海拔数百英尺高处的杜鹃花，使它成为男女老少不分贫富，人人爱去的地方。由纳尔逊纪念柱[87]乘车前往，只消三刻钟就可到达。尤其是在春季，小伙子们异想天开，故意地或偶然失足从崖顶上栽了下去，从而交纳了死亡的通行税。顺便提一下，通常他们总是踩空左脚。当然由于现代化的观光旅行尚处在幼年期，设备大有改善的余地。出于纯粹质朴的好奇心，他饶有兴趣地猜测着：究竟是交通造成路的呢，还是路造成交通的，抑或二者其实是相辅相成的呢、他把带图的明信片翻过来，朝斯蒂芬递过去。

“有一回俺瞧见过中国人，”那个勇猛的讲述者说，“他有一些看上去像是油灰的小药丸。他把药丸往水里一放，就绽开了，个个都不一样，一个变成船，另一个变成房子，还有一朵花儿。给你炖老鼠汤喝，”他馋涎欲滴地补充了一句，“中国人连这都会。”

也许是看出了大家面泛着将信将疑的神色，这位环球旅行家执着地继续讲他的奇遇。

“俺还在的里雅斯特瞅见一个人被意大利佬杀死了。从背后捅了一刀。就像这样的一把刀子。”

他边说边掏出一把跟他的性格十分般配、令人看了毛骨悚然的折叠式刀子，并且摆出刺杀的架势，抡了起来。

“在一家窑子里。是两个做走私生意的家伙你欺我诈惹起来的。那家伙就藏在门后边，从他背后凑了过去。像这样。‘准备见你的天主去吧！’[88]他说。哧啦一声捅进了他的背，只剩刀把露在外面。”

他耷拉着眼皮困倦地环睨着大家。看来在座的人们即便还有意问点什么，也会被他顶回去了。“这可是好钢啊，”他又重复了一遍，一边端详着那把令人生畏的短刀[ 89] 。

这一骇人听闻的结尾[90]足以把胆子最大的人也吓坏了。随后，他啪的一声插刀入鞘，将这把利器收进他那恐怖室[91]（也即是衣兜）里。

“那些家伙使起刀来可不含糊，”某位显然完全不谙内情的人[92]为了替大家解围，说道，“因此，由于‘常胜军’在公园里干的那档子凶杀案使用的是刀子，当局原以为是外国人下的手哩。”

此话一听就是本着无知乃至福[93]的精神讲的，布卢姆先生和斯蒂芬以各自的方式本能地相互交换了一下意味深长的眼色，然而是在虔诚而讳莫如深[94]的沉默中；他们随即把视线朝“剥山羊皮”--也就是店老板一一的方向投去。他正在那儿从开水壶里往外倒滚沸的液体。他那张令人莫测高深的脸确实是件艺术品。它本身就完全是一门可供研究的课题，非笔墨所能形容。他仿佛丝毫也不了解正在发生着的事。真是滑稽！

随后沉默了好半晌。有个人不时地读上一会儿满是咖啡污迹的晚报，另一个瞧着那张印有土著窝棚[95]的明信片，还有一个在看水手的解雇证书。至于布卢姆先生本人，则正在沉思默想。他清清楚楚地记起刚才被提及的那档子事，犹如昨天才发生的那么真切。那是二十来年前的事啦，打个比喻来说，是土地纠纷像风暴般席卷文明世界的年头；是八十年代初，说得准确些，八一年，那时他才十五岁。

“嘿，老板，”水手打破了沉寂，“把证件还给俺。”

这个要求照办了，他用指尖把证件拢在一起。

“你看见过直布罗陀岩石吗？”布卢姆先生问道。

水手边嚼烟草边颦蹙起鼻子眼，露出模棱两可的神色。

“啊，那儿你也到过啦，”布卢姆先生说，“那可是欧洲的顶端哩。”他认为这个漂泊者是去过的，并希望他可能想起什么来。对方并未使他如愿以偿，只是往锯末里啐了口唾沫，死样活气地摇了摇头。

“那大概是哪一年的事儿呢？”布卢姆先生插了句嘴，“还能回想起是哪些船吗？”

我们这位自封的[96]水手贪馋地大口大口嚼了一通烟草才作答。

“俺对海里的暗礁[97]腻烦透啦，”他说，“还有那大大小小的船只。整天价吃腌牛肉。”

他面呈倦容，闭上了嘴。发问者看出，从这样一个狡猾的老家伙嘴里是打听不出什么来的，就开始呆呆地驰想着环绕地球的浩渺水域的事。放眼望一下地图就能明白，海洋竟占地球的四分之三。因此，他完全了解：统治海洋意味着什么。说到这里就足够了。不只一次--起码有十二次--他曾在多利蒙特的北布尔附近留意到一个被淘汰下来的老水手。此人显然无依无靠，惯常坐在堤岸边上，靠近并不一定会引起美好联想的大海，十分明显地和大海相互瞪着眼，梦想着生气勃勃的森林和鲜嫩的牧场[98]，就像某人在某处歌唱过的那样。这使他纳闷老人为什么要这样。说不定老人曾试图亲自探索一下海洋的奥秘[99]，于是就从地球的一端拆腾到另一端，从海面闯荡到海底--喏，说海底并不大确切--就这样撞着运气。实际上，其中绝对没有任何秘密。尽管如此，即使不细微地[100] 进行调查，大海依然光辉灿烂地存在着这一雄辩的事实终归是无法否定的。一般总会有人大胆地违悖天意，继续航行。不过，这也仅仅表示人们通常是怎样挖空心思把此类重担转嫁给旁人。比方说，地狱这个观念也罢，彩票和保险也罢，都是同一性质的，因此，单凭这个理由，“救生艇星期日”[101]这一组织也是值得嘉许的。广大公众不论住在内地还是海边，一旦清楚地了解了，就应该感谢水上警察署长和沿岸警备队克尽职责。因为不论什么季节，爱尔兰期待每人今天各尽自己的职责[102] 等等。冬季有时天气恶劣，也非出发不可。他们得安排人去管缆绳，不要忘了那些爱尔兰灯船，基什[103]的，还有旁的。随时都有可能翻船。有一次他带着女儿乘船绕过它航行。虽然还说不上是狂风暴雨的天气，倒也饱尝了恶浪翻滚的滋味。

“有个伙伴跟俺一道搭乘‘漂泊者’号航海来着，”这位本人就是个漂泊者的水手接下去说，“他上了岸，找到了个伺候达官贵人的舒服差事。每个月能挣六英镑。俺身上穿的就是他的裤子，还给了俺一块油布和那把大折刀。干的是刮刮脸，刷刷衣服那样的活儿，俺也干得来。俺厌恶到处漂泊。眼下就拿俺儿子达尼来说吧。有一回他逃到海上去啦，他妈把他找回来，送他到科克的一家布庄去混口饭吃，不费力气就能挣上钱。”

“他多大啦？”一个听者问道。从侧面望去，这个人长得有点儿像市公所秘书长亨利·坎贝尔[104] ，给人以刚从办公室的操劳中逃出来的感觉。他当然没洗过澡，衣衫褴褛，酒糟鼻子一眼就看得出。 “唔，”水手有些为难似的慢吞吞他说，“俺儿子达尼吗？俺估摸着现在该有十八岁了吧？”

于是，斯基贝林出身的这位父亲[105] 用双手扯开他那件灰色的--要么就是脏成发灰的衬衫，满胸脯乱挠一气，看得出上面是用中国黥墨刺的一片锚状花纹。

“布里奇沃特那张床上有虱子，”他说，“没错儿！明后天俺可得去洗个澡。俺最讨厌那帮黑小子啦。俺恨那些坏蛋。它们把你的血都吸干了，它们就是这么样。”

他留意到大家都在瞧自己的胸脯，就爽快地把衬衫整个儿敞开来。这下子，在水手那古老的希望与安宁之象征上端，大家一眼就望到16[106]这一数字和一个小伙子微露嗔色的侧脸。

“这是文身，”展示者向他们解释道，“俺们由达尔顿船长领着出航，遇上风暴，是船停在黑海的敖德萨海面上的时候刺的。一个名叫安东尼奥的小子给俺刺的。这就是他自个儿：一个希腊人。”

“搞这玩艺儿很疼吧？”有人问水手。

然而这位仁兄不知怎地正忙于捏起自家的皮肤。就那样用指头夹住或是……

“瞧瞧这儿，”他边说边展示着安东尼奥，“他正在咒骂着伙伴呢。这会儿他又那样了，”他补充说。同一个人，明摆着只要用手指凭着一种特别的窍门儿把皮肤一拽，那张脸上就露出听了奇谈大笑着的神情啦。

其实，那个名叫安东尼奥的小伙子的苍白脸上倒真像是露出了不自然的微笑，这一奇怪现象博得了在场的每一个人充分的赞赏，其中包括“剥山羊皮”。这时，他正从柜台上探过身来。

“哎，哎，”水手低头望着自己那富于男子气概的胸脯，叹了口气，“他也走啦。后来被鲨鱼吃掉啦。哎，哎。”

他撒开了皮肤，刺上去的侧脸就恢复了原先那副普通的表情。

“刺得蛮精巧嘛，”一个码头搬运工人说。

“这数目字是干啥的？”第二个流浪者问道。

“是活着给吃掉的吗？”第三个向水手打听。

“哎，哎，”后者又叹了气，这一回稍微鼓起了点劲头，朝着那个询问数目字的人一瞬间露出一丝微笑，“他可是个希腊人哪。”

接着，关于他本人所诉说的安东尼奥之死，他以凄惨的幽默这么补充道：

他坏得像老安东尼奥，

撇下了我孤苦伶仃！[107]

一个戴着黑色草帽，面容憔悴，好像涂了层釉料一般的妓女从马车夫棚门口探进头来，斜眼望着。她显然是在替自己来巡风，目的不外乎是多捞几个进项。布卢姆先生简直不晓得往哪儿瞧才好。他惊慌失措，却又佯装出冷静。他马上移开视线，从桌上拿起一张出租马车车夫模样的人丢下的阿贝街报那张粉色的纸页[108] 。他拾起报纸，端详着纸页的粉色。可又自问为什么是粉色的呢？他之所以这么做，是因为这时他认出站在门口的就是头天下午在奥蒙德码头上瞥见的同一张脸。换句话说，也就是小巷子里那个半白痴的女人。她认得跟你在一起的那位穿棕色衣衫的太太（布太太），并且问有没有衣服让她洗。而且，为什么又要提洗衣服的事儿呢？这一点好像有些含糊[109] 。

你那些要洗的衣服。然而，为人坦率的他不得不承认，住在霍利斯街的时候，他曾为老婆洗过穿脏了的贴身衣裤，女人们要是真爱一个男人的话，也会愿意并且动手替他洗那些同样用比尤利- 德雷珀[110] 制造的不褪色墨水写上姓名首字（她的就是用这个牌子的墨水写的）的衣服。也就是说，爱我的话，就连我的脏衣服也爱吧。但是眼下他正感到焦虑不安。与其让这女人陪伴他，他更希望她离开。所以，当老板做了个粗鲁的手势打发她离开时，他由衷地松了口气。他隔着《电讯晚报》上端瞥了一眼她那张出现在门边的脸。她呆滞地龇牙咧嘴笑着，说明她有些心不在焉。她饶有兴趣地打量着围观船老大墨菲那特有的水手胸脯的人们，接着，她就消失了踪影。

“叫花子妓女，”老板说。

“这可叫我吃惊，”布卢姆先生悄悄地对斯蒂芬说，“从医学上说，那样一个由花柳病医院里出来的浑身散发着病臭的烂婊子怎么能厚着脸皮去拉客，而任何一个头脑清醒的男人，只要稍微爱惜自己的健康，又怎么会……倒媚的女人！当然喽，我猜想，她之所以落到这步田地，归根结蒂必是某个男人造成的。然而，不管原因何在……”

