尤利西斯（Ulysses）第四章
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MR LEOPOLD BLOOM ATE WITH RELISH THE INNER ORGANS OF BEASTS and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast heart, liver slices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencod's roes. Most of all he liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly scented urine. The coals were reddening. Another slice of bread and butter: three, four: right. She didn't like her plate full. Right. He turned from the tray, lifted the kettle off the hob and set it sideways on the fire. It sat there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out. Cup of tea soon. Good. Mouth dry. The cat walked stiffly round a leg of the table with tail on high. -- Mkgnao! -- O, there you are, Mr Bloom said, turning from the fire. The cat mewed in answer and stalked again stiffly round a leg of the table, mewing. Just how she stalks over my writing-table. Prr. Scratch my head. Prr. Mr Bloom watched curiously, kindly, the lithe black form. Clean to see: the gloss of her sleek hide, the white button under the butt of her tail, the green flashing eyes. He bent down to her, his hands on his knees. -- Milk for the pussens, he said. -- Mrkgnao! the cat cried. They call them stupid. They understand what we say better than we understand them. She understands all she wants to. Vindictive too. Wonder what I look like to her. Height of a tower? No, she can jump me. -- Afraid of the chickens she is, he said mockingly. Afraid of the chookchooks. I never saw such a stupid pussens as the pussens. Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it. -- Mrkrgnao! the cat said loudly. She blinked up out of her avid shameclosing eyes, mewing plaintively and long, showing him her milkwhite teeth. He watched the dark eyeslits narrowing with greed till her eyes were green stones. Then he went to the dresser, took the jug Hanlon's milkman had just filled for him, poured warmbubbled milk on a saucer and set it slowly on the floor. -- Gurrhr! she cried, running to lap. He watched the bristles shining wirily in the weak light as she tipped three times and licked lightly. Wonder is it true if you clip them they can't mouse after. Why? They shine in the dark, perhaps, the tips. Or kind of feelers in the dark, perhaps. He listened to her licking lap. Ham and eggs, no. No good eggs with this drouth. Want pure fresh water. Thursday: not a good day either for a mutton kidney at Buckley's. Fried with butter, a shake of pepper. Better a pork kidney at Dlugacz's. While the kettle is boiling. She lapped slower, then licking the saucer clean. Why are their tongues so rough? To lap better, all porous holes. Nothing she can eat? He glanced round him. No. On quietly creaky boots he went up the staircase to the hall, paused by the bedroom door. She might like something tasty. Thin bread and butter she likes in the morning. Still perhaps: once in a way. He said softly in the bare hall: -- I am going round the corner. Be back in a minute. And when he had heard his voice say it he added: -- You don't want anything for breakfast? A sleepy soft grunt answered: -- Mn. No. She did not want anything. He heard then a warm heavy sigh, softer, as she turned over and the loose brass quoits of the bedstead jingled. Must get those settled really. Pity. All the way from Gibraltar. Forgotten any little Spanish she knew. Wonder what her father gave for it. Old style. Ah yes, of course. Bought it at the governor's auction. Got a short knock. Hard as nails at a bargain, old Tweedy. Yes, sir. At Plevna that was. I rose from the ranks, sir, and I'm proud of it. Still he had brains enough to make that corner in stamps. Now that was farseeing. His hand took his hat from the peg over his initialled heavy overcoat, and his lost property office secondhand waterproof. Stamps: stickyback pictures. Daresay lots of officers are in the swim too. Course they do. The sweated legend in the crown of his hat told him mutely: Plasto's high grade ha. He peeped quickly inside the leather headband. White slip of paper. Quite safe. On the doorstep he felt in his hip pocket for the latchkey. Not there. In the trousers I left off. Must get it. Potato I have. Creaky wardrobe. No use disturbing her. She turned over sleepily that time. He pulled the halldoor to after him very quietly, more, till the footleaf dropped gently over the threshold, a limp lid. Looked shut. All right till I come back anyhow. He crossed to the bright side, avoiding the loose cellarflap of number seventyfive. The sun was nearing the steeple of George's church. Be a warm day I fancy. Specially in these black clothes feel it more. Black conducts, reflects (refracts is it?), the heat. But I couldn't go in that light suit. Make a picnic of it. His eyelids sank quietly often as he walked in happy warmth. Boland's breadvan delivering with trays our daily but she prefers yesterday's loaves turnovers crisp crowns hot. Makes you feel young. Somewhere in the east: