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尤利西斯（Ulysses）第二章

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YOU, COCHRANE, WHAT CITY SENT FOR HIM?
-- Tarentum, sir.

-- Very good. Well?

-- There was a battle, sir.

-- Very good. Where?

The boy's blank face asked the blank window.

Fabled by the daughters of memory. And yet it was in some way if not as memory fabled it. A phrase, then, of impatience, thud of Blake's wings of excess. I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry, and time one livid final flame. What's left us then?

-- I forgot the place, sir. 279 B.C.

-- Asculum, Stephen said, glancing at the name and date in the gorescarred book.

-- Yes, sir. And he said: Another victory like that and we are done for.

That phrase the world had remembered. A dull ease of the mind. From a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his officers, leaned upon his spear. Any general to any officers. They lend ear.

-- You, Armstrong, Stephen said. What was the end of Pyrrhus?

-- End of Pyrrhus, sir?

-- I know, sir. Ask me, sir, Comyn said.

-- Wait. You, Armstrong. Do you know anything about Pyrrhus?

A bag of figrolls lay snugly in Armstrong's satchel. He curled them between his palms at whiles and swallowed them softly. Crumbs adhered to the tissues of his lips. A sweetened boy's breath. Welloff people, proud that their eldest son was in the navy. Vico Road, Dalkey.

-- Pyrrhus, sir? Pyrrhus, a pier.

All laughed. Mirthless high malicious laughter. Armstrong looked round at his classmates, silly glee in profile. In a moment they will laugh more loudly, aware of my lack of rule and of the fees their papas pay.

-- Tell me now, Stephen said, poking the boy's shoulder with the book, what is a pier.

-- A pier, sir, Armstrong said. A thing out in the waves. A kind of bridge. Kingstown pier, sir.

Some laughed again: mirthless but with meaning. Two in the back bench whispered. Yes. They knew: had never learned nor ever been innocent. All. With envy he watched their faces. Edith, Ethel, Gerty, Lily. Their likes: their breaths, too, sweetened with tea and jam, their bracelets tittering in the struggle.

-- Kingstown pier, Stephen said. Yes, a disappointed bridge. The words troubled their gaze.

-- How, sir? Comyn asked. A bridge is across a river.

For Haines's chapbook. No-one here to hear. Tonight deftly amid wild drink and talk, to pierce the polished mail of his mind. What then? A jester at the court of his master, indulged and disesteemed, winning a clement master's praise. Why had they chosen all that part? Not wholly for the smooth caress. For them too history was a tale like any other too often heard, their land a pawnshop.

Had Pyrrhus not fallen by a beldam's hand in Argos or Julius Caesar not been knifed to death? They are not to be thought away. Time has branded them and fettered they are lodged in the room of the infinite possibilities they have ousted. But can those have been possible seeing that they never were? Or was that only possible which came to pass? Weave, weaver of the wind.

-- Tell us a story, sir.

-- Oh, do, sir, a ghoststory.

-- Where do you begin in this? Stephen asked, opening another book.

-- Weep no more, Comyn said.

-- Go on then, Talbot.

-- And the history, sir?

-- After, Stephen said. Go on, Talbot.

A swarthy boy opened a book and propped it nimbly under the breastwork of his satchel. He recited jerks of verse with odd glances at the text:

-- Weep no more, woful shepherd, weep no more
For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor...
It must be a movement then, an actuality of the possible as possible. Aristotle's phrase formed itself within the gabbled verses and floated out into the studious silence of the library of Saint Genevieve where he had read, sheltered from the sin of Paris, night by night. By his elbow a delicate Siamese conned a handbook of strategy. Fed and feeding brains about me: under glowlamps, impaled, with faintly beating feelers: and in my mind's darkness a sloth of the underworld, reluctant, shy of brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds. Thought is the thought of thought. Tranquil brightness. The soul is in a manner all that is: the soul is the form of forms. Tranquillity sudden, vast, candescent: form of forms.
Talbot repeated:

-- Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,
Through the dear might...
-- Turn over, Stephen said quietly. I don't see anything.
-- What, sir? Talbot asked simply, bending forward.

His hand turned the page over. He leaned back and went on again having just remembered. Of him that walked the waves. Here also over these craven hearts his shadow lies and on the scoffer's heart and lips and on mine. It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a coin of the tribute. To Caesar what is Caesar's, to God what is God's. A long look from dark eyes, a riddling sentence to be woven on the church's looms. Ay.

Riddle me, riddle me, randy ro.
My father gave me seeds to sow.
Talbot slid his closed book into his satchel.
-- Have I heard all? Stephen asked.

-- Yes, sir. Hockey at ten, sir.

-- Half day, sir. Thursday.

-- Who can answer a riddle? Stephen asked.

They bundled their books away, pencils clacking, pages rustling. Crowding together they strapped and buckled their satchels, all gabbling gaily:

-- A riddle, sir? Ask me, sir.

-- O, ask me, sir.

-- A hard one, sir.

-- This is the riddle, Stephen said.

The cock crew
The sky was blue:
The bells in heaven
Were striking eleven.
Tis time for this poor soul
To go to heaven.
-- What is that?
-- What, sir?