斯蒂芬并没留意方才那个女人，他耸耸肩，只说了这么一段话：

“在这个国家里，某些人卖出去的东西远比她所曾卖过的要多，而且还大有赚头。不用怕那些出售肉体、没有力量收买灵魂的人们。[111] 她可不擅长做生意。她贵买贱卖。”

那个年长的人尽管并不是个老处女或假正经，却说道：这号女人（在这个问题上，他丝毫不曾囿于老处女式的洁癖）是无法避免的危害，可是有关当局既不发给她们执照，又不要求她们做体检，真是可耻极了，必须即刻[112] 加以纠正。说实在的，关于这一问题，自己作为一家之父[113] ，从一开始就坚决主张这么做。他说，谁要是制定了这样一个方针，并彻底地诉之于舆论，就必然会使一切有关的人都受惠无穷。

“你作为一个好天主教徒，”他把话题转到灵魂与肉体上来，说，“是相信灵魂的。要么，你指的是不是才智和脑力等等，有别于任何外在事物，比方说，桌子或那只杯子？我本人是相信这一点的，因为有识之士已经诠释说，那是脑灰质沟回[114]。不然的话，我们就决不会有例如爱克斯射线这种发明啦。你也这样认为吗？”

被这么追问后，斯蒂芬在发表自己的意见之前就不得不让记忆力做一番超过常人的努力，试图聚精会神地回顾一番：

“他们根据最高的权威告诉我们说，灵魂是单一的实体，因而是不灭的。按照我的理解，倘非有可能被它的第一原因--也就是神--毁灭掉，它原本是可以不朽的。但据我所听说的，神是十分可能把毁灭灵魂也加在他那一桩桩恶作剧当中去的；而灵魂的自发的堕落和偶发的堕落早已被文雅的礼节排斥在外了[115]。

尽管就世俗的布卢姆先生而言，这番带有神秘韵味的妙论是多少过于深奥了些，然而他对这种思路的要旨还是完全默认了。不过，他觉得有义务对“单一”这个词提出异议。于是，就立即答腔道：

“‘单一’[116] ？我不认为这是个恰当的字眼。当然喽，我勉强承认，人们极偶然地会遇上一个单纯的灵魂。但是我迫切地想举的是这样一个例子：伦琴所发明的射线，或是像爱迪生那样发明望远镜；不，我相信比他还早，我指的那个人是伽利略。那样一种发明可了不起呀。比方说，同样的话也适用于像电这样范围很广的自然现象的法则。但是倘若你相信超自然的天主的存在，那就完全是另一码事啦。”

“啊，这个嘛，”斯蒂芬告诫说，“已经由《圣经》里几段最广为人知的段落确凿地证明了。间接证据就且不去谈了。”

然而由于两个人不论在教育程度还是其他各方面都像两极一样相距甚远，再加上年龄悬殊，双方的见解便在这一棘手的论点上发生了冲突。

“已经证明了吗？”两个人中间经验较丰富的那位固执己见，反驳道，“我就不大相信这一点。这是大家都有争论余地的问题；其中的宗派方面就不去牵涉了，请容许我跟你持截然相反[ 117] 的看法。坦率他说句老实话，我相信，这些鸡零狗碎多半都是僧侣们所捏造出来的。最大的可能性就是把有关我们那位国民诗人的大问题重新提出来，诸如培根乃是《哈姆莱特》的作者，那些剧本归根结蒂是谁执笔的等疑问。当然喽，你对你的莎士比亚远比我熟悉多了，我也就无需告诉你什么啦。顺便问一句：这咖啡你喝得下去吗？我替你搅和一下。再吃一片甜面包。这就像是咱们的船老大运来的砖伪装的。不过，谁也拿不出他根本没有的东西。尝一点儿吧。”

“不行，”斯蒂芬好容易才挤出这么两个字来，当时他的心灵器官拒绝说更多的话。

俗谚说得好：吹毛求疵是不道德的。布卢姆先生寻思，还不如去搅和或试图搅和那凝在杯底儿的糖疙瘩呢。他抱着近似刻薄的态度琢磨着咖啡宫[118] 以及它所从事的戒酒（而且利润很大的）生意。其目的确实是合理合法的，无可争议，禆益良多。他们目前所在的这种马车夫棚也是本着戒酒这一方针经营的，并且在夜间特为流浪者们开业。这跟有资格的人士为下层庶民所举办的音乐会、戏剧晚会、有益的讲演（免费入场）是同一性质的。另一方面，他怀着痛楚清清楚楚地回忆起，当年咖啡宫对他的妻子玛莉恩。特威迪夫人的钢琴演奏所付的报酬是何等微薄，而有个时期她对咖啡宫的营业起过举足轻重的作用。他深深相信，咖啡宫的宗旨本来就是行善盈利两不误，何况它并没有什么值得一提的竞争对手。他记得曾读过一篇报道，说某处一家廉价饮食店的干豌豆是用有毒的硫酸铜SO4[ 119] 或是什么东西染过的。然而想不起时间和地点了。不管怎样，看来对一切食品都必须进行检查，卫生检查乃是当务之急。蒂比尔博士的“维牌可可”之所以成了抢手货，多半还是由于它附有医学分析表呢。“现在喝一口吧，”他把咖啡搅和完了，就试着步说。

在好歹尝一尝的劝说下，斯蒂芬就攥着沉甸甸的大杯子的柄，从碰洒了一大滩的褐色液体当中举起了它，并呷了一口那难以下咽的饮料。

“不过，这仍不失为固体食品，”对他有好影响的这个人劝告说，“我是固体食品的信奉者。一点儿也不贪吃，独一无二的理由是：不论从事任何脑力还是体力的正常劳动，这都是不可缺少的条件[120] 。你应该多吃些固体食品。你就会感觉自己换了个人。”

“流质食品我倒是能吃，”斯蒂芬说，“可是劳驾把那把刀子挪开吧。我一看刀尖就受不了。它使我想起罗马史[ 121] 。”

布卢姆先生马上照他的指点做了，把那受指责的刀子拿开了。那是一把钝头、角质柄、普普通通的刀子，最不起眼的是刀尖，在一般人眼中，完全不会特别引起关于罗马时代或古代的联想。

“我们共同的朋友[122] 的故事就跟他本人一样，”布卢姆先生从刀子又顺便低声对他的心腹朋友说，“你认为那些是真实的吗？他可以通宵达旦一连几个钟头地编造那些奇谈，谎话连篇。瞧他那个样儿！”

尽管睡眠不足，海风又把那个人的眼睛吹肿了，然而生活中是充满了无数可怕的事件和巧合的。乍一听，他是信口开河，插科打诨，不大可能像福音书那样准确无误，但是那也有可能并非从头到尾都是瞎编的。

在这期间，布卢姆正审视着眼前这个人。自从盯上他后，布卢姆一直对他做着歇洛克·福尔摩斯式的侦察。此人虽然已经有点儿歇顶了，却保养有方，精力充沛；但是神情有些诡谲，令人想到会不会是个刑满出狱者。用不着费多大脑筋就能把这样一个看来怪诞不经的人物跟拆麻絮或踏车[123] 联系起来。说不定杀死那个对手的就是他本人哩。假定他讲的就是他本人的案子，谈起来却仿佛是旁人的事一般。换句话说，他自己把那个人杀掉了，将四五个年头的大好时光消磨在讨厌的狱中。关于用上文中所描述过的那种戏剧性的方式赎了自己罪愆的安东尼奥这个人物（这与我们的国民诗人笔下的同名剧中人物[124] 毫无关系），就不去提了。另一方面，他或许只不过是在那里瞎吹一通。如果是这样，倒还情有可原，因为任何一个老水手要是曾经跨越大洋航行过，一旦遇上地地道道的傻瓜，即都柏林居民，就像那些等着听外国奇闻的马车夫，都会情不自禁地吹起牛来，说什么“赫斯佩勒斯”号[ 125] 三桅纵帆船啦，等等。归根结蒂，一个人关于自己所说的瞎话，同旁人对他所编造的弥天大谎相比之下，恐怕就算不上什么了。

“你听着，我并非说那一切都纯粹是虚构的，”他继续说，“那样的场面虽然并不常见，偶尔还是会遇到的。巨人极为罕见，难得地碰上一次。还有侏儒女工玛塞拉。被叫作阿兹特克人的，我倒是在亨利街的蜡像馆里亲眼看见过几个。他们蜷着腿坐在那儿。你即便给他们钱，他们也伸不直腿，因为这儿的腱--你瞧，”他为伙伴简单地比划了一下，“或者你随便怎么叫吧，反正是在右膝关节后边--完全不灵啦。这都是被当作神来崇拜，长年那样蜷腿坐着造成的。这儿又是个单纯的灵魂的例子喽。”

然而布卢姆先生又把话题扯回到朋友辛伯达[ 126] 那可怕的历险上去。（辛伯达使他多少联想到路德维希--别名莱德维希。当迈克尔·冈恩经营欢乐剧场时，路德维希主演《漂泊的荷兰人》[127] 获得巨大成功，爱慕他的观众蜂拥而至，个个都只是为了听听他的声音。尽管不论是不是幽灵船，一旦搬上舞台，就跟火车一样，通常会变得有点儿单调了。）他承认那位水手所讲的本质上没有什么相互矛盾的地方。相反地，从背后捅一刀倒颇像是意大利佬的手法。不过，他仍然愿意坦率地承认，库姆街附近的小意大利[ 128]那些卖各种炸土豆片的自不用说，还有卖冰淇淋的和卖炸鱼的，也都不喝酒，是些勤勤恳恳、省吃俭用的人们。不过，他们也许太喜欢趁着夜间随手乱逮属于旁人的有益无害的猫[129] 族了。还把他或者她那不可或缺的[130] 大蒜抄了来，好在第二天人不知鬼不晓地饱餐一顿带汁的佳肴，并且还说：“来得真便宜。”

“就拿西班牙人来说吧，”他接下去说，“他们容易感情用事，像魔鬼一样急躁，动辄就用私刑，拔出下腹部所佩尖刀嗖的一下就清算你的一生[131] 。这都是那炎热的气候所造成的。说起来，我内人就是个西班牙人，那就是说，有一半西班牙血统。实际上，只要她愿意，她眼下就能够取得西班牙国籍，因为她出生于西班牙（就法律而言），即直布罗陀。她是西班牙型的。肤色浅黑，头发是通常那种黑色，眼珠子乌黑。我确实相信人的性格决定于气候。所以我才问，你是不是曾用意大利语写过诗。”

“门外头那帮暴躁的家伙，”斯蒂芬插嘴道，“为了十先令发起火来了。罗伯特偷了他的东西[132] 。”

“可不是嘛，”布卢姆先生表示同意。

“而且，”斯蒂芬直勾勾地望着，对自己或不知在哪儿的某个听着的人说，“我们还有但丁的急性子和与之形成等腰三角形的他所爱上的波蒂纳利[133] 小姐，还有伦纳德[134] 和托马索·马斯蒂诺[135] 。”

“这是血统的关系，”布卢姆先生紧接着说，“一切都受到太阳之血的洗涤。真是个巧合，就在咱们今天相遇--假若那说得上是相遇的话--之前，我刚好在基尔代尔街博物馆观看那儿的古代雕像来着。臀部啦，胸脯啦，都匀称极啦。在此地你简直碰不见那样的女人。兴许这儿那儿，偶尔有个例外。标致，对，你会发现她在某一点上好看，然而我指的是女人的整个体态。除此而外，她们大多对服装都没有什么审美力。不论谁怎么说，反正服装是能大大增加女人的天生丽质的。皱皱巴巴的长统袜--这也许是我的弱点，反正我最厌恶的就是这个。”