early morning: set off at dawn, travel round in front of the sun, steal a day's march on him. Keep it up for ever never grow a day older technically. Walk along a strand, strange land, come to a city gate, sentry there, old ranker too, old Tweedy's big moustaches leaning on a long kind of a spear. Wander through awned streets. Turbaned faces going by. Dark caves of carpet shops, big man, Turko the terrible, seated crosslegged smoking a coiled pipe. Cries of sellers in the streets. Drink water scented with fennel, sherbet. Wander along all day. Might meet a robber or two. Well, meet him. Getting on to sundown. The shadows of the mosques along the pillars: priest with a scroll rolled up. A shiver of the trees, signal, the evening wind. I pass on. Fading gold sky. A mother watches from her doorway. She calls her children home in their dark language. High wall: beyond strings twanged. Night sky moon, violet, colour of Molly's new garters. Strings. Listen. A girl playing one of these instruments what do you call them: dulcimers. I pass. Probably not a bit like it really. Kind of stuff you read: in the track of the sun. Sunburst on the titlepage. He smiled, pleasing himself. What Arthur Griffith said about the headpiece over the Freeman leader: a homerule sun rising up in the northwest from the laneway behind the bank of Ireland. He prolonged his pleased smile. Ikey touch that: homerule sun rising up in the northwest. He approached Larry O'Rourke's. From the cellar grating floated up the flabby gush of porter. Through the open doorway the bar squirted out whiffs of ginger, teadust, biscuitmush. Good house, however: just the end of the city traffic. For instance M'Auley's down there: n. g. as position. Of course if they ran a tramline along the North Circular from the cattle market to the quays value would go up like a shot. Bald head over the blind. Cute old codger. No use canvassing him for an ad. Still he knows his own business best. There he Is, sure enough, my bold Larry, leaning against the sugarbin in his shirtsleeves watching the aproned curate swab up with mop and bucket. Simon Dedalus takes him off to a tee with his eyes screwed up. Do you know what I'm going to tell you? What's that, Mr O'Rourke? Do you know what? The Russians, they'd only be an eight o'clock breakfast for the Japanese. Stop and say a word: about the funeral perhaps. Sad thing about poor Dignam, Mr O'Rourke. Turning into Dorset street he said freshly in greeting through the doorway: -- Good day, Mr O'Rourke. -- Good day to you. -- Lovely weather, sir. -- 'Tis all that. Where do they get the money? Coming up redheaded curates from the county Leitrim, rinsing empties and old man in the cellar. Then, lo and behold, they blossom out as Adam Findlaters or Dan Tallons. Then think of the competition. General thirst. Good puzzle would be cross Dublin without passing a pub. Save it they can't. Off the drunks perhaps. Put down three and carry five. What is that? A bob here and there, dribs and drabs. On the wholesale orders perhaps. Doing a double shuffle with the town travellers. Square it with the boss and we'll split the job, see? How much would that tot to off the porter in the month? Say ten barrels of stuff. Say he got ten per cent off. O more. Ten. Fifteen. He passed Saint Joseph's, National school. Brats' clamour. Windows open. Fresh air helps memory. Or a lilt. Ahbeesee defeegee kelomen opeecue rustyouvee double you. Boys are they? Yes. Inishturk. Inishark. Inishboffin. At their joggerfry. Mine. Slieve Bloom. He halted before Dlugacz's window, staring at the hanks of sausages, polonies, black and white. Fifty multiplied by. The figures whitened in his mind unsolved: displeased, he let them fade. The shiny links packed with forcemeat fed his gaze and he breathed in tranquilly the lukewarm breath of cooked spicy pig's blood. A kidney oozed bloodgouts on the willowpatterned dish: the last. He stood by the nextdoor girl at the counter. Would she buy it too, calling the items from a slip in her hand. Chapped: washing soda. And a pound and a half of Denny's sausages. His eyes rested on her vigorous hips. Woods his name is. Wonder what he does. Wife is oldfish. New blood. No followers allowed. Strong pair of arms. Whacking a carpet on the clothesline. She does whack it, by George. The way her crooked skirt swings at each whack. The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had snipped off with blotchy fingers, sausagepink. Sound meat there like a stallfed heifer. He took up a page from the pile of cut sheets. The model farm at Kinnereth on the lakeshore of Tiberias. Can become ideal winter sanatorium. Moses Montefiore. I thought he was. Farmhouse, wall round it, blurred cattle cropping. He held the page from him: interesting: read it nearer, the blurred cropping cattle, the page rustling. A young white heifer. Those mornings in the cattlemarket the beasts lowing in their pens, branded sheep, flop and fall of dung, the breeders in hobnailed