然而座中人的兴趣开始淡了下来，其他人就聊起海上的事故来，诸如船在雾中失踪或撞到冰山上等等。当然喽，船老大也有其独特话题。他说：他曾多次绕过好望角[136]，在中国海上还战胜过一种风--季节风。他说，在海上遇到所有那些危险时，他始终得到了一样东西的保护（他用的或诗是类似的字眼）：一枚避灾徽章，使他幸存下来。

随后，话题又转到船只因触到当特暗礁遭难的事件[ 137] 上去了。失事的是那艘倒媚的挪威三桅帆船--一时谁都记不起它的名字了。那个长得确实像亨利·坎贝尔的水手终于想起来了，船名“凡尔默”号，是在布特尔斯汤岸滩触的礁，成了当年全城人的话题--艾伯特·威廉·奎尔还以此为题替《爱尔兰时报》写了一首富于独创性的极出色的佳作。碎浪花冲刷着船身，成群的人们聚在海岸上，一片混乱，一个个吓得呆立在那里。又有人提起，闷热潮湿的一天，天鹅海港的“凯恩斯夫人”号轮船被同一航线上迎面驶来的“莫纳”号撞沉，谁也不曾给他们任何援助，全体船员丧生。“莫纳”号船长说，他担心自己这艘船的缓冲舱壁会垮掉。底层仓里好像并没进水[138]。

这时出了一件事。水手需要扬帆了，便离开了自己的坐位。

“伙计，让俺从你的船头横过去，”他对旁边那个正安详地悄悄打着盹儿的人说。

他拖着沉重的脚步，拙笨地慢慢走向门口，迈下马车棚外只有一磴的台阶，朝左边拐去。当他刚站起来时，布卢姆先生曾注意到，他两边兜里各露出一瓶看来是水手们喝的那种朗姆酒，为的是暗地里灌进他那灼热的胃。布卢姆先生瞧见他这会儿正四下里打量，并从兜里掏出一只瓶子，拔开或是拧开塞子，将瓶口对准嘴唇，咕嘟咕嘟地痛饮了一通，津津有味。布卢姆简直克制不住自己了。他机警地怀疑，这个老手兴许是被女人这一对抗物所吸引而出去做了一番军事演习的。然而这时那个女人实际上早已消失得无影无踪了。他定睛一看，才勉强辨认出那个灌了一肚子朗姆酒、精神随之而振的水手，正毋宁说是出神地仰望着环行线的陆桥桥墩和纵梁。当然自从他最后一次踏访，这里已大大地改建，面目一新了。看不见形影的某人或某些人把男子小便池指给他看，那是卫生委员会为了卫生而到处盖起来的。但是，过了一阵短暂的寂静之后，显然是对小便池敬而远之的水手，竟就近方便起来。他那泡舱底污水撒了好一阵子，看来迸溅到地上的声音随即惊醒了拴在那排待雇马车中一辆车上的一匹马[139] 。

醒过来后，一只马蹄好歹找到新的立足点，挽具丁零当啷直响。岗亭里，跟前正燃着一盆焦炭的那位市政府守夜人被吵着了。他衰弱已极，眼看就要垮了。他不是别人，原来就是前面曾提到过的冈穆利。如今他实际上是靠教区的救济金过日子。过去认识他的帕特·托宾[140]，十之八九是出于人道的动机，安排他在这儿当上个临时工。他在岗亭里翻来复去，来回改变姿势，最后才把四肢安顿在睡神的怀抱之中。他现在的境遇无比恶劣，真是令人惊异。他本有着最体面的亲戚，生来习惯于优裕舒适的家庭环境，一度曾挣过一百英镑年薪。当然喽，这个双料傻瓜竟把钱挥霍殆尽。多次狂欢作乐，如今是穷途末路，一文不名了。不用说，他是个酒徒，假若--不过，这可是个大大的“假若”--他能设法戒掉这一特殊嗜好的话，他蛮可以在一项巨大事业上获得成功呢。这又是一个教训。

这当儿，在座的人们都高声为爱尔兰海运业的一蹶不振而表示痛惜。不论沿岸航线还是外国航线都一样，二者是一而二，二而一。帕尔格雷夫- 墨菲的一艘船从亚历山德拉船坞的下水台被送了出去，而那是今年唯一新造的船[141]。果不其然，港口比比皆是，遗憾的是入港的船却一艘也没有。

老板说，这是由于船接连失事的关系。他显然是个知情人[142] 。

他所要弄清楚的是：为什么那艘船竟撞在戈尔韦湾内唯一的岩礁上了呢？而一个姓沃辛顿[143]还是什么的先生，不是刚刚提出戈尔韦港计划吗？他建议他们去问一下那艘船的船长--利弗航线的约翰。利弗船长[144] ，为了那天的工作，英国政府究竟给了他多少贿赂。

“我说得对吗，船老大？”他向那个悄悄地喝了一通，并另外干了点什么之后正走回来的水手问道。

那位大人物正把传入耳中那歌词的只言片语荒腔走调地低吼成水手起锚的调调。虽然整个旋律的音程都偏离了一两个音，可劲头却来得十足。布卢姆先生耳朵尖，此刻听见他好像正在把板烟（确实是板烟）吐出去。那么，当他喝酒啦解小手啦的时候，想必是把它攥在手心里的。灌下那流质火焰后，嘴里有点发酸。不管怎样，他总算成功地放水兼[145]注水了一通，然后又滚了进来，把酒宴的气氛带到夜会中，像个真正的船上厨师[146]的儿子那样吵吵闹闹地唱道：

饼干硬得赛黄铜，

牛肉咸得像罗得老婆的屁股。

哦，约翰尼·利弗！

约翰尼·利弗，哦！

为此感叹了一番之后，这位不容轻视的人物就登场了，回到自己的席位，与其说是坐，毋宁说是重重地沉落到为自己安排的坐位上。
“剥山羊皮”——假定就是那位老板——显然是别有用心。他以色厉内荏的申斥口吻，就爱尔兰的天然资源问题什么的，发泄了一通牢骚。他在一席冗长的论说中描述爱尔兰是天主的地球上无与伦比的富饶国家，远远超过英国，煤炭产量丰富，每年出口的猪肉价值六百万英镑，黄油和鸡蛋则共达一千万英镑。但是英国却向爱尔兰的穷苦人民横征暴敛，强迫他们付出惊人的巨款，并把市场上最好的肉掠夺一空。另外还说了不少诸如此类夸张的话。[147]接着，他们的谈话就转到一般的话题上，大家一致同意这是事实。“任何东西都能在爱尔兰的土壤里生长出来，”他说，“在纳文[148]”，埃弗拉德上校还栽培出烟草来呢。难道在任何地方能找到比得上爱尔兰所产的熏猪肉吗？但是靠犯罪行为取得的不义之财不论多么庞大，”他用渐强音[149] 蛮有把握地说——并垄断了座中的谈话——“强大的英国总有一天必然会遭到报应。破灭的日子终会到来，而且那将是有史以来最大的破灭。他断言德国人和日本佬也会俟机而动[ 150]。布尔人造成了结局的开端[151] 。英国徒有其表，已经摇摇欲坠了，最后会崩溃在爱尔兰手里。爱尔兰将是它的‘阿戏留的脚踵’。”他又就希腊英雄阿戏留那易受伤害的部位为他们做了一番解释[152]。由于他隔着靴子指了指腱在哪儿，就完全吸引了听众的注意，从而大家也立即恍然大悟了。他奉劝每个爱尔兰人说：留在你出生的地方，为爱尔兰而工作，为爱尔兰而生活。巴涅尔说过：爱尔兰连她的一个儿子也舍不得撒手。

周围的沉默标志着他的终曲。那位冷漠的航海者听了这些悲惨的信息，泰然自若。

“可没那么容易呀，”方才这番老生常谈显然多少惹恼了这位粗鲁朴直的汉子，他就回了这么一句。

老板被泼了一盆冷水，在崩溃等等问题上让了步，但依然坚持他的基本见解。

“陆军里最优秀的部队是哪几支？”头发灰白的老兵愤愤地问道，“跳得最高最远和跑得最快的呢？还有最优秀的海军上将和陆军上将呢？告诉俺呀。”

“要选就选爱尔兰人呗，”除了脸上的一些缺点，长得挺像坎贝尔的马车夫说。

“说得对，”老水手证实道，“笃信天主教的爱尔兰农民。那是咱们帝国的栋梁。你认识吉姆·马林斯[153] 吗？”

老板像对每一个人一样，随他去发表个人的意见，然而他又补充说，他对任何帝国都毫无好感，不管是我们的也罢，他的也罢。他并且还认为，没有一个为帝国服务的爱尔兰人不是吃白饭的。接着他们又恶语相加，火气越来越大。不消说，双方都争取听众站在自己这一边。但是只要他们两个人还没有互骂，以致大打出手，听者就都只是饶有兴味地观望这场舌战而已。

根据经年累月的内幕消息，布卢姆先生颇倾向于把上述见解看作是荒谬透顶的胡言乱语，嗤之以鼻；因为姑且不论他是否衷心企盼那样一种结局[154] ，对这一事实他总是了如指掌：除非海峡对岸的那些邻人远比他所设想的还要愚蠢，否则与其认为他们在显示实力，毋宁说是藏而不露。这种见解就跟一部分人所持的那种再过一亿年，爱尔兰岛的姊妹岛不列颠岛的煤层就将被挖掘一空这一堂吉诃德式的看法如出一辙。随着时间的推移，即便形势的发展果如所料，关于这个问题他个人至多也只能说：在这之前会接连发生无数偶然事件，对于引发这一结局将同样有着关连；尽管两国之间的分歧大得简直是南辕北辙，眼下总还是以竭力相互利用为宜。另外一个有趣的小问题（打个通俗的比方，犹如妓女和扫烟囱小伙子相好）就是爱尔兰兵替英国打仗的次数和与英国敌对的次数一样多，老实说，前者还更多一些。事到如今，又何苦来呢？这两个人，一方领有特准卖酒的执照，据传说是（或曾经是）有名的“常胜军”菲茨哈里斯；另一方显而易见是个冒牌货。双方的这场吵闹，尽管旁人丝毫并未察觉其中的花招，然而他作为一名旁观者，又身为人类心理的研究家，不由得强烈地感到，如果这是预先安排好的话，那就与好计没有什么两样了。至于这个承租人也罢，店老板也罢，多半压根儿就不是另外那个人[155]，他（布卢姆）理所当然地不禁感到，除非你是个地地道道的头号大笨蛋，否则就绝不要去理睬这号人。在私生活中订下一条金科玉律，绝不跟他们打任何交道，更不要牵涉到其阴谋诡计中去。因为总会有偶尔冒出个达尼曼[156] 前来行骗的可能性，像丹尼斯或彼得·凯里[157]那样，在女王——不，现在是国王——的法庭上供出对同犯不利的证据。这种事单是想想就令人厌恶。此外，他从原则上就讨厌那种为非作歹、罪恶累累的生涯。犯罪倾向从来不曾以任何形状或形式在他内心里萌生过（尽管仍不改初衷），然而对这个基于政治信念，真正拿出勇气举刀——白晃晃的刀——的人，他的确还是怀着一腔敬慕之情，但是就他个人而言，他是决不愿意参与进去的，这跟他不愿意被卷进南国那种由于情爱而引起的族间仇杀案中去是一样的。要么拥有她，要么就为她而上绞架——这种时候，通常都是丈夫为了妻子跟那个幸运男子之间的关系（丈夫曾派人监视那两个人的行动），跟她争吵了几句。他所膜拜的人儿竟在婚后与人私通[158] ，结果，他用刀子把她砍伤致死。这时他忽然想起绰号“剥山羊皮”的菲茨，只不过曾经替伤害事件的真凶赶过一辆马车而已。倘若他所听到的话属实，菲茨并没有实际参加那场伏击。事实上，司法界一位权威就是这么替他辩护的，从而救了他一命。不管怎样，而今这已成了古老的故事，至于我们这位冒牌的“什么皮”，显然活得太长，早已不再为世人所垂青了。他本该寿终正寝，或者上高高的绞刑架[159]呢。就像女演员一样，老说这是告别演出——绝对是最后一场——接着又笑眯眯地重新登台。这当然是天性喽，落落大方得过了头，完全不懂得节制什么的，总是扑过去咬骨头影儿[160] 。同样地，他极其机敏地猜到约翰尼·利弗在码头一带徘徊的时候，想必在“老爱尔兰”酒店的融洽气氛下唱起《回到爱琳来》等曲调，散了些财。至于另外一些人，不久之前他还曾听见其中的一个说起那句隐语来着，他告诉斯蒂芬，自己是怎样简捷而有效地让那个出口不逊的人闭上嘴巴。

“那傢伙不知怎么一来被惹恼了，”这位感情上虽受了严重伤害，但大体上性情还是那么平和的先生说，“是我说走了嘴，他喊我作犹太佬，口气激烈，态度傲慢无礼。于是，我就丝毫也没有背离事实，率直地告诉他说，他的天主，我指的是基督，也是个犹太人。他一家子都是，就跟我一样，其实我并不是。这话可把他难住了。温和的回答平息怒气[ 161] 。人人都看到，这么一来堵得他哑口无言。我说得对吧？”

关于自己口气温和地提出责难一事，他暗自怯生生地感到骄傲，把视线转到斯蒂芬身上，凝视了他好半晌。似乎表示：你的看法才错了呢。他的目光又包含着恳求，因为他觉得那也并不尽然。

“他们是族长们的子孙，”斯蒂芬用模棱两可的的腔调说，他们的两只或四只眼睛相互望着，“按照身世说，基督也罢，叫布卢姆也罢，或是不论叫什么名字，跟他们同族。[162]”

“当然喽，”布卢姆先生开始把话挑明了，“你得看问题的两面。关于善与恶，很难规定出严格而绝对的标准，各个方面的确有改良的余地。不过，人们说，每一个国家都有它该有的政府[163]包括咱们这个饱经忧患的国家[164]。但是在各方面多拿出点善意来该有多好。相互炫耀各自的优越性固然很好，可是谈不谈相互平等呢？对于任何形式或方式的暴力或不宽容，我都一概憎恨。那样做什么目的也达不到，什么反抗也阻止不了。革命必须按照预定计划分几个阶段进行。说起来，只因为有些人住在旁处并且操另一种语言就憎恨他们，那真是荒谬透顶。”

“值得纪念的血泊桥[165] 之战和七分钟战役[166] ，斯蒂芬支持他的看法，“斯金纳巷子为一方，奥蒙德市场[167] 为另一方。”

“是呀，”布卢姆先生表示完全赞成。他毫无保留地同意此话，认为讲得千真万确，而世界上到处都充满了这样的事。

“你把已经到我嘴边的话全给说出去啦，”他说，“彼此举出互不相容的证据，一片胡言乱语。老实说，闹得你几乎不可能……”

据他的愚见，所有那些会激起敌意的无聊的争吵都意味着代表斗志的乳突[168]或某种内分泌腺在作怪。人们错误地以为这就是为名誉啦国旗之类的细枝末节——其实，闹的主要是隐在一切事物背后的金钱问题：也就是贪婪与妒忌，人们永远也不懂得及时善罢甘休。

“他们把一切都归罪于……”他不禁说出声来。

他掉过身去，因为他们很可能……于是挨近了些，好不让其他人……万一他们……

“犹太人，”他像是道着旁白般地小声对斯蒂芬说，“被指控造成了毁灭。我有充分把握说，这完全不符合事实。历史——你听了这话，会不会吃惊呢？——彻底证明了当宗教法庭把犹太人从西班牙驱逐出境之后[169] ，那个国家就衰落了。而克伦威尔这个极其精明强干的恶棍，尽管在其他方面有不少过失，但当他让犹太人入境之后，英国就繁荣起来了[170] 。这是怎么回事呢？因为他们讲求实际，而且这一点已经得到了检验。我不愿意放开来谈……因为你读过关于这个问题的权威之作，况且你是个正统派……撇开宗教不谈，仅就经济领域而言，神父总是招致贫困。再说到西班牙。你已经从那场战争[170] 中看到了，并且跟充满活力的美国作了比较。至于土耳其人，那就是教义的问题啦。因为倘若不是相信死后能够直接升天堂的话，他们就更会惜命了——至少我是这么看。这是教区神父耍的花招，以便假借名义来筹款。反正我，”他怀着充满戏剧性的激情说，“就跟开头我告诉过你的那个鲁莽汉子一样，是个地地道道的爱尔兰人，而且我巴望看到每一个人，”他下结论道，“不分宗教信仰和阶级，都相应地[172] 拥有可观的收入，能够过得舒舒服服——而且不能小里小气地，每年的进项总在三百英镑左右吧。这是个关键问题，而且不难办到，那样就可以促使人与人之间更友好地往来。不管对不对，反正这就是我对爱国的看法。咱们在母校[173]上古典课的时候，不是一知半解地学过点儿吗？祖国所在地，日子过得好。[174] 意思是说，只要你工作，就能在那儿过上好日子。”

斯蒂芬一边喝着那杯毫无味道的所谓咖啡，一边听着这番老生常谈，目光不曾特别盯视什么。自然他听得出各种词句在变换色调，就像早晨他在林森德瞧见的那些螃蟹一样，它们飞快地钻进同一片沙滩上那呈现出各种不同颜色的沙子里[175] 。它们的窝就在沙子底下的什么地方，或者好像是那样。随后他抬头望见了说这话的那双眼睛，也许并没说，不过他听见了“只要你工作”这句话。

“把我免了吧，”他好不容易才说出这么一句，指的是工作。

话音刚落，对方那双眼睛吃了一惊，因为正如他，即现在暂时

拥有这双眼睛的人所说，或者不如说是他的嗓音所说：人人都应该工作，必须工作，大家一道。

“我指的当然是，”对方赶紧明确指出，“最广义的工作，其中包括文笔工作，那也不光是为了博得名声。如今为报刊写稿是最便当的渠道了。那也是工作呀，而且是重要的工作。归根结蒂，仅就我对你略有所了解的那一点点来说，既然你在教育上已经花了那么多钱，你就有权利提出报酬的数目，以得到补偿。你完全可以边研究你那哲学，边靠笔耕来糊口，就像农民一样。对吧？你们都属于爱尔兰，脑力也罢，体力也罢。两者都同样重要。，，

“按照你的想法，”斯蒂芬半笑着说，“由于我属于圣帕特里克郊区[176] ，简称爱尔兰，所以我才重要吧？”

“我认为还可以说得更深一些，”布卢姆先生含蓄地说。

“但是我觉得，”斯蒂芬打断他的话说，“爱尔兰之所以重要，谅必是因为它属于我。”

“什么属于？”布卢姆先生以为自己或许误会了，就探过身去问，“请原谅。很遗憾，后半句我没听清楚。什么属于你？……”

斯蒂芬明显地面带愠色，重复了一遍，把那一大杯说不上是咖啡还是什么玩艺儿毫不客气地往旁边一推，又说了一句：

“反正咱们不能变换自己的祖国，那么就换个话题吧。”

在这个妥贴的建议之下，布卢姆先生为了换换话题，就低下头去，然而大惑不解。因为他简直不晓得该怎样恰如其分地解释“属于”这个词，听上去毋宁说是有些模模糊糊。要是旁的什么谴责都会更清楚一些。不消说，由于刚才那阵狂饮，带有奇妙的辛辣味的酒气明显地上了脸，而清醒的时候他是从来也没这样过的。布卢姆先生把家庭生活看得无比重要，然而这个青年也许并没能从中完全得到满足，要么就是未能跟正经人交往的关系。身旁的青年使他感到些许不安。于是，就怀着几分惊愕悄悄地端详着这个青年，想起他刚从巴黎回来不久，尤其是那双眼睛，令人强烈地联想到他的父亲和妹妹。但这也没能解决什么问题。不管怎样，他想起几个颇有教养者的事例，纵然前程似锦，却过早地凋谢，刚萌芽就夭折了。除了他们本人，谁也怪不得。就以奥卡拉汉[ 177］为例吧，他是个半疯狂的怪人，他家道虽不算殷实，却有不少体面的亲戚。他胡作非为过了头，在种种放荡行为中，还包括喝醉酒后骚扰周围的人，穿起一身用褐色纸张做成的衣服（确有其事）来招摇过市。当他疯狂地游荡够了之后，通常就以陷入困境收场[178] 。然后只好在几个朋友的帮助下躲藏起来。下都柏林堡警察厅的约翰·马伦曾露骨地暗示要对他睁一只眼闭一只眼，以避免根据刑法改正条例第二条[179] 对他进行惩罚。被传讯者的名字照例是要提交给当局的，然而却不予公布，个中原因任何人只要稍微动动脑筋就明白了。简而言之，要是把几件事联系起来想的话，例如他断然未予理睬的6啦，16啦，安东尼奥又怎么啦，还有赛马骑师和唯美主义者以及刺青[180] 。七十年代左右，甚至在上议院刺青都曾风行一时。因为当今在位的皇上早年还当太子的时候，十分之一的上层阶级[181]以及其他达官显贵都一味地仿效君主。他回顾着那些声名狼藉者和头戴王冠者所犯下的一桩桩背离道德的罪过。就拿多年前发生的康沃尔事件[182]来说吧。尽管巧妙地掩饰起来，那简直是违反自然之举。恪守法律的善良的格伦迪太太[183] 曾对此狠狠地加以怒斥，不过，个中缘由跟他们自己所想的不大相同。妇道人家除外，她们相互间关心的总是一些无聊琐事，不外乎穿戴等等。喜欢穿有特色的紧身衣裤的太太们自不用说，每一个服饰讲究的男人也都必须通过间接的暗示来突出两性之间的差别。为了越发真正地刺激双方间的不道德行为，她就为他解开钮扣，他则替她解衣宽带，连对一根饰针也都不忽略。而那些连背荫处的气温都高达华氏九十度的荒岛上未开化的种族，对这种事一丁点儿也不在乎。话又说回来了。另一方面，也有依靠自己的能力从社会底层硬是闯进上层的呢。那凭的是天生的禀赋。先生，靠的是头脑。

由于这一点和进一步的理由，他觉得等在此地来利用这意料之外的机会是有益的，也有义务这样做，尽管他不能确切他说出究竟是为什么。其实，他已经为此闹了几先令的亏空，还是听任自己陷了进去。不过，交上这样一位见多识广、不同凡响的朋友，所得到的报偿可谓绰绰有余了。他觉得，头脑不时地受到这样的刺激是对精神的一种最高级的滋补。再加上他们萍水相逢，一道谈论，跳舞，争吵，同这些行踪不定的老水手，夜间的流浪者们，令人眼花缭乱的一连串事件都凑在一起，构成了我们所生活的这个世界的雏形浮雕。尤其是近来对“十分之一的底层阶级”[ 184]，也就是煤矿工人、潜水员、清道夫等等的生活，正做着精密的调查。他寻思，如果利用这段大好时光[185] 把这一切见闻都记录下来，是否也能交上菲利普·博福伊先生那样的好运呢？假定他能以每栏一基尼的稿酬写点儿不落寞臼（正如他所企图的那样）的东西的话。题目就叫《我在马车夫棚里的……》——对，《体验》吧。