boots trudging through the litter, slapping a palm on a ripemeated hindquarter, there's a prime one, unpeeled switches in their hands. He held the page aslant patiently, bending his senses and his will, his soft subject gaze at rest. The crooked skirt swinging whack by whack by whack. The porkbutcher snapped two sheets from the pile, wrapped up her prime sausages and made a red grimace. -- Now, my miss, he said. She tendered a coin, smiling boldly, holding her thick wrist out. -- Thank you, my miss. And one shilling threepence change. For you, please? Mr Bloom pointed quickly. To catch up and walk behind her if she went slowly, behind her moving hams. Pleasant to see first thing in the morning. Hurry up, damn it. Make hay while the sun shines. She stood outside the shop in sunlight and sauntered lazily to the right. He sighed down his nose: they never understand. Sodachapped hands. Crusted toenails too. Brown scapulars in tatters, defending her both ways. The sting of disregard glowed to weak pleasure within his breast. For another a constable off duty cuddled her in Eccles Lane. They like them sizeable. Prime sausage. O please, Mr Policeman, I'm lost in the wood. -- Threepence, please. His hand accepted the moist tender gland and slid it into a sidepocket. Then it fetched up three coins from his trousers' pocket and laid them on the rubber prickles. They lay, were read quickly and quickly slid, disc by disc, into the till. -- Thank you, sir. Another time. A speck of eager fire from foxeyes thanked him. He withdrew his gaze after an instant. No: better not: another time. -- Good morning, he said, moving away. -- Good morning, sir. No sign. Gone. What matter? He walked back along Dorset street, reading gravely. Agendath Netaim: planter's company. To purchase vast sandy tracts from Turkish government and plant with eucalyptus trees. Excellent for shade, fuel and construction. Orangegroves and immense melonfields north of Jaffa. You pay eight marks and they plant a dunam of land for you with olives, oranges, almonds or citrons. Olives cheaper: oranges need artificial irrigation. Every year you get a sending of the crop. Your name entered for life as owner in the book of the union. Can pay ten down and the balance in yearly instalments. Bleibtreustrasse 34, Berlin, W. 15. Nothing doing. Still an idea behind it. He looked at the cattle, blurred in silver heat. Silvered powdered olivetrees. Quiet long days: pruning ripening. Olives are packed in jars, eh? I have a few left from Andrews. Molly spitting them out. Knows the taste of them now. Oranges in tissue paper packed in crates. Citrons too. Wonder is poor Citron still alive in Saint Kevin's parade. And Mastiansky with the old cither. Pleasant evenings we had then. Molly in Citron's basketchair. Nice to hold, cool waxen fruit, hold in the hand, lift it to the nostrils and smell the perfume. Like that, heavy, sweet, wild perfume. Always the same, year after year. They fetched high prices too Moisel told me. Arbutus place: Pleasants street: pleasant old times. Must be without a flaw, he said. Coming all that way: Spain, Gibraltar, Mediterranean, the Levant. Crates lined up on the quayside at Jaffa, chap ticking them off in a book, navvies handling them in soiled dungarees. There's whatdoyoucallhim out of. How do you? Doesn't see. Chap you know just to salute bit of a bore. His back is like that Norwegian captain's. Wonder if I'll meet him today. Watering cart. To provoke the rain. On earth as it is in heaven. A cloud began to cover the sun wholly slowly wholly. Grey. Far. No, not like that. A barren land, bare waste. Vulcanic lake, the dead sea: no fish, weedless, sunk deep in the earth. No wind would lift those waves, grey metal, poisonous foggy waters. Brimstone they called it raining down: the cities of the plain: Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom. All dead names. A dead sea in a dead land, grey and old. Old now. It bore the oldest, the first race. A bent hag crossed from Cassidy's clutching a noggin bottle by the neck. The oldest people. Wandered far away over all the earth, captivity to captivity, multiplying, dying, being born everywhere. It lay there now. Now it could bear no more. Dead: an old woman's: the grey sunken cunt of the world. Desolation. Grey horror seared his flesh. Folding the page into his pocket he turned into Eccles Street, hurrying homeward. Cold oils slid along his veins, chilling his blood: age crusting him with a salt cloak. Well, I am here now. Morning mouth bad images. Got up wrong side of the bed. Must begin again those Sandow's exercises. On the hands down. Blotchy brown brick houses. Number eighty still unlet. Why is that? Valuation is only twenty-eight. Towers, Battersby, North, MacArthur: parlour windows plastered with bills. Plasters on a sore eye. To smell the gentle smoke of tea, fume of the pan, sizzling butter. Be near her ample bedwarmed flesh. Yes, yes. Quick warm sunlight came running from Berkeley Road, swiftly, in