刚巧他时边就摆着一份谎言连篇的《电讯晚报》粉色版体育特辑。他重新百思不得其解地琢磨着“属于他的国家”以及在这之前的字谜：那艘船是从布里奇沃特驶来的，而明信片可又是寄给A. 布丁的，要问船长究竟有多大年纪。他边动脑子边漫无目标地扫视着属于他那专业范围的一些栏目。“我等包罗万相之父，我等望尔，今日与我，当日报纸[186] 。”起初他有点吃惊，原来不过是有关一个名叫H. 德·拉博伊斯的打字机代理商或什么商人的报道。激战，东京[187] 。爱尔兰式的调情，付赔偿金二百英镑[ 188] 。戈登·贝纳特奖杯[189] 。移民诈骗案[190] 。大主教阁下威廉十来函[ 191] 。“丢掉”在阿斯科特赛马会上获胜，令人联想到在一八九二年的德比马赛上，马歇尔上尉[192] 那匹实力不明的“黑马”“雨果爵士”怎样以绝对优势一举夺标。纽约的一场灾难。一千人丧命[193]。口蹄疫。已故帕特里克·迪格纳穆先生的丧礼。

为了换个话题，他开始读关于永眠了的迪格纳穆的报道。他回想起那着实是一桩凄凉的送葬。

“今晨（这当然是海因斯写的喽）已故帕特里克·迪格纳穆之遗体已由沙丘纽布里奇大街九号住所移至葛拉斯涅文安葬。死者生前在本市素手众望，为人温厚，今患急病谢世，各界市民无不震惊，痛切哀悼。葬礼系由坐落于北斯特兰德街一六四号之H. J．奥尼尔父子殡仪馆所办理（这肯定是海因斯在科尼·凯莱赫的授意下写的），死者之亲朋好友咸往参加，送葬者包括：帕特里克·迪格纳穆（嗣子）、伯纳德·科里根（内弟）、律师约翰·亨利·门顿、马丁。坎宁翰、约翰·鲍尔eatondph 1/8 adordor douradora [194]（准是为了凯斯那条广告的事儿把蒙克斯叫了去才排错的）、托马斯。卡南、西蒙·迪达勒斯、文学士［斯蒂芬·迪达勒斯］[195]、爱德华·J．兰伯特、科尼利厄斯·T.凯莱赫、约瑟夫·麦克·海因斯、利.布姆、查·P.麦科伊、穿胶布雨衣的人以及其他数人。

利．布姆（姑且照误排的拼法）以及整个一行排得一团糟的活字固然令人十分懊恼，同时查·P.麦科伊和文学士斯蒂芬·迪达勒斯正因为缺席，格外引人注目，这是用不着说的了（穿胶布雨衣的人的事暂且不提）。此事可把利·布姆逗乐了，并指给那位文学士看，也没忘记告诉他，报纸上经常出现的那些荒唐可笑的错误。这时，那位伙伴正半神经质地试图憋回另一个哈欠。

“第一封《希伯来书》登出来了吗？”下颚刚一能够活动，他就问道，“经句：张开汝口，将汝脚伸进去[196]。”

“可不是登出来了吗，”布卢姆先生说。（不过，起初他以为青年指的是大主教，可接着又提到脚和口，这就与大主教不可能有任何关联了。）他总算使青年的心情安定下来，因而欣喜万分；迈耶斯·克劳福德终于处理这档子事的方式，又使他感到有点愕然。瞧！

当对方读着第二版时，布姆（姑且就用他这个排错了的新姓氏吧）为了解闷，时而隔三跳四地读上一段第三版所载阿斯科特赛马会上第三场比赛的消息。除了副奖一千金镑，对未阉割的小公马和小母马，还外加正币三千金镑整。第一名为F. 亚历山大先生所拥有的纯种马“丢掉”；它出自“即刻”的血统，五岁，九斯通[197] 四磅，斯莱尔产（骑手w. 莱恩）。第二名为霍华德·德·沃尔登所拥有的“馨芳葡萄酒”（骑手M. 坎农），第三名为w. 巴斯先生所拥有的“ 权杖”。在“馨芳葡萄酒”身上所下赌注为以五博四，“丢掉”为以二十博一（最高数）。“丢掉”和“馨芳葡萄酒”并肩而驰，难以预料哪匹马会赢。随后这匹没有获胜希望的“黑马”竟冲向前去，遥遥领先；在二英里半的赛程中，击败了霍华德·德·沃尔登勋爵的栗色公马和w. 巴斯先生的赤褐毛小母马。优胜马的调马师是布雷恩。这么看来，利内翰对此次马赛的估计就纯属无稽之谈了，有把握地担保说是以一马身的距离赢的，多么聪明啊。除了一千英镑，还外加正币三千英镑[198] 整。参赛的还有J．德·布雷蒙德的马克西穆姆二世（班塔姆·莱昂斯热衷于打听这匹法国马的情况，至今它还没赢过，可是随时都可能获胜）。可以通过各种途径取得成功。调情的赔偿金。然而莱昂斯这个楞头楞脑的家伙，过于急躁，忽然改变了主意，最后赔个精光[199] 。当然，赌博显然容易发生这样的事态。结果出来后，可怜的傻子没有多少理由来庆幸自己的选择。那原是孤注一掷。最终不过是瞎猜一气而已。

“所有的迹象都表明，到头来他们是会这样的，”布卢姆先生说。

“谁呀？”另一位说。顺便提一句，他的手受伤了。

一天早晨打开报纸一看，马车夫蛮有把握他说，上面会登着《巴涅尔回国》这么一篇报道。他们愿意拿什么跟他赌都成。一天晚上，有个都柏林步兵连队的士兵到这个棚子里来了，说他曾经在南非看到过巴涅尔。他的命就葬送在自尊心上了。出了第十五号委员室那档子事[200] 之后，他本该要么自杀，要么就去隐蔽一个时期，直到恢复正常，再也没有人能够指责他为止。等他一旦恢复了理智，他们个个就都会前来在他跟前下跪，央求他复职。他并没有死。只不过是潜伏在什么地方呢。他们运来的灵柩[201] 装满了石头。他改名换姓，成了布尔将军德威特。他跟教会的僧侣们斗[202] ，那是失策了，等等。

不管怎样，布卢姆（还是用他的正式姓氏吧）对他们这些回忆感到相当吃惊，因为十之八九都是些用成桶的焦油泄愤的问题[203] ，况且不只一桩，而是好几千起，又过了二十多年[ 204]，早已经遗忘殆尽。至于“石头”的说法，那当然更是捕风捉影了。即便有这么回事，考虑到各方面的情况，他也绝不会认为回国是妥善之举。巴涅尔之死显然使他们悲愤不已。要么是因为正当他的各种政治计划臻于完成的节骨眼儿上，却因患急性肺炎而一命呜呼；要么就是因为像大家所风闻的，他浑身淋得精湿之后疏忽了，没有换靴子和衣服，因而患了感冒。他又没请专科医生诊治，却把自己关在屋里，终于不出两周就在世人的惋惜中死去了。要么也十分有可能是由于他们发现这么一来自己手中的工作就被剥夺了，因而灰心丧气。当然，就连他在这之前的活动也无人知晓，关于他的行踪，丝毫没有线索。即使在他开始使用福克斯啦、斯图尔特[205]等等化名之前，就已完全是“艾丽斯，你在那里？”[206]式的了。因此，他的马车夫朋友所散布的那些话，也未尝不可能哩。毫无疑问，他天生是位领袖人材，回国的念头自自然然地会折磨着他。他仪表堂堂，身高六英尺……脱了鞋起码也还有五英尺十或十一英寸。而某人以及某某人等[208] 不但跟这样一位前任比起来有云泥之差，而在旁的方面又无可弥补，却飞扬跋扈。他们这位偶像的脚是泥土做的[209] ，实在是个痛切的教训。从此，原来在他周围的那七十二名忠实的支持者就互相诬蔑诽谤起来，所使用的手法与凶手没有两样。请你务必回来——萦绕心头的思乡之情在吸引着你——并让那些临时替角看看正角的演技吧。就在他们砸毁《不可压制报）——也许是《爱尔兰联合报》[210] 吧——的活字盘那个场合，布卢姆曾交了个好运：见到过巴涅尔一次。他衷心感谢自己有此荣幸。事实是，当巴涅尔的大礼帽被击落后，布卢姆把它捡起，递了过去。尽管上述小小灾难使巴涅尔功亏一篑[211] ，他依旧神色坦然；不过，内心无疑是激动的，还是说了声。“谢谢你”——这是出于渗透到他骨子里的习性。至于回国嘛，要是你刚一回来他们没有马上嗾使骾狗跟踪你，你就算幸运了。接着，照例会发生一连串纠缠不清的事儿：诸如汤姆赞成你而迪克和哈里反对你之类。于是，首先就得对付目前的财产占有者，必须拿出自己的各种身分证件，就像蒂奇伯恩案中的被告那样。名字叫罗杰. 查尔斯·蒂奇伯恩。据他所知，嗣子所乘的那艘沉船名叫“贝拉”号，后来也得到了证实；身上还有黥墨呢，贝柳勋爵，对吗[212]？这位原告很容易就能从同船的哪个伙伴口中东拼西凑地打听出些细节。一旦做到能自圆其说，不至于露出破绽，就自我介绍说“对不起，我名叫某某”，或是这类套话。“更谨慎的做法是，”布卢姆先生对身旁那个人说，他喜怒哀乐不形于色，事实上挺像他们所正议论着的那位显赫人物，“首先得摸清事物的来龙去脉。”

“都是那条母狗，那个英国婊子[213]要了他的命，”偷卖漏税酒的店老板说，“是她把第一颗钉子钉进他的棺材的。”

“不管怎样，反正是个漂亮的大块头，”这位自封的市公所秘书长亨利·坎贝尔[214]说，“而且丰满得很。俺在一家理发馆瞧见过她的照片。她丈夫是个上尉，总归是个军官。”

“可不是嘛，”“剥山羊皮”凑趣地补充了一句，“他是，而且还是个装腔作势的。”

这样一个滑稽人物无端地冒到话题中来，四下里[215]引起一片哄笑声。至于布卢姆，他连一丝笑意也没有。他只是定晴望着门口，回忆着当时曾唤起不同寻常的好奇心的那桩历史事件。连双方交换的那些通篇是甜蜜空话的一封封情书也被公诸于世，以致使事态更加恶化[216]。 起初他们的确是纯精神的恋爱，后来出于生理本能，二人就发生了关系，逐渐达到高潮，成为街头巷尾的话题。最后就是那个致命打击的到来。对于为数不少的居心险恶、执意要使他垮台的人们来说，那可是个求之不得的消息。此事一直是个公开的秘密，然而并没有达到后来渲染成的那样耸人听闻的程度。既然他们二人的名字已经连结在一起，既然她已经公开承认他是她的心上人，还有什么必要从房顶上来向民众宣布呢？这里指的是他和她同床共寝过的事。当这件事在证人席上经过宣誓被公布出来时，座无虚席的法庭上是一片紧张气氛，所有在场的人都为之震动了。证人们宣誓后说，他们曾目睹他在某月某日身穿睡衣靠一把梯子从楼上一间屋子里爬了出来，他是用同一方式爬进去的。此事张扬出去之后，使几家周刊着实发了一笔横财。其实这案情很简单，不过是做丈夫的未能尽到责任。他们夫妻之间除却名义之外，别无任何共同点。这时，走来一个真正的男子汉，强壮得几乎成了其弱点。此人为妖妇的魅力所迷惑，就忘记了家庭的羁绊[217]。通常的结局是：沐浴在所爱之人的微笑中。不消说，永远存在于夫妇生活中的那个问题就出现了。倘若插进了一个第三者，夫妻之间还能有真正的爱情吗？［难题。][218]然而要是这个男子在一股痴情的推动下对她怀起满腔爱情，又与公众何干？与另外那个预备役陆军军官（即轻骑兵，说得确切些，第十八骑兵队的一员；是“再见吧，我豪侠的上尉”[219]那样一种极其平庸的类型）相形之下，他确实是位男子大丈夫中的杰出楷模，加以禀赋极高，更是相得益彰。毫无疑问，他（这里指的是已垮台的领袖，而不是另外那个人）有着独特的火暴性子，而她作为一个女人，当然一眼就看得出，并认为惟其如此，他才名扬天下。正当大功即将告成之际，全体司铎、牧师[220] ，往昔那些坚定可靠的拥护者，以及他所爱护过的被剥夺了土地的佃户们——他曾在本国乡村以超过其任何乐观期望的劲头替这些佃户辩护，勇往直前为之效劳，而这些人却为了婚姻问题一举把他搞垮，犹如把炭火堆在他的头上，简直就像寓言中那头被踢上一脚的驴[221]而今回顾一下往事，追想事情的整个经过，一切都恍如一场梦。至于回来，那更是你毕生最大的失策，因为那样你自然会感到事过境迁，形势起了变化。布卢姆先生回忆，自从他搬到北边去住，看来爱尔兰区岸滩这一带好像有些不同了。北也罢，南也罢，纯粹是那曾经引起激情的案子使形势大大逆转。那个女的也是西班牙人，或有一半西班牙血统；也是那种一不做二不休的人，一味听任南国的热情肆意奔放，一切脸面礼仪统统弃之不顾。这刚好证实了他正说着的话。