slim sandals, along the brightening footpath. Runs, she runs to meet me, a girl with gold hair on the wind. Two letters and a card lay on the hallfloor. He stopped and gathered them. Mrs Marion Bloom. His quick heart slowed at once. Bold hand. Mrs Marion. -- Poldy! Entering the bedroom he halfclosed his eyes and walked through warm yellow twilight towards her tousled head. -- Who are the letters for? He looked at them. Mullingar. Milly. -- A letter for me from Milly, he said carefully, and a card to you. And a letter for you. He laid her card and letter on the twill bedspread near the curve of her knees. -- Do you want the blind up? Letting the blind up by gentle tugs halfway his backward eye saw her glance at the letter and tuck it under her pillow. -- That do? he asked, turning. She was reading the card, propped on her elbow. -- She got the things, she said. He waited till she had laid the card aside and curled herself back slowly with a snug sigh. -- Hurry up with that tea, she said. I'm parched. -- The kettle is boiling, he said. But he delayed to clear the chair: her striped petticoat, tossed soiled linen: and lifted all in an armful on to the foot of the bed. As he went down the kitchen stairs she called: -- Poldy! -- What? -- Scald the teapot. On the boil sure enough: a plume of steam from the spout. He scalded and rinsed out the teapot and put in four full spoons of tea, tilting the kettle then to let water flow in. Having set it to draw, he took off the kettle and crushed the pan flat on the live coals and watched the lump of butter slide and melt. While he unwrapped the kidney the cat mewed hungrily against him. Give her too much meat she won't mouse. Say they won't eat pork. Kosher. Here. He let the bloodsmeared paper fall to her and dropped the kidney amid the sizzling butter sauce. Pepper. He sprinkled it through his fingers, ringwise, from the chipped eggcup. Then he slit open his letter, glancing down the page and over. Thanks: new tam: Mr Coghlan: lough Owel picnic: young student: Blazes Boylan's seaside girls. The tea was drawn. He filled his own moustachecup, sham crown Derby, smiling. Silly Milly's birthday gift. Only five she was then. No wait: four. I gave her the amberoid necklace she broke. Putting pieces of folded brown paper in the letterbox for her. He smiled, pouring. O Milly Bloom, you are my darling. Nudging the door open with his knee he carried the tray in and set it on the chair by the bedhead. -- What a time you were, she said. She set the brasses jingling as she raised herself briskly, an elbow on the pillow. He looked calmly down on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within her nightdress like a shegoat's udder. The warmth of her couched body rose on the air, mingling with the fragrance of the tea she poured. A strip of torn envelope peeped from under the dimpled pillow. In the act of going he stayed to straighten the bedspread. -- Who was the letter from? he asked. Bold hand. Marion. -- O, Boylan, she said. He's bringing the programme. -- What are you singing? -- La ci darem with J. C. Doyle, she said, and Love's Old Sweet Song. Her full lips, drinking, smiled. Rather stale smell that incense leaves next day. Like foul flowerwater. -- Would you like the window open a little? She doubled a slice of bread into her mouth, asking: -- What time is the funeral? -- Eleven, I think, he answered. I didn't see the paper. Following the pointing of her finger he took up a leg of her soiled drawers from the bed. No? Then, a twisted grey garter looped round a stocking: rumpled, shiny sole. -- No: that book. Other stocking. Her petticoat. -- It must have fell down, she said. He felt here and there. Voglio e non vorvez. Wonder if she pronounces that right: voglio. Not in the bed. Must have slid down. He stooped and lifted the valance. The book, fallen, sprawled against the bulge of the orange-keyed chamberpot. -- Show here, she said. I put a mark in it. There's a word I wanted to ask you. She swallowed a draught of tea from her cup held by nothandle and, having wiped her fingertips smartly on the blanket, began to search the text with the hairpin till she reached the word. -- Met him what? he asked. -- Here, she said. What does that mean? He leaned downwards and read near her polished thumbnail. -- Metempsychosis? -- Yes. Who's he when he's at home? -- Metempsychosis, he said, frowning. It's Greek: from the Greek. That means the transmigration of souls. -- O, rocks! she said. Tell us in plain words. He smiled, glancing askance at her mocking eye. The same young eyes. The first night after the charades. Dolphin's Barn. He turned over the smudged pages. Ruby: the Pride of the Ring. Hello. Illustration. Fierce Italian with carriagewhip. Must be Ruby pride of the on the floor naked. Sheet kindly lent. The monster Maffei desisted and flung his victim from him with an oath. Cruelty behind it all. Doped animals. Trapeze at Hengler's. Had to look the other way. Mob gaping. Break your neck and we'll break our sides. Families of them. Bone them young so they metempsychosis. That we live after death. Our souls. That a man's soul after he dies. Dignam's soul... -- Did you finish it? he asked. -- Yes, she said. There's nothing smutty in it. Is she in love with the first fellow all the time? -- Never read it. Do you want another? -- Yes. Get another of Paul de Kock's. Nice name he has. She poured more tea into her cup, watching its flow sideways. Must get that Capel street library book renewed or they'll write to Kearney, my guarantor. Reincarnation: that's the word. -- Some people believe, he said, that we go on living in another body after death, that we lived before. They call it reincarnation. That we all lived before on the earth thousands of years ago or some other planet. They say we have forgotten it. Some say they remember their past lives. The sluggish cream wound curdling spirals through her tea. Better remind her of the word: metempsychosis. An example would be better. An example. The Bath of the Nymph over the bed. Given away with the Easter number of Photo Bits: Splendid masterpiece in art colours. Tea before you put milk in. Not unlike her with her hair down: slimmer. Three and six I gave for the frame. She said it would look nice over the bed. Naked nymphs: Greece: and for instance all the people that lived then. He turned the pages back. -- Metempsychosis, he said, is what the ancient Greeks called it. They used to believe you could be changed into an animal or a tree, for instance. What they called nymphs, for example. Her spoon ceased to stir up the sugar. She gazed straight before her, inhaling through her arched nostrils. -- There's a smell of burn, she said. Did you leave anything on the fire? -- The kidney! he cried suddenly. He fitted the book roughly into his inner pocket and, stubbing his toes against the broken commode, hurried out towards the smell, stepping hastily down the stairs with a flurried stork's legs. Pungent smoke shot up in an angry Jet from a side of the pan. By prodding a prong of the fork under the kidney he detached it and turned it turtle on its back. Only a little burned. He tossed it off the pan on to a plate and let the scanty brown gravy trickle over it. Cup of tea now. He sat down, cut and buttered a slice of the loaf. He shore away the burnt flesh and flung it to the cat. Then he put a forkful into his mouth, chewing with discernment the toothsome pliant meat. Done to a turn. A mouthful of tea. Then he cut away dies of bread, sopped one in the gravy and put it in his mouth. What was that about some young student and a picnic? He creased out the letter at his side, reading it slowly as he chewed, sopping another die of bread in the gravy and raising it to his mouth. Dearest Papli, Your fond daughter, MILLY. P.S. Excuse bad writing, am in a hurry. Byby. Fifteen yesterday. Curious, fifteenth of the month too. Her first birthday away from home. Separation. Remember the summer morning she was born, running to knock up Mrs Thornton in Denzille street. Jolly old woman. Lots of babies she must have helped into the world. She knew from the first poor little Rudy wouldn't live. Well, God is good, sir. She knew at once. He would be eleven now if he had lived. O well: she knows how to mind herself. But if not? No, nothing has happened. Of course it might. Wait in any case till it does. A wild piece of goods. Her slim legs running up the staircase. Destiny. Ripening now. Vain: very. He smiled with troubled affection at the kitchen window. Day I caught her in the street pinching her cheeks to make them red. An&Aelig;mic a little. Was given milk too long. On the Erin's King that day round the Kish. Damned old tub pitching about. Not a bit funky. Her pale blue scarf loose in the wind with her hair. All dimpled cheek's and curls, Better where she is down there: away. Occupy her. Wanted a dog to pass the time. Might take a trip down there. August bank holiday, only two and six return. Six weeks off however. Might work a press pass. Or through M'Coy. The cat, having cleaned all her fur, returned to the meatstained paper, nosed at it and stalked to the door. She looked back at him, mewing. Wants to go out. Wait before a door sometime it will open. Let her wait. Has the fidgets. Electric. Thunder in the air. Was washing at her ear with her back to the fire too. He felt heavy, full: then a gentle loosening of his bowels. He stood up, undoing the waistband of his trousers. The cat mewed to him. -- Miaow! he said in answer. Wait till I'm ready. Heaviness: hot day coming. Too much trouble to fag up the stairs to the landing. A paper. He liked to read at stool. Hope no ape comes knocking just as I'm. In the table drawer he found an old number of Titbits. He folded it under his armpit, went to the door and opened it. The cat went up in soft bounds. Ah, wanted to go upstairs, curl up in a ball on the bed. Listening, he heard her voice: -- Come, come, pussy. Come. He went out