“刚好证实了我正说着的话，”他心里热乎乎地对斯蒂芬说，“要是我没弄错的话，她也是个西班牙人哩。”

“西班牙国王的女儿[ 222] ，”斯蒂芬回答说，又乱七八糟地补充了几句：什么“西班牙葱头们，你们好，再见”，“第一片国土叫作‘空酒瓶’”，“从拉姆岬角到锡利有多少”什么的[223]。

“她是吗？”布卢姆叫了一声，并未感到震惊，只不过出其不意而已。“我可从来没听说过这个传闻。不过有可能，尤其是她在那儿住过[224] 嘛。这就是西班牙。”

他小心翼翼地藏着那本《……的快乐》[225]，从而联想起卡佩尔图书馆那本已过了期限的书。他掏出皮夹子，匆匆翻着里面装的各种东西；终于……

“顺便问一声，你认为，”他细心地选出一幅褪色的照片，撂在桌子上，“这是西班亚型的吗？”

经对方这么明确地一说，斯蒂芬就低头端详起照片来。那是个高大丰腴的女人，风华正茂，充分散发出肉体的魅力。她身着夜礼服，炫耀般地将脖领儿开得低低的，尽量突出那对轮廓鲜明的乳房。饱满的嘴唇是张着的，露出几颗皎齿，显得蛮庄重地伫立在钢琴旁边。乐谱架上摆着挺好听的民歌《在古老的马德里》[226]的乐谱，当时正流行的。她（那位夫人）一双又黑又大的眼睛望着斯蒂芬，而他呢，面对着这么个值得赞美的尤物，快要笑逐颜开了。这幅供审美家欣赏的杰作是出自都柏林首屈一指的摄影艺术家、西莫兰街的拉斐特[227]之手。

“这是我的妻子，布卢姆太太。首席女歌手[228]玛莉恩·特威迪夫人，”布卢姆解释道，“还是几年前照的呢。大约是一八九六年。这幅照照得很像当年的她本人。”

他挨着这位青年，一道审视这位如今已成为他的正式妻子的女人的照片，并且坦率地告诉他说：她是布赖恩·特威迪鼓手长的女儿，很有教养，从小就对声乐有非凡的素质，刚刚芳龄二八[229] 就登台同听众见面。至于容貌，照片上倒是把表情照得栩栩如生，只是身姿方面却委屈了她。平素她是极为引人注目的，但是这样一装扮，她的身段就没有充分显示出来。他说，那一次她要是拍幅全身照，就更上相了，丰满的曲线[230]自不在话下。他除了本行之外，对艺术也沾点边，有时从发展方面看妇女的体态，因为头天下午，他在国立博物馆刚巧看到了作为完美艺术作品的希腊雕像。可以用大理石把原物如实地再现出来；肩膀，背，整个形体的匀称美。其余的一切呢，是啊，就像清教徒那么拘谨。大理石就是这样的。凭着至尊的圣若瑟发誓……然而那是任何照片也无法做到的，因为一句话，那根本不是艺术。

他在兴头儿上，颇想学学水手的好榜样，借口要……把照片稍微撂上几分钟，听任它发挥魅力，那么对方就可以独自陶醉于对美人儿的欣赏中了。尽管照相机丝毫未能充分再现她的舞台形象，然而说实在的，就它本身而言，也颇足以饱观赏者的眼福了。但是作为一个文化人，这会儿离座简直不符合礼节，今天晚上舒适暖和，然而就季节而论，又十分凉爽，因为一场暴雨之后，阳光……这当儿他感到一种需求，好像有个内在的声音，要他学着样儿出去走动走动，满足一下可能的欲望。尽管如此，他依然端坐在那里，瞅着那张丰满的曲线起了皱折、稍带点污迹的照片，然而它并未由于陈旧而变得逊色。为了不至于进一步增添对方在掂掇她那隆起的丰腴[231] 胸脯的匀称美时可能感到的窘迫，他体贴入微地把视线移开了。事实上，那一点点污迹反而添加了魅力，就像稍微脏了一点的亚麻布就跟崭新的一样好，不，由于上面那层浆没有了，毋宁说是比新的还强得多。倘若他……的时候她出去了呢？“我在找那盏灯，她告诉我说”，这句歌词[232] 浮现到他的脑际。但这个念头只是一闪而过，因为此刻他又回想起早晨那张凌乱的床铺等等，以及写着“遇见了他尖头胶皮管”[233]（原话）的那本关于鲁碧的书[234]。 它恰好掉在卧室用尿盆旁边了，对原书作者林德利·穆雷，可说是不恭之至[235]。

他呆在这青年身边，的确感到高兴。受过教育，风度高雅，[236]而且还容易感情用事，是他们那群人当中的尖子。不过，你不会想到他有这方面的……不，你是会想到的。何况他还说照片蛮好看。不论谁怎么说，就是好看，尽管现在她明显地发福了。可那又有什么不好呢？关于那类事件，流传着大量莫须有的胡说八道，给当事人的一生带来污名。报纸上硬说某某高尔夫球职业选手或新近在舞台上红起来的明星有什么暧昧行为。对夫妻间司空见惯的纠纷，不是公正诚实地报道其真相，却照例添枝加叶、耸人听闻地渲染一番：他们怎样命中注定相遇的，又怎样相爱上的，从而使两人的名字在公众心目中被联系起来。连他们的信件都拿到法庭上去宣读，满纸都是通常那些感伤的、有失体面的语句，使他们没有开脱的余地。说明了他们在一家著名的海滨旅馆每周公开同居两三次，按正常趋势他们的关系越来越亲密了。随后就是非绝对的[237]离婚判决，代诉人试图提出反对的理由，但未能推翻原判，非绝对的遂成为绝对的。至于那两个行为不端者就彼此沉溺在爱恋中，漠然无视这一判决。最后此案被交到事务律师手里，他代理受到不利的判决的当事者按照程序递上一份诉状。当他（布）[238] 沐浴在挨近爱琳的无冕之王这一光荣中时，这一事件和那桩历史性骚动同时发生了。那位垮了台的领袖——众所周知，即便在被加上通奸的污名之后，他也依然坚守阵地，绝未退让；直到（领袖的）十名或十二名，也许更多的忠实支持者闯进《不可压制报》，不，是《爱尔兰联合报》（顺便说一句，这决不能说是个恰切的名称[239]）的印刷车间，用铁锤还是什么家伙把活字盘砸毁了。这完全是由于一向以诬蔑诽谤为能事的奥布赖恩[240]派的蹩脚记者摇着轻浮的笔杆编了那些下流谗言，对他们原先的民众领袖的私人品德任意进行诋毁中伤所造成的。尽管一眼就看得出他简直完全换了个人，可依然保持着凛然的气概。衣着虽然还像往日那样随随便便，他的眼神却显示出坚定的意志，使那些优柔寡断者感受很深。他们把他捧上宝座后，才发现他们的偶像那双脚是泥土做的，从而大为狼狈。反正她是头一个发觉这一点的。那是到处发生骚动，情绪格外激烈的时期，布卢姆被卷进聚集在那里的人群。有个家伙用肘部狠狠地戳了他的心窝一下，幸而不严重。他（巴涅尔）的帽子冷不防被碰掉了，看到这副情景并在混乱中拾起帽子以便还给他的正是布卢姆（而且飞快地递还给他了）。这是确凿的历史事实。巴涅尔气喘吁吁，光着头，当时他的心已飞到距帽子不知多少英里以外。敢情，这位先生生来就是注定要为祖国豁出命去干的。说实在的，首先就是为了荣誉而献身干事业的。他幼小时在妈妈腿上被灌输的周全礼节已渗透到他骨子里，这当儿突然显示出来。他转过身去，朝递给他帽子的那位十分镇定[241] 地说了声：“谢谢你，先生。”当天早晨布卢姆也曾经提醒过律师界一位名流[242] ，他头上的帽子瘪了。巴涅尔的声调可跟那人大不一样。历史本身重复着，但反应并不尽同。那是在他们参加一位共同朋友的葬礼，完成了把他的遗体埋入墓穴这桩可怕的任务，并让他孤零零地留在荣光中[243] 之后。

另一方面，他在内心深处更感到愤慨的是出租马车夫之流恬不知耻地开的玩笑。他们把整个事件当成笑料，肆无忌惮地放声大笑，装作对事情的来龙去脉了如指掌，其实他们心里糊里糊涂。这本来纯粹是两个当事人的问题，除非那位合法的丈夫收到密探的一封匿名信，说是就在那两人相互亲昵地紧紧搂抱着的关键时刻，给他撞上了，从而就促使那位丈夫去留意他们那暖昧关系，导致家庭骚乱。犯了过错的妇人跪下来向当家的告饶，只要这位受了损害的丈夫肯对此事抱宽恕态度，既往不咎，她就答应今后与那人断绝关系，再也不接受他的访问。她热泪盈眶，然而兴许长着一张标致脸蛋儿的她，同时还偷偷吐舌头呢，因为很可能还有旁的好几位哩。他这个人是有怀疑癖的，他相信，并且毫不犹豫地断言：天下即便有贤妻，而夫妻间又处得十分融洽，也仍会有一个或几个男人，总是依次守候在她周围，缠住不放。而一旦她怠慢了自己的本分，对婚姻生活感到厌倦，就会心生邪念，骚动不宁起来，于是她卖弄风情，招惹男人们，到头来就会移情于旁人。于是，年近四十而风韵犹存的有夫之妇与年纪比自己轻的男子之间就艳闻[244] 频传了，毫无疑问，好几起有名的女子痴情事例都证实了这一点。