through the backdoor into the garden: stood to listen towards the next garden. No sound. Perhaps hanging clothes out to dry. The maid was in the garden. Fine morning. He bent down to regard a lean file of spearmint growing by the wall. Make a summerhouse here. Scarlet runners. Virginia creepers. Want to manure the whole place over, scabby soil. A coat of liver of sulphur. All soil like that without dung. Household slops. Loam, what is this that is? The hens in the next garden: their droppings are very good top dressing. Best of all though are the cattle, especially when they are fed on those oilcakes. Mulch of dung. Best thing to clean ladies' kid gloves. Dirty cleans. Ashes too. Reclaim the whole place. Grow peas in that corner there. Lettuce. Always have fresh greens then. Still gardens have their drawbacks. That bee or bluebottle here Whitmonday. He walked on. Where is my hat, by the way? Must have put it back on the peg. Or hanging up on the floor. Funny, I don't remember that. Hallstand too full. Four umbrellas, her rain cloak. Picking up the letters. Drago's shopbell ringing. Queer I was just thinking that moment. Brown brilliantined hair over his collar. Just had a wash and brushup. Wonder have I time for a bath this morning. Tara street. Chap in the paybox there got away James Stephens they say. O'Brien. Deep voice that fellow Dlugacz has. Agenda what is it? Now, my miss. Enthusiast. He kicked open the crazy door of the jakes. Better be careful not to get these trousers dirty for the funeral. He went in, bowing his head under the low lintel. Leaving the door ajar, amid the stench of mouldy limewash and stale cobwebs he undid his braces. Before sitting down he peered through a chink up at the nextdoor window. The king was in his counting house. Nobody. Asquat on the cuckstool he folded out his paper turning its pages over on his bared knees. Something new and easy. No great hurry. Keep it a bit. Our prize titbit. Matcham's Masterstrike. Written by Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers' club, London. Payment at the rate of one guinea a column has been made to the writer. Three and a half. Three pounds three. Three pounds thirteen and six. Quietly he read, restraining himself, the first column and, yielding but resisting, began the second. Midway, his last resistance yielding, he allowed his bowels to ease themselves quietly as he read, reading still patiently, that slight constipation of yesterday quite gone. Hope it's not too big bring on piles again. No, just right. So. Ah! Costive one tabloid of cascara sagrada. Life might be so. It did not move or touch him but it was something quick and neat. Print anything now. Silly season. He read on, seated calm above his own rising smell. Neat certainly. Matcham often thinks of the master-stroke by which he won the laughing witch who now. Begins and ends morally. Hand in hand. Smart. He glanced back through what he had read and, while feeling his water flow quietly, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had written it and received payment of three pounds thirteen and six. Might manage a sketch. By Mr and Mrs L. M. Bloom. Invent a story for some proverb which? Time I used to try jotting down on my cuff what she said dressing. Dislike dressing together. Nicked myself shaving. Biting her nether Hip, hooking the placket of her skirt. Timing her. 9.15. Did Roberts pay you yet? 9.20. What had Gretta Conroy on? 9.23. What possessed me to buy this comb? 9.24. I'm swelled after that cabbage. A speck of dust on the patent leather of her boot. Rubbing smartly in turn each welt against her stocking calf. Morning after the bazaar dance when May's band played Ponchielli's dance of the hours. Explain that morning hours, noon, then evening coming on, then night hours. Washing her teeth. That was the first night. Her head dancing. Her fansticks clicking. Is that Boylan well off? He has money. Why? I noticed he had a good smell off his breath dancing. No use humming then. Allude to it. Strange kind of music that last night. The mirror was in shadow. She rubbed her handglass briskly on her woollen vest against her full wagging bub. Peering into it. Lines in her eyes. It wouldn't pan out somehow. Evening hours, girls in grey gauze. Night hours then black with daggers and eyemasks. Poetical idea pink, then golden, then grey, then black. Still true to life also. Day, then the night. He tore away half the prize story sharply and wiped himself with it. Then he girded up his trousers, braced and buttoned himself. He pulled back the jerky shaky door of the jakes and came forth from the gloom into the air. In the bright light, lightened and cooled in limb, he eyed carefully his black trousers, the ends, the knees, the houghs of the knees. What time is the funeral? Better find out in the paper. A creak and a dark whirr in the air high up. The bells of George's church. They tolled the hour: loud dark iron. Heigho! Heigho! 利奥波德·布卢姆先生吃起牲口和家禽的下水来，真是津津有味。他喜欢浓郁的杂碎汤、有嚼头的胗、填料后用文火焙的心、裹着面包渣儿煎的肝片和炸雌鳕卵。他尤其爱吃在烤架上烤的羊腰子。那淡淡的骚味微妙地刺激着他的味觉。 当他脚步轻盈地在厨房里转悠，把她早餐用的食品摆在盘底儿隆起来的托盘上时，脑子里想的就是腰子的事。厨房里，光和空气是冰冷的，然而户外却洋溢着夏晨的温煦，使他觉得肚子有点饿了。 煤块燃红了。 再添一片涂了黄油的面包，三片，四片，成啦。她不喜欢把盘子装得满满的。他把视线从托盘移开，取下炉架上的开水壶，将它侧着坐在炉火上。水壶百无聊赖地蹲在那儿，噘着嘴。很快就能喝上茶了。蛮好。口渴啦。 猫儿高高地翘起尾巴，绷紧身子，绕着一条桌腿走来走去。 “喵!” “哦，你在这儿哪。”布卢姆先生从炉火前回过头去说。 猫儿回答了一声“眯”，又绷紧身子，绕着桌腿兜圈子，一路眯眯叫着。它在我的书桌上踅行时，也是这样的。噗噜噜。替我挠挠头。噗噜噜。 布卢姆先生充满好奇地凝视着它那绵软的黑色身姿，看上去干净利落，柔滑的毛皮富于光泽，尾根部一块钮扣状的白斑，绿色的眼睛闪闪发光。他双手扶膝，朝它弯下身去。 “小猫眯要喝牛奶喽，”，他说。 “喵!”猫儿叫了一声。 大家都说猫笨。其实，它们对我们的话理解得比我们对它们更清楚。凡是它想要理解的，它全能理解。它天性还记仇，并且残忍。奇怪的是老鼠从来不嗞嗞叫，好像蛮喜欢猫儿哩。我倒是很想知道我在它眼里究竟是个什么样子。高得像座塔吗？不，它能从我身上跳过去。 “它害怕小鸡哩，”他调侃地说，“害怕咯咯叫的小鸡。我从来没见过像小猫眯这么笨的小猫。” “喵噢!”猫儿大声说了。 它那双贪馋的眼睛原是羞涩地阖上的，如今眨巴着，拉长声调呜呜叫着，露出乳白色牙齿。他望着它那深色眼缝贪婪地眯得越来越细，变得活像一对绿宝石。然后他到食具柜前，拿起汉隆[1]那家送牛奶的刚为他灌满的罐子，倒了一小碟还冒着泡的温奶，将它慢慢地撂在地板上。 “咯噜!”猫儿边叫着边跑过去舔。 它三次屈身去碰了碰才开始轻轻地舔食，口髭在微光中像钢丝般发着亮。他边注视着，边寻思：说要是把猫那撮口髭剪掉，它就再也捕不到老鼠了，不晓得会不会真是那样。这是为什么呢？兴许是由于它那口髭的尖儿在暗处发光吧。要么就是在黑暗中起着触角般的作用。 他侧耳听着它吱吱吱舐食的声音。做火腿蛋吧，可别。天气这么干旱，没有好吃的蛋。缺的是新鲜的清水。星期四嘛，巴克利那家店里这一天也不会有可口的羊腰子。用黄油煎过以后，再撒上胡椒面吧。烧着开水的当儿，不如到德鲁加茨肉铺去买副猪腰子。猫儿放慢了舔的速度，然后把碟子舔个一干二净。猫舌头为什么那么粗糙？上面净是气孔，便于舔食。有没有它可吃的东西呢？他四下里打量了一番。没有。 他穿着那双稍微吱吱响的靴子，攀上楼梯，走到过道，并在寝室门前停下来。她也许想要点好吃的东西。早晨她喜欢吃涂了黄油的薄面包片。不过，也许偶尔要换换口味。 他在空荡荡的过道里悄声儿说： “我到拐角去一趟，一会儿就回来。” 他听见自己说这话的声音之后，就又加上一句， “早餐你想来点儿什么吗？” 一个半睡半醒中的声音轻轻地咕哝道： “唔。” 不，她什么都不要。这时，他听到深深的一声热呼呼的叹息。她翻了翻身，床架上那松垮垮的黄铜环随之叮零噹啷直响。叹息声轻了下来。真得让人把铜环修好。可怜啊。还是老远地从直布罗陀运来的呢。她那点西班牙语也忘得一干二净了。不知道她父亲在这张床上花了多少钱，它是老式的。啊，对，当然喽。是在总督府举办的一次拍卖会上几个回合就买下的。老特威迪在讨价还价方面可真精明哩。是啊，先生。那是在普列文[2]。我是行伍出身的，先生，而且以此为自豪。他很有头脑，竟然垄断起邮票生意来了。这可是有先见之明。 他伸手从挂钩上取下帽子。那下面挂的是绣着姓名首字的沉甸甸的大笔和从失物招领处买到的处理雨衣。邮票。背面涂着胶水的图片。军官们从中捞到好处的不在少数。当然喽。他的帽里儿上那汗碱斑斑的商标默默地告诉他，这是顶普拉斯托的高级帽子。他朝帽子衬里上绷的那圈鞣皮瞥了一眼。一张白纸片[3]十分安全地夹在那里。 他站在门口的台阶上，摸了摸后裤兜，找大门钥匙。咦，不在这儿，在我脱下来的那条裤子里。得把它拿来。土豆[4]倒是还在。衣橱总咯吱咯吱响，犯不上去打扰她。刚才她翻身的时候还睡意朦胧呢。他悄悄地把大门带上，又拉严实一些，直到门底下的护皮轻轻地覆盖住门槛，就像柔嫩的眼皮似的。看来是关严了。横竖在我回来之前，蛮可以放心。 他躲开七十五号门牌的地窖那松散的盖板，跨到马路向阳的那边。太阳快照到乔治教堂的尖顶了。估计这天挺暖和。穿着这套黑衣服，就更觉得热了。黑色是传热的，或许反射(要么就是折射吧？)热。可是我总不能穿浅色的衣服去呀。那倒像是去野餐哩。他在洋溢着幸福的温暖中踱步，时常安详地闭上眼睑。博兰食品店的面包车正用托盘送着当天烤的面包，然而她更喜欢隔天的面包，两头烤得热热的，外壳焦而松脆，吃起来觉得像是恢复了青春。清晨，在东方的某处，天刚蒙蒙亮就出发，抢在太阳头里环行，就能赢得一天的旅程。按道理说，倘若永远这么坚持下去，就一天也不会变老。沿着异域的岸滩一路步行，来到一座城门跟前。那里有个上了年纪的岗哨，也是行伍出身，留着一副老特威迪那样的大口髭，倚着一杆长矛枪，穿过有遮篷的街道而行。一张张缠了穆斯林头巾的脸走了过去。黑洞洞的地毯店，身材高大的可怕的土耳克[5]盘腿而坐，抽着螺旋管烟斗。街上是小贩的一片叫卖声。喝那加了茴香的水，冰镇果汁。成天溜溜达达。兴许会碰上一两个强盗哩。好，碰上就碰上。太阳快落了。清真寺的阴影投射到一簇圆柱之间。手捧经卷的僧侣。树枝颤悠了一下，晚风即将袭来的信号。我走过去。金色的天空逐渐暗淡下来。一位作母亲的站在门口望着我。她用难懂的语言把孩子们喊回家去。高墙后面发出弦乐声。夜空，月亮，紫罗兰色，像摩莉的新袜带的颜色;琴弦声。听。一位少女在弹奏着一种乐器——叫什么来着？大扬琴。我走了过去。 其实，也许完全不是那么回事。在书上可以读到沿着太阳的轨道前进这套话。扉页上是一轮灿烂的旭日。他暗自感到高兴，漾出微笑。阿瑟·格里菲思[6]曾提过《自由人报》[7]社论花饰：自治的太阳从西北方向爱尔兰银行后面的小巷冉冉升起。他继续愉快地微笑着。这种说法有着犹太人的味道，自治的太阳从西北方冉冉升起。 他走近了拉里·奥罗克的酒店。隔着地窖的格子窗飘出走了气的黑啤酒味儿。从酒店那敞着的门口冒出一股股姜麦酒、茶叶渣和糊状饼干气味。然而这是一家好酒店，刚好开在市内交通线的尽头。比方说，前边那家毛丽酒吧的地势就不行。当然喽，倘若从牲畜市场沿着北环路修起一条电车轨道通到码头，地皮价钱一下子就会飞涨。 遮篷上端露出个秃头，那是个精明而有怪癖的老头子。劝他登广告[8]算是白搭。可他最懂得生意经了。瞧，那准就是他。我那大胆的拉里[8]啊，他挽着衬衫袖子，倚着装砂糖的大木箱，望着那系了围裙的伙计用水桶和墩布在拖地。西蒙·迪达勒斯把眼角那么一吊，学他学得可像哩。你晓得我要告诉你什么吗？——哦，奥罗克先生？——你知道吗，对日本人来说，干掉那些俄国人就像是八点钟吃顿早饭那么轻而易举。[10] 停下来跟他说句话吧，说说葬礼什么的。——奥罗克先生，不幸的迪格纳穆多么令人伤心啊。 他转进多塞特街，朝着门道里面精神饱满地招呼道： “奥罗克先生，你好。” “你好。” “天气多么好哇，先生。” “可不是嘛。” 他们究竟是怎么赚的钱呢？从利特里姆[11]郡进城来的时候，他们只是些红头发伙计，在地窖里涮空瓶子，连顾客喝剩在杯中的酒也给攒起来。然后，瞧吧，转眼之间他们就兴旺起来，成为亚当·芬德莱特尔斯或丹·塔隆斯[12]那样的富户。竞争固然激烈，可大家都嗜酒嘛。要想穿过都柏林的市街而不遇到酒铺，那可是难上加难。节约可是办不到的。也许就在醉鬼身上打打算盘吧。下三先令的本钱，收回五先令。数目不大不碍事，这儿一先令，那儿一先令，一点一滴地攒吧。大概也接受批发商的订货吧。跟城里那些订货员勾结在一起，你向老板交了账，剩下的赚头就二一添作五，明白了吗？ 每个月能在黑啤酒上赚多少呢？按十桶算，纯利打一成吧。不，还要多些，百分之十五呗。他从圣约瑟公立小学跟前走过去。小鬼们一片喧哗。窗户大敞着。清新的空气能够帮助记忆，或许还有助于欢唱。哎哔唏、嘀咿哎呋叽、喀哎啦哎哞嗯、噢噼啾、呃哎咝吐喂、哒哺唲呦[13]。他们是男孩子吗？是的。伊尼施土耳克，伊尼沙克，伊尼施勃芬[14]，在上地理课哪。是我的哩。布卢姆山[15]。 他在德鲁加茨的橱窗前停下步子，直勾勾地望着那一束束黑白斑驳、半熟的干香肠。每束以十五根计，该是多少根呢？数字在他的脑子里变得模糊了，没算出来。他怏怏地听任它们消失。他馋涎欲滴地望着那塞满五香碎肉的一束束发亮的腊肠，并且安详地吸着调了香料做熟的猪血所发散出来的温暾气儿。 一副腰子在柳叶花纹的盘子上渗出黏糊糊的血，这是最后的一副了。他朝柜台走去，排在邻居的女仆后面。她念着手里那片纸上的项目。也买腰子吗？她的手都皴了。是洗东西时使碱使的吧。要一磅半丹尼腊肠。他的视线落在她那结实的臀部上。她的主人姓伍兹。也不晓得他都干了些什么名堂。他老婆己经上岁数了。这是青春的血液。可不许人跟在后面。她有着一双结实的胳膊，嘭嘭地拍打搭在晾衣绳上的地毯。哎呀，她拍得可真猛，随着拍打，她那歪歪拧拧的裙子就摇来摆去。 有着一双雪貂般眼睛的猪肉铺老板，用长满了疤、像腊肠那样粉红色的指头掐下几节腊肠，折叠在一起。这肉多么新鲜啊，像是圈里养的小母牛犊。 他从那一大摞裁好的报纸上拿了一张。上面有太巴列湖畔基尼烈模范农场的照片[16]。它可以成为一座理想的冬季休养地。我记得那农场主名叫摩西·蒙蒂斐奥雷[17]。一座农舍，有围墙，吃草的牛群照得模糊不清。他把那张纸放远一点来瞧，挺有趣。接着又凑近一点来读，标题啦，还有那模模糊糊、正吃草的牛群。报纸沙沙响着。一头白色母牛犊。牲畜市场[18]上，那些牲口每天早晨都在圈里叫着。被打上烙印的绵羊，吧嗒吧嗒地拉着屎。饲养员们脚登钉有平头钉的靴子，在褥草上踱来踱去，对准上了膘的后腿就是一巴掌，打得真响亮。他们手里拿着未剥皮的细树枝做的鞭子。他耐心地斜举着报纸，而感官和意念以及受其支配的柔和的视线却都凝聚在另外一点上:每拍打一下，歪歪扭扭的裙子就摆一下，嘭、嘭、嘭。 猪肉铺老板从那堆报纸上麻利地拿起两张，将她那上好的腊肠包起来，红脸膛咧嘴一笑。 “好啦，大姐。”他说。 她粗鲁地笑了笑，伸出肥实的手脖子，递过去一枚硬币。 “谢谢，大姐。我找您一先令三便士。您呢，要点儿什么？” 布卢姆先生赶紧指了指。要是她走得慢的话，还能追上去，跟在她那颤颤的火腿般的臀部后面走。大清早头一宗就饱了眼福。快点儿，他妈的。太阳好，就晒草。她在店外的阳光底下站了一会儿，就懒洋洋地朝右踱去。他在鼻子里长叹了一下，她们永远也不会懂人心意的。一双手都被碱弄皴了。脚趾甲上结成硬痂。破破烂烂的褐色无袖工作服，保护着她的一前一后。[19]由于被漠视，他心里感到一阵痛苦，渐渐又变成淡淡的快感。她属于另一个男人，下了班的警察在埃克尔斯街上搂抱她来着。她们喜欢大块头的[20]。上好的腊肠。求求你啦，警察先生，我在树林子里迷了路。[21] “是三便士，您哪。” 他的手接下那又黏糊又软和的腰子，把它滑入侧兜里。接着又从裤兜里掏出三枚硬币，放在麻面橡胶盘上。钱撂下后，迅速地过了目，就一枚一枚麻利地滑进钱柜。 “谢谢，先生。请您多照顾。” 狐狸般的眼睛里闪着殷切的光，向他表示谢意。他马上就移开了视线。不，最好不要提了，下次再说吧。[22] “再见。”他边说边走开。 “再见，先生。” 毫无踪影，已经走掉了。那又有什么关系呢？ 他沿着多尔塞特街走回去，一路一本正经地读着报。阿根达斯·内泰穆[23]，移民垦殖公司。向土耳其政府购进一片荒沙地，种上按树。最适宜遮阳、当燃料或建筑木材了。雅法[24]北边有桔树林和大片大片的瓜地。你交八十马克，他们就为你种一狄纳穆[25]地的橄榄、桔子、扁桃或香橼。橄榄来得便宜一些，桔子需要人工灌溉。每一年的收获都给你寄来。你的姓名就作为终身业主在公司登记入册。可以预付十马克，余数分年付。柏林，西十五区，布莱布特留大街三十四号。 没什么可试的。然而，倒也是个主意。 