万分遗憾的是，那些头脑有幸生得灵敏的年轻人（坐在他身边的显然就是其中的一位），竟然把宝贵的光阴浪费在淫荡女人身上，说不定她还会赠给他一份足够他享用一辈子的梅毒哩。这位幸运的单身汉有朝一日遇上相般配的小姐，就会娶她作妻子。到那时为止，与女人交往倒也是个不可或缺的条件[245] 。他丝毫不想为弗格森[246]小姐（促使他凌晨来到爱尔兰区的，极可能就是这位特定的“北极星”哩）的事盘问斯蒂芬什么。尽管他十分怀疑斯蒂芬能够从诸如此类的事中得到由衷的满足：沉湎于少男少女式的谈情说爱啦，同只会嘻嘻嘻地傻笑、身上一文不名的小姐每周幽会上两三次啦，照老一套的程序相互恭维，外出散步，又是鲜花又是巧克力地走上亲密的情侣之路。考虑到他既没有棲身之所，又没有亲人，钱财都被一个比任何后妈都更歹毒的房东大娘榨骗了去；以他这个年龄而言，确实糟糕透了。他抽冷子脱口而出的那些奇谈怪论牵动着比他年长若干岁或几乎可以做他父亲的布卢姆的心。然而他的确应该吃点儿富于营养的东西：在牛奶这一母亲般的纯粹滋补品中搀上鸡蛋，做成蛋酒，要不就吃家常的白水煮鸡蛋也好嘛。

“你是几点钟吃的饭？”他向那个身材细挑的青年问道。青年脸上虽没有皱纹，却满是倦容。

“昨天的什么时候，”斯蒂芬说。

“昨天，”布卢姆大声说，后来想起这已经是明天——星期五了，“啊，你的意思是说，现在已经过了十二点！”“那就是前天吧，”斯蒂芬纠正了自己的话。这个消息简直使布卢姆感到惊愕，他陷入沉思。虽然他们并不是对样样事情意见都一致，两人不知怎地却有个共同点，好像两颗心行驶在同一条思考的轨道上。大约二十年前，就在小伙子这个年龄上，他也曾一头扎进过政治。当鹿弹福斯特[247] 在台上的年月里，他对议员这一显赫职务抱着近似向往的态度。他还记起，自己也曾对那些同样的过激思想暗自怀有敬意（这本身就是巨大的满足的源泉）。比方说，佃户被迫退租的问题当时刚刚冒头，引起民众极大的关注。不用说，他本人连分文也不曾捐赠给这一运动，而且其纲领也并非完全没有漏洞。他不能把信念绝对地寄托在上面。他认为佃户拥有耕作权符合当代舆论的趋势，起初作为一种主义他全面地赞成；及至发现弄错了，就部分地纠正了自己的偏见。由于他竟然比到处游说耕者应有其田的迈克尔·达维特[248]的过激意见甚至还进了一步，从而遭到嘲笑。正因为如此，当这帮人聚在巴尼·基尔南酒馆露骨地讽刺他时，他才那么强烈地感到愤慨。尽管他经常遭到严重的误解，再重复一遍，他仍不失为最不喜欢吵架的人。然而他却一反平素的习惯，（打个比喻来说）朝着对方的肚子给了一拳。就政治而言，他对双方相互充满敌意的宣传与招摇所必然导致的伤害事件及其不可避免的结果——主要是给优秀青年带来不幸与苦恼——一句话，对适者灭亡[249]的原则理解得再透彻不过

不管怎样，既然已快到凌晨一点了，权衡利弊，早该回家睡觉了。难题在于把他带回家去多少要冒点风险（某人[250] 有时会发脾气），可能闹得一团糟，就像他一时冒失，把一条狗（品种不详）带回翁塔利奥高台街去的那个晚上一样。记得非常清楚，因为刚好在场。狗的一只前爪破了（倒不是说二者情况相同或不同，尽管这位青年也有一只手受了伤）。另一方面，如果建议他到沙丘或沙湾去呢，那又太远，时间也太迟了。二者之间究竟该选哪个，他倒有点儿无所适从了。经过全盘考虑之后，得出的结论是：对他来说，就应该充分利用这个机会。斯蒂芬给他的最初印象是对他有点儿冷淡，不大吐露心迹，但是不知怎地，他越来越被对方所吸引了。举例来说，当你向这个青年提个什么打算时，他决不会欣然接受，而使布卢姆焦虑的是，即使自己有个建议，也不晓得该怎样把话题转到那上面，或怎样确切地措词，诸如：倘若容许自己在据认为适当的时候为对方贴补点儿零用钱或在穿着方面帮对方一把的话，他会感到莫大的快乐。不管怎样，他打定主意这样了结此事：为了避免重蹈那只瘦狗的覆辙，当夜姑且让他喝上一杯埃普可可[251]，临时打个地铺，再给他一两条围毯盖盖，把大氅折叠起来当枕头。起码让这个青年处在能够保障他的安全的人手里，就跟台架[252]上的烤面包片那样暖烘烘的。他看不出这么做能有多大害处，只要确保决不会发生任何骚乱就行。该离开了，因为这位让老婆守活寡的快活的人儿[253]好像被胶膘在这里了，他一点儿也不急于回到他那颇可怀念、眷恋的王后镇家中去。今后几天内，要是想知道这个形迹可疑的家伙的下落，老鸨搜罗几名年老色衰的佳人儿在下谢里夫街那边开起来的窑子倒是可以提供最可靠的线索。他忽而讲了一通发生在热带附近的六响左轮枪奇闻，打算把她们（人鱼们）吓得毛骨悚然，忽而又对她们那大块头的魅力加以苛刻的挑赐，其间还大杯大杯地畅饮私造的威士忌酒，兴致勃勃地胡乱开一阵心。到头来照例是自我吹嘘，说什么实际上我究竟是何许人也？正如代数先生到处[254]所写的那样，让XX等于我的真名实姓与地址吧。就在这当儿，布卢姆想起自己曾怎样随机应变、巧妙地回击那个天主的血和伤痕[255]的家伙，指出他的天主是个犹太人，于是大家就暗笑起来。人们要是被狼咬了，还能忍受，然而一旦被羊咬了一口，那就真正会被激怒。和善的阿戏留的最大弱点也是怕被人指出：你的天主是个犹太人。因为世人好像通常相信，天主来自香农河畔卡利克或斯莱戈郡[256] 的什么地方。

“我仔细考虑了一下，”我们的主人公终于提议道，同时小心翼翼地把老婆的照片往兜里揣，“这里太闷热了，你干脆到我家去，一道聊聊吧。我就住在附近。这玩艺儿你可喝不得。［你喜欢喝可可吧？][257]等一等，我来付帐。”

离开这里显然是上策，随后就顺利了。他一边谨慎地往兜里收起照片，一边向棚屋老板招手，老板却好像没有……

“对，这样做最好不过啦，”他对斯蒂芬担保说；然而对斯蒂芬来说，黄铜头饭店[258]也罢，他的家也罢，或任何旁的地方，都或多或少地……

各种乌托邦计划都从他的（布卢姆的）不停地转着念头的头脑中闪过。教育（真正的项目），文学，新闻，《珍闻》的悬赏小说[259]，最新式的海报，到挤满剧场的英国海滨疗养地去做豪华的旅游，水疗、演出两不误，用意大利语表演二重唱等等，发音十分纯正地道。当然，无须乎向世人和老婆广泛宣传此事，说自己怎样交了点好运。需要的是早日动起手来。他已觉察出这个青年继承了乃父的嗓子，于是就把希望寄托在这一点上，认为一定能成功。所以只消把话碴儿引到那特定的方向去就成，反正也碍不着什么事，为的是……

马车夫看着手里的报纸，大声念了一段前任总督卡多根伯爵在伦敦某地主持马车夫协会晚餐会的消息[260] 。听了这条激动人心的报道之后是一片沉寂，随着是一两个哈欠。接着，坐在角落里的那个仿佛还剩有几分活力的怪老头[261] 读道：安东尼·麦克唐奈爵士从尤斯顿车站出发，前往次官官邸，或诸如此类的消息。人们对这条饶有兴味的消息的反应是同一声“为什么”。

“老爷爷，让咱瞅一眼那份报，”老水手略微显示出天生的急脾气，插嘴道。

“好的，”被招呼的老人回答说。

水手从随身携带的眼镜盒里取出一副发绿色的眼镜，慢悠悠地架在鼻子和双耳上。

“你眼神儿不好吗？”长得像市公所秘书长的那个人怀着满腔同情地问道。

“唔，”蓄着一副花白胡子的航海人回答说。这家伙略识几个字，就好像是正隔着海绿色舱窗向外眺望似的。“俺读啥的时候就戴眼镜儿。是红海里的沙子教俺养成的习惯。说起来，俺从前连在暗处都能看书。俺最爱读《一千零一夜》[262] 啦，《她红得像玫瑰》[263]也不赖。”

于是，他用粗笨的手摊开报纸，用心读起天晓得什么玩艺儿：发现了溺尸啦；柳木王的丰功伟绩啦；艾尔芒格为诺丁独得一百多分，在第二场比赛中无一出局啦[264] 。这当儿，老板（丝毫不理会艾尔的事）正专心致志地试图把那双分不出新旧、显然穿着太紧的靴子弄松一点，并咒骂那个卖靴子的人。从那帮人的面部表情可以辨认得出，他们是醒着的，也就是说，要么是愁眉苦脸的，要么就讲上句无聊的话。

长话短说。布卢姆看明事态之后，生怕呆得太长，招人讨厌，就头一个站了起来。他信守了自己要为这次聚会掏腰包的诺言，趁没人注意就机警地朝我们这位老板作了个几乎觉察不到的告别手势，示意马上就付钞，总计四便士（并且不引人注目地付了四枚铜币，那诚然是“最后的莫希干人”[265] 了）。他事先瞧见了对面墙上的价目表上印得清清楚楚的数字，让人一看就读得出来[266]：咖啡二便士，点心同上。正如韦瑟厄普[267] 过去常说的，货真价实，供应的东西有时竟值两倍的价钱哩。

“来吧，”他建议结束这场集会[268]。

他们看到计策奏效，时机成熟，就一道离开了那座马车夫歇脚的棚屋或下等酒馆，告别了聚在那里的、身着防水服的名流[269] 人士。除非闹场地震，这帮人是决不会从这种什么也不干是美妙的[270] 境界中脱身的。斯蒂芬承认他还是不舒服，筋疲力竭，并在门口伫立了片刻。

“有一件事我一直不明白，”他心血来潮，说了句意想不到的话，“为什么在咖啡店里，晚上他们总是把桌子翻过来？我的意思是说，把椅子翻过来放在桌上。”

永远难不倒的布卢姆对这句抽冷子提出的问题毫不迟疑地回答说：

“早晨好扫地呀。”

这么说着，他出于体贴就矫健地蹿到伙伴的右侧，并且真心实意地为自己这一习惯表示歉意，因为照古典的说法，右边是他像阿戏留那样易受损伤的部位。尽管斯蒂芬的腿有些发软，眼下夜晚的空气确实令人觉得爽快。

“那（指空气）对你会有好处的，”布卢姆说，一时指的也包含散步。“只要散散步，你就会觉得换了个人似的。不远啦。靠在我身上吧。”

于是，他用左臂挽着斯蒂芬的右臂，就这样领着他前行。

斯蒂芬含含糊糊地“唔”了一声，因为他感到一个陌生而软塌塌、颤巍巍的肉身挨近了他。

不管怎样，他们从摆有石头和火钵等的岗亭前面走过。那里，当年的冈穆利——如今落魄成市政府的临时工——正如谚语所说的，依然被搂抱在睡神怀里，睡得正香，沉浸在绿色田野与新牧场[271] 的梦中。说到塞满石头的棺材，这个比拟是蛮不错的。因为他确实是被人用石头砸死的。闹分裂的时候，八十几名议员中竟有七十二个倒了戈[272] 。主要是他曾经大捧特捧的农民阶级，大概就是被剥夺了佃耕权后，他替他们收回来的那些佃户哩。

这样，二人就挽着臂，穿过贝雷斯福德广场，一路上布卢姆闲聊起自己无比热爱可又纯粹是个外行的艺术形式——音乐。瓦格纳尽管自有其众所公认的雄伟气魄，然而对布卢姆来说，却有点太沉闷了，一开始就难以理解。但是他简直迷上了梅尔卡丹特的《胡格诺派教徒》、梅那贝尔的《最后的七句话》[273]和莫扎特的《第十二弥撒曲》。他认为后者的《荣耀颂》[274]乃是第一流音乐中的登峰造极之作，真正能使其他一切音乐黯然失色。他非常喜爱天主教宗教音乐，那远远超过其竞争对手在这方面所能提供的穆迪与桑基圣诗[275] 或“嘱我活下去，我就做个新教徒”[276] 。他对罗西尼的《站立的圣母》[277]的称赞也绝不落在任何人后面。这确实是一首充满了不朽的节奏的乐曲。有一次在上加德纳街耶稣会教堂举行的演奏会上，他的妻子玛莉恩·特威迪夫人就演唱过它并博得好评，真正引起了轰动。他可以把握十足地说，在她已享有的声誉上，更增添了光采，使所有其他演唱者均黯然失色。为了聆听夹在演唱家或毋宁说名手[ 280]当中的她的演唱，听众甚至把教堂门口都挤满了。大家一致认为没人赛得过她。在平时唱诵圣乐的礼拜堂里，人们普遍发出“再唱一遍”的呼声，这就足以证明她受欢迎的程度了。总之，他爱听莫扎特的《唐乔万尼》[281] 那样的轻歌剧，而《玛尔塔》[282]是这方面的珠玉之作。尽管他对门德尔松这样严格的古典派只具有点皮毛的知识，却也怀着强烈的爱好[283] 。说到这里，斯蒂芬想必是知道那些大家所爱唱的歌曲的，他特地举了莱昂内尔在《玛尔塔》中演唱的插曲《爱情如今》[284]为例。说也真巧，昨天他听到这支歌曲，说得更确切些，是无意中传到他耳中的，他觉得十分荣幸。尤其令他感到高兴的是演唱者正是斯蒂芬的父亲大人。音色圆润，技巧完美，对作品的诠释的确使其他一切人甘拜下风。对于这非常文雅的提问，斯蒂芬回答说“他并没有”[285]，却开始赞美起莎士比亚的——至少也是那个时代及其先后时期的歌谣来了。又谈起住在费特小巷、离植物学家杰勒德不远的古琵琶演奏家道兰德；我成年弹奏，道兰德[286] 。他怎样打算从阿诺德·多尔梅什那儿买一把古琵琶[287] ，价钱是六十五基尼。这个名字布卢姆听上去确实挺耳熟，只是记不大清楚了。还有在对位法的先导主题与应答主题上下过功夫的法纳比父子[288] 。此外就是伯德（威廉）。斯蒂芬说，此人不论是在女王小教堂或任何其他地方，只要看到了维金纳琴就非弹上一通不可[289] 。还有个姓汤姆金斯[290] 的，作过诙谐的或庄重的歌曲。再就是约翰·布尔[291]了。

他们边聊边穿过广场，走近车行道。只见链栏后面有一匹马拉着扫除器正沿着铺石路走来，一路扫拢着长长的一条泥泞。一片噪音，布卢姆简直闹不清关于六十五基尼和约翰·布尔的引喻自己是否听真切了。他觉得有这么两个完全一样的姓名是个惊人的巧合，就问了声那指的是否那位同名同姓的政界名人约翰牛[ 292] 。

马在链栏那儿慢慢掉过头去拐弯。布卢姆照例是留神提防着的，看到马这样，就轻轻拽了拽斯蒂芬的袖子，用诙谐口吻说：

“今天夜里咱们有性命危险。可得小心蒸气碾路机呕。”

于是他们停下了脚步。布卢姆凝视着那匹马的脸，怎么也看不出它能值六十五基尼。由于是在黑暗中突然出现在挨得很近的地方，它就好像是个由骨骼甚至肉组成的与马迎然不同的新奇的东西了。这显然是一匹后腿朝前迈，一路倒退着的四肢不协调的马，半边屁股略低，臀部是黑的[293] ，甩着尾巴，耷拉着头。这当儿，牲口的主人正坐在驭者座上，忙于想心事。这是一头多么善良懦弱的牲口啊，可惜他身上没带着糖块儿，然而他又明智地仔细想道，人生在世，总不能对所有可能突然发生的事都做好准备呀。它只不过是一匹大块头、笨拙而神经质的傻马罢了，活在世上无忧无虑，他又寻思，甚至于狗，比方说，巴尼·基尔南酒馆那头杂种的吧，要是个头也有这匹马这么大，碰上它可就够吓人的了。然而它长成那个样子可不能怪它呀。就拿骆驼（那是沙漠上的船）来说吧，在它的驼峰里可以把葡萄酿成酒。动物中十之八九可以关进栏里，或加以驯服。除了蜜蜂而外[294]，再也没有人类这么心灵手巧的了。对鲸要使用标枪上的夹叉，对短鼻鳄鱼只要挠挠腰部，它就会懂得开玩笑的滋味了。在雄鸡周围用粉笔画个圈儿[295] 。老虎呢，我那老鹰一般锐利的目光[ 296] 。尽管斯蒂芬的话使布卢姆多少分了神，正当这艘马儿船在街上活跃的时候，他脑子里却满是关于野地走兽[297]的正合时机的考虑。斯蒂芬依然继续谈着饶有趣味的往事。

“我刚才说什么来着？哦，对啦！我老婆，”他直截了当地[298] 说，“她要是能够结识你，会非常高兴的。因为她对所有的音乐都是倾心的。”

他从旁边亲切地望着斯蒂芬的侧脸：他长得活脱儿像他母亲，然而丝毫也没有通常那种必然会使女人着迷的小白脸儿恶少气，兴许他生来就不是那号人。

可是假若斯蒂芬继承了他父亲的天赋（布卢姆相信是这样），这就在布卢姆心中展开了新的前景：例如参加芬格尔夫人为了开发爱尔兰工业而于本周的星期一举办的那种音乐会[299] 啦，出入于一般上流社会什么的。

此刻那个青年正在讲解着以《这里青春已到尽头》为主调的精采的变奏曲。这出自简·皮特尔宗·斯韦林克[300] 之手。他是一个出生于荡妇的产地阿姆斯特丹的荷兰人。他更喜欢约翰内斯·吉普[301]那首德国的古老民谣，它描绘晴朗的海，赛仑——那些杀男人的美丽凶手——的歌喉。布卢姆听了，有点儿吃惊：

赛仑蛊惑人心，

诗人如此吟诵。[302]

他唱完开头一节，就当场[303] 译了出来。布卢姆点点头说，他完全懂了，央求斯蒂芬尽管唱下去。他就照办了。

他那男高音的音色极其纯美，表现出罕见的才华。布卢姆刚听了第一个音调就加以赞赏。倘若他能得到像巴勒克拉夫[304]那样一位公认的发声法权威的适当指导，再学会读乐谱，既然男中音已多得烂了市，他就不难随意为自己标价。那样一来，不久的将来，这位幸福的美声歌唱家就有机会出入于[305] 经营大企业的财界巨头和有头衔者那坐落在最高级住宅区的时髦府邸。不论他拥有的文学士学位（那本身就是堂哉皇哉的广告），还是他那绅士派头，都足以为本来就美好的印象更加锦上添花，这样就会万无一失地取得不同凡响的成功。何况他既有头脑，又能够用来达到此目的并满足其他需求。倘若他再注意一下服装的考究，那就更能慢慢博得高雅人士的垂顾。对于社交界在服装剪裁等方面的讲究他是个乳臭未干的新手，简直不明白那样一些区区小节怎么会成为绊脚石。事实上，再过上几个月他就可以预见到斯蒂芬在欢度圣诞节期间，怎样有所选择地参加他们所举行的有关音乐艺术的恳谈会[ 306]了，从而在淑女们的鸽棚里掀起轻微的波澜[307] ，在寻求刺激的太太小姐们当中引起一番轰动。据他所知，这种事儿以前也记载过好几档子。从前，只要他有意，蛮可以不露马脚、不费吹灰之力地就能……当然喽，除了学费而外，同时还有决不可等闲视之的金钱报酬。他附带说明一下：其实并不一定图几个臭钱就作为一种职业积年累月地站在乐坛上。毋宁说，那是朝着必然的方向迈进的一步，不论是从金钱上还是精神上，都丝毫无损于尊严。当你手头急需钱的时候，有人递过一张支票来，也不无小补。况且尽管近来人们对于音乐的鉴赏力每况愈下，可是不落俗套的那种富于独创性的音乐还是很快地就会风靡一时。正值伊凡·圣奥斯特尔和希尔顿·圣贾斯特以及所有这号人[308] 把投合时好的男高音独唱偷偷塞给轻信的观众并照例掀起陈腐的流行之后，斯蒂芬的演唱无疑地会给都柏林的音乐界带来一股新风。是呀。毫无疑问，他是做得到的，他必然稳操胜券。这是博取名声、赢得全市尊敬的大好机会。他会成为台柱子，会有人同他签订演出合同，也会为国王街剧场[309]那些捧他的听众举行一场大规模演奏会的。还得有个后台，也就是说，倘若——这个“倘若”可非同小可——有人愿意出力硬把他推上去，凭着这股势头来防止那种不可避免的因循萎靡。凡是那些被老好人当作贵公子般娇纵坏了的红角儿，都容易陷进这样的状态。干这行当丝毫也不会损害另外的事。他可以我行我素，只要自己愿意，有的是余暇来自修文学。文学进修是个人的问题，完全不会妨碍或有损于歌手这一行当。说实在的，球就在他脚下，正因为如此，另外那个嗅觉异常敏锐、任何苗头都绝逃不过的家伙[310]才缠住他不放。

就在这当儿，马……过了一会儿，他（即布卢姆）在适当时机，本着“傻子迈进天使……之处”[311] 的原则，在完全不去追问斯蒂芬私事的情况下劝他跟某某即将开业的医生断绝往来。他留意到，此人倾向于瞧不起斯蒂芬。当斯蒂芬本人不在场时，甚至借着开玩笑来贬低他几句，或者随便怎么说吧，反正据布卢姆的拙见，就是在一个人的品格的某个侧面上投下讨厌的阴影——这里他要讲的绝不是什么双关的俏皮话。

那匹马走到绷得紧紧的缰绳尽端（姑且这么说），停了下来，高高地甩起高傲而毛茸茸的尾巴。为了在即将被刷净打磨光的路面添加上自己的一份，就拉了三泡冒热气的粪便。它从肥大的屁股里慢吞吞、一团团地、分三次拉下屎来。车把式坐在他那装有长柄大镰刀的车[312] 里，善心而有耐性地等待着他（或她）拉完。

幸而发生了这一事故[313] ，布卢姆和斯蒂芬才肩并肩地从那被直柱隔开来的栏链的空隙爬过去，迈过一溜儿泥泞，朝着下加德纳街横跨过去。斯蒂芬虽然没有放开嗓门，却用更加激越的声调唱完了那首歌谣：

所有的船只搭成了一座桥。[314]

不管是好话、坏话还是不好不坏的话，反正车把式一言也未发。他坐在低靠背的车[315]上，只是目送这两个都穿着黑衣服的身影一—一胖一瘦——朝着铁道桥走去，由马尔神父给成婚。[ 316] 他们走一程又停下脚步，随后又走起来，继续交头接耳地谈着（车把式当然被排除在外）。内容包括男人的理智之敌赛仑，还夹杂着同一类型的一系列其他话题，篡夺者啦，类似的历史事件什么的。这当儿坐在清扫车——或者可以称之为卧车[317]——里的那个人无论如何也是听不见的，因为他们离得太远了。他只是在挨近下加德纳街尽头处坐在自己的坐位上，目送着他们那辆低靠背的车。[318]

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