他瞅着报纸上的照片：银色热气中朦朦胧胧望到牛群。撒遍了银粉的橄榄树丛。白昼恬静而漫长，给树剪枝，它逐渐成熟了。橄榄是装在坛子里的吧？我还有些从安德鲁那家店里买来的呢。摩莉把它们吐掉了。如今她尝出味道来啦。桔子是用棉纸包好装在柳条篓里。香橼也是这样。不晓得可怜的西特伦[26]是不是还住在圣凯文步道[27]？还有弹他那把古色古香的七弦琴的马斯添斯基。我们在一起曾度过多少愉快的夜晚。摩莉坐在西特伦那把藤椅上。冰凉的蜡黄果实拿在手里真舒服，而且清香扑鼻。有那么一股浓郁、醇美、野性的香味儿。一年年的，老是这样。莫依塞尔告诉我，能卖高价哩。阿尔布图新小街[23]：普莱曾茨[29]街：当年美好的岁月。他说，一个碴儿也不能有。[30]是从西班牙、直布罗陀、地中海和黎凡特[31]运来的。雅法的码头上摆了一溜儿柳条篓，一个小伙子正往本子上登记。身穿肮脏的粗布工作服、打赤脚的壮工们在搬运它们。一个似曾相识的人露面了。你好啊!没有理会。点头之交是令人厌烦的。他的后背倒挺像那位挪威船长[32]。也不晓得今天能不能碰见他。洒水车。是唤雨用的。在地上，如同在天上一样。[33] 一片云彩开始徐徐把太阳整个遮蔽起来。灰灰地。远远地。 不，并不是这样。一片荒原，不毛之地。火山湖，死海。没有鱼，也不见杂草，深深地陷进地里。没有风能在这灰色金属般的、浓雾弥漫的毒水面上掀起波纹。降下来的是他们所谓的硫磺。平原上的这些城市，所多玛、蛾摩拉[34]、埃多姆[35]，名字都失传了。一应在死亡的土地上的死海，灰暗而苍老。而今它老了。这里孕育了最古老、最早的种族。一个弯腰驼背的老妪从卡西迪那家酒店里走了出来，横过马路，手里攥着一只能装四分之一品脱的瓶子嘴儿。这是最古老的民族。流浪到遥远的世界各地，被俘虏来俘虏去，繁殖，死亡，又在各地诞生。如今却躺在那儿，再也不能繁衍子孙了。已经死亡。是个老妪的。世界的干瘪了的灰色阴门。 一片荒芜。 灰色的恐怖使他毛骨悚然。他把报纸叠起，放到兜里，拐进埃克尔斯街，匆匆赶回家去。冰凉的油在他的静脉里淌着，使他的血液发冷。年齿用盐[36]外套将他包裹起来。喏，眼下我到了这儿。对，眼下我到了这儿。今天早晨嘴里不舒服，脑子里浮现出奇妙的幻想。是从不同于往日的那边下的床。又该恢复桑道式健身操[37]了。俯卧撑。一座座布满污痕的褐色砖房。门牌八十号的房子还没租出去呢。是怎么回事呢？估价为二十八英镑。客厅一扇扇窗户上满是招贴：托尔斯啦，巴特斯比啦，诺思啦，麦克阿瑟啦。[38]就好像是在发痛的眼睛上贴了好多块膏药似的。吸着茶里冒出来的柔和的水蒸气和平底锅里嗞嗞响的黄油的香气。去贴近她那丰腴而在床上焐暖了的肉体。对，对。 一束炽热暖人的阳光从伯克利路疾速地扑来。这位金发随风飘拂的少女足登细长的凉鞋，沿着越来越明亮的人行道跑来，朝我跑来了。[39] 门厅地板上放着两封信和一张明信片。他弯下腰去捡起。玛莉恩·布卢姆太太。他那兴冲冲的心情立即颓丧下来。笔力遒劲:玛莉恩太太。 “波尔迪!” 他走进卧室，眯缝着眼睛，穿过温煦、黄色的微光，朝她那睡乱了的头走去。 “信是写给谁的？” 他瞧了瞧。穆林加尔。米莉。 “一封是米莉给我的信，”他小心翼翼地说，“还有一张给你的明信片。另一封是写给你的信。” 他把明信片和信放在斜纹布面床单上，靠近她膝头弯曲的地方。 “你愿意我把百叶窗拉上去吗？” 当他轻轻地将百叶窗拽上半截的时候，他那只盯着后面的眼睛[40]瞥见她瞟了一眼那封信，并把它塞到枕下。 “这样就行了吧？”他转过身来问。 她用手托腮，正读着明信片。 “她收到包裹啦，”她说。 她把明信片撂在一边，身子慢慢地蜷缩回原处，舒舒服服地叹了口气。他伫候着。 “快点儿沏茶吧，”她说，“我渴极啦。” “水烧开啦，”他说。 可是为了清理椅子，他耽搁了片刻，将她那条纹衬裙和穿脏了胡乱丢着的亚麻衬衣一古脑儿抱起来，塞到床脚。 当他走下通往厨房的阶梯时，她喊道： “波尔迪!” “什么事？” “烫一烫茶壶。” 水确实烧开了，壶里正冒着一缕状似羽毛的热气。他烫了烫茶壶，涮了一遍，放进满满四调羹茶叶，斜提着开水壶往里灌。沏好了，他就把开水壶挪开，将锅平放在煤火上，望着那团黄油滑溜并融化。当他打开那包腰子时，猫儿贪馋地朝他喵喵叫起来。要是肉食喂多了，它就不逮耗子啦。哦，猫儿不肯吃猪肉。给点儿清真食品吧。来。他把沾着血迹的纸丢给它，并且将腰子放进嗞嗞啦啦响着的黄油汁里。还得加上点儿胡椒粉。他让盛在有缺口的蛋杯里的胡椒粉从他的指缝间绕着圈儿撒了下来。 然后他撕开信封，浏览了一眼那页信。谢谢。崭新的无檐软帽[41]。科格伦[42]先生。赴奥维尔湖野餐。年轻学生[43]。布莱泽斯·博伊兰[44]的《海滨的姑娘们》。 红茶泡出味儿来了。他微笑着把自己的搪须杯[45]斟满。那个有着王冠图案仿造德比的瓷器[46]还是傻妞儿米莉送给他的生日礼物哩，当时她才五岁。不对，是四岁。我给了她一串人造琥珀项链，她给弄坏了。还曾替她往信箱里放些折叠起来的棕色纸片。他笑嘻嘻地倒着茶。 哦，米莉·布卢姆，你是我的乖， 从早到晚，你是我的明镜， 凯西·基奥虽有驴和菜地， 我宁肯要你，哪怕一文不名。[47] 可怜的老教授古德温。[48]老境狼狈不堪。尽管如此，他不失为一个彬彬有礼的老头儿。当摩莉从舞台上退场时，他总是照老规矩向她鞠个躬。他的大礼帽里藏着一面小镜子。那天晚上，米莉把它拿到客厅里来了。噢，瞧瞧我在古德温教授的帽子里找到了什么!我们全都笑了。甚至那时候她就情窦初开了。可真是个活泼的小乖乖啊。 他把叉子戳进腰子啪的一声将它翻了个个儿。然后把茶壶摆在托盘上。当他端起来的时候，隆起来的盘底凹了下去。都齐了吗？抹上黄油的面包四片，白糖，调羹，她的奶油。齐啦。他用大拇指勾住茶壶柄，把托盘端上楼去。 他用膝盖顶开门，端着托盘进去，将它撂在床头的椅子上。 “瞧你这蘑菇劲儿!”她说。 她用一只胳膊肘支在枕头上，敏捷地坐起来时，震得黄铜环叮零噹啷响，他安详地俯视着她那丰满的身躯和睡衣里面像母山羊奶子那样隆起的一对绵软柔和的大乳房之间的缝隙。她那仰卧着的身上发散出的热气同她斟着的茶水的清香汇合在一起。 凹陷的枕头底下露出一小截撕破了的信封。他边往外走，边停下脚来抻了抻被子。 “信是谁写来的？”他问。 笔力道劲。玛莉恩。 “哦，是博伊兰。他要把节目单带来。” “你唱什么？” “和J·C·多伊尔合唱《手拉着手》[49]，”她说，“还有《古老甜蜜的情歌》[50]。” 她那丰腴的嘴唇边啜茶边绽出笑容。那种香水到了第二天就留下一股有点酸臭的气味，就像是馊了的花露水似的。 “打开一点窗户好不好？” 她边把一片面包叠起来塞到嘴里，边问: “葬礼几点钟开始？” “我想是十一点钟吧，”他回答说，“我没看报纸。” 他顺着她所指的方向从床上拎起她那脏内裤的一条腿。不对吗？接着是一只歪歪拧拧地套在长袜上的灰色袜带。袜底皱皱巴巴，磨得发亮。 “不对，要那本书。” 另一只长袜。她的衬裙。 “准是掉下去啦，”她说。 他到处摸索。我要，又不愿意。[51]不知道她能不能把那个字咬清楚，我要。[52]书不在床上，想必是滑落了。他弯下身撩起床沿的挂布。书果然掉下去了。摊开来靠在布满回纹的尿盆肚上。 “给我看看，”她说，“我做了个记号。有个词儿我想问问你。” 她从捧在手里的杯中呷了一大口茶，麻利地用毛毯揩拭了一下指尖，开始用发夹顺着文字划拉，终于找到了那个词儿。 “遇见了他什么？”他问。 “在这儿哪，”她说，“这是什么意思？” 他弯下身去，读着她那修得漂漂亮亮的大拇指甲旁边的字。 “MetempsyChosis？” “是啊，他呆在家里哪，能遇见什么人呢？”[53] “Metempsychosis，”他皱着眉头说，“这是个希腊字眼儿，从希腊文来的，意思就是灵魂的转生。” “哦，别转文啦!”她说，“用普普通通的字眼告诉我!” 他微笑着，朝她那神色调皮的眼睛斜瞟了一眼。这双眼睛和当年一样年轻。就是在海豚仓[54]猜哑剧字谜后那第一个夜晚。他翻着弄脏了的纸页。《马戏团的红演员鲁碧》[55]。哦，插图。手执赶车鞭子的凶悍的意大利人。赤条条地呆在地板上的想必是红演员鲁碧喽。好心借与的床单。[56]怪物马菲停了下来，随着一声诅咒，将他的猎物架猛扔出去。内幕残忍透了。给动物灌兴奋剂。亨格勒马戏团的高空吊。[57]简直不能正眼看它。观众张大了嘴呆望着。你要是摔断了颈骨，我们会笑破了肚皮。一家子一家子的，都干这一行。从小就狠狠地训练，于是他们转生了。我们死后继续生存。我们的灵魂。一个人死后，他的灵魂，迪格纳穆的灵魂…… “你看完了吗？”他问。 “是的，”她说，“一点儿也不黄。她是不是一直在爱着那头一个男人？” “从来没读过。你想要换一本吗？” “嗯。另借一本保罗·德·科克[58]的书来吧。他这个名字挺好听。” 她又添茶，并斜眼望着茶水从壶嘴往杯子里淌。 必须续借卡佩尔街图书馆那本书，要不他们就会寄催书单给我的保证人卡尔尼[59]。转生，对，就是这词儿。 “有些人相信，”他说，“咱们死后还会继续活在另一具肉体里，而且咱们前世也曾是那样。他们管这叫作转生。还认为几千年前，咱们全都在地球或旁的星球上生活过。他们说，咱们不记得了。可有些人说，他们还记得自己前世的生活。” 黏糊糊的奶油在她的红茶里弯弯曲曲地凝结成螺旋形。不如重新提醒她这个词儿，轮回。举个例会更好一些。举个什么例子呢？ 床上端悬挂着一幅《宁芙[60]沐浴图》。这是《摄影点滴》[61]复活节专刊的附录，是人工着色的杰出名作。没放牛奶之前，红茶就是这种颜色。未尝不像是披散起头发时的玛莉恩，只不过更苗条一些。在这副镜框上，我花了三先令六便士。她说挂在床头才好看。裸体宁芙们，希腊。拿生活在那个时代的人们作例子也好嘛。 他一页页地往回翻。 “转生，”他说，“是古希腊人的说法。比方说，他们曾相信，人可以变成动物或树木。譬如，还可以变作他们所说的宁芙。” 正在用调羹搅拌着砂糖的她，停下手来。她定睛望着前方，耸起鼻孔吸着气。 “一股糊味儿，”她说，“你在火上放了些什么东西吗？” “腰子!”他猛地喊了一声。 他把书胡乱塞进内兜，脚趾尖撞在破脸盆架上，朝着那股气味的方向奔出屋子，以慌慌张张的白鹳般的步子，匆忙冲下楼梯。刺鼻的烟从平底锅的一侧猛地往上喷，他用叉子尖儿铲到腰子下面，将它从锅底剥下来，翻了个个儿。只糊了一丁点儿。他拿着锅，将腰子一颠，让它落在盘子上，并且把剩下的那一点褐色汁子滴在上面。 现在该来杯茶啦。他坐下来，切了片面包，涂上黄油。又割下腰子糊了的部分，把它丢给猫。然后往嘴里塞了一叉子，边咀嚼边细细品尝着那美味可口的嫩腰子。烧得火候正好。喝了口茶。接着他又将面包切成小方块儿，把一块在浓汁里蘸了蘸，送到嘴里。关于年轻学生啦，郊游啦，是怎么写的来着？他把那封信铺在旁边摩挲平了，边嚼边慢慢读着，将另外一小方块也蘸上汁子，并举到嘴边。 最亲爱的爹爹： 非常非常谢谢您这漂亮的生日礼物。我戴着合适极了。大 家都说，我戴上这顶新的无檐软帽，简直成了美人儿啦。我 也收到了妈妈那盒可爱的奶油点心，并正在写信给她。点心 很好吃。照相这一行，现在我越干越顺当。科格伦先生为我 和他太太拍了一张相片，冲洗出来后，将给您寄去。昨天我 们生意兴隆极了。天气很好，那些胖到脚后跟的统统都来啦。 下星期一我们和几位朋友赴奥维尔湖作小规模的野餐。问妈 妈好，给您一个热吻并致谢。我听见他们在楼下弹钢琴哪。星 期六将在格雷维尔徽章饭店举行音乐会。有个姓班农的年轻 学生，有时傍晚到这儿来。他的堂兄弟还是个什么大名人，他 唱博伊兰(我差点儿写成布莱泽斯·博伊兰了)那首关于海 滨姑娘们的歌曲。告诉他[62]，傻米莉向他致以最深切的敬意。 我怀着挚爱搁笔了。 热爱您的女儿 米莉 又及，由于匆忙，字迹潦草，请原谅。再见。 米 昨天她就满十五岁了。真巧，又正是本月十五号。这是她头一回不在家里过生日。别离啊。想起她出生的那个夏天的早晨，我跑到丹齐尔街去敲桑顿太太的门，喊她起床。她是个快活的老太婆。经她手接生来到世上的娃娃，想必多得很哩。她一开始就晓得可怜的小鲁迪[63]不长。——先生，天主是仁慈的。她立刻就知道了。倘若活了下 |