-- Again, sir. We didn't hear.

Their eyes grew bigger as the lines were repeated. After a silence Cochrane said:

-- What is it, sir? We give it up.

Stephen, his throat itching, answered:

-- The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush.

He stood up and gave a shout of nervous laughter to which their cries echoed dismay.

A stick struck the door and a voice in the corridor called:

-- Hockey!

They broke asunder, sidling out of their benches, leaping them. Quickly they were gone and from the lumberroom came the rattle of sticks and clamour of their boots and tongues.

Sargent who alone had lingered came forward slowly, showing an open copybook. His tangled hair and scraggy neck gave witness of unreadiness and through his misty glasses weak eyes looked up pleading. On his cheek, dull and bloodless, a soft stain of ink lay, dateshaped, recent and damp as a snail's bed.

He held out his copybook. The word Sums was written on the headline. Beneath were sloping figures and at the foot a crooked signature with blind loops and a blot. Cyril Sargent: his name and seal.

-- Mr Deasy told me to write them out all again, he said, and show them to you, sir.

Stephen touched the edges of the book. Futility.

-- Do you understand how to do them now? he asked.

-- Numbers eleven to fifteen, Sargent answered. Mr Deasy said I was to copy them off the board, sir.

-- Can you do them yourself? Stephen asked.

-- No, sir.

Ugly and futile: lean neck and tangled hair and a stain of ink, a snail's bed. Yet someone had loved him, borne him in her arms and in her heart. But for her the race of the world would have trampled him under foot, a squashed boneless snail. She had loved his weak watery blood drained from her own. Was that then real? The only true thing in life? His mother's prostrate body the fiery Columbanus in holy zeal bestrode. She was no more: the trembling skeleton of a twig burnt in the fire, an odour of rosewood and wetted ashes. She had saved him from being trampled under foot and had gone, scarcely having been. A poor soul gone to heaven: and on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red reek of rapine in his fur, with merciless bright eyes scraped in the earth, listened, scraped up the earth, listened, scraped and scraped.

Sitting at his side Stephen solved out the problem. He proves by algebra that Shakespeare's ghost is Hamlet's grandfather. Sargent peered askance through his slanted glasses. Hockeysticks rattled in the lumberroom: the hollow knock of a ball and calls from the field.

Across the page the symbols moved in grave morrice, in the mummery of their letters, wearing quaint caps of squares and cubes. Give hands, traverse, bow to partner: so: imps of fancy of the Moors. Gone too from the world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien and movement, flashing in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of the world, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not comprehend.

-- Do you understand now? Can you work the second for yourself?

-- Yes, sir.

In long shady strokes Sargent copied the data. Waiting always for a word of help his hand moved faithfully the unsteady symbols, a faint hue of shame flickering behind his dull skin. Amor matris: subjective and objective genitive. With her weak blood and wheysour milk she had fed him and hid from sight of others his swaddling bands.

Like him was I, these sloping shoulders, this gracelessness. My childhood bends beside me. Too far for me to lay a hand there once or lightly. Mine is far and his secret as our eyes. Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants willing to be dethroned.

The sum was done.

-- It is very simple, Stephen said as he stood up.

-- Yes, sir. Thanks, Sargent answered.

He dried the page with a sheet of thin blottingpaper and carried his copybook back to his desk.

-- You had better get your stick and go out to the others, Stephen said as he followed towards the door the boy's graceless form.

-- Yes, sir.

In the corridor his name was heard, called from the playfield.

-- Sargent!

-- Run on, Stephen said. Mr Deasy is calling you.

He stood in the porch and watched the laggard hurry towards the scrappy field where sharp voices were in strife. They were sorted in teams and Mr Deasy came stepping over wisps of grass with gaitered feet. When he had reached the schoolhouse voices again contending called to him. He turned his angry white moustache.

-- What is it now? he cried continually without listening.

-- Cochrane and Halliday are on the same side, sir, Stephen cried.

-- Will you wait in my study for a moment, Mr Deasy said, till I restore order here.

And as he stepped fussily back across the field his old man's voice cried sternly:

-- What is the matter? What is it now?

Their sharp voices cried about him on all sides: their many forms closed round him, the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of his illdyed head.

Stale smoky air hung in the study with the smell of drab abraded leather of its chairs. As on the first day he bargained with me here. As it was in the beginning, is now. On the sideboard the tray of Stuart coins, base treasure of a bog: and ever shall be. And snug in their spooncase of purple plush, faded, the twelve apostles having preached to all the gentiles: world without end.

A hasty step over the stone porch and in the corridor. Blowing out his rare moustache Mr Deasy halted at the table.

-- First, our little financial settlement, he said.

He brought out of his coat a pocketbook bound by a leather thong. It slapped open and he took from it two notes, one of joined halves, and laid them carefully on the table.

-- Two, he said, strapping and stowing his pocketbook away.

And now his strongroom for the gold. Stephen's embarrassed hand moved over the shells heaped in the cold stone mortar: whelks and money, cowries and leopard shells: and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and this, the scallop of Saint James. An old pilgrim's hoard, dead treasure, hollow shells.

A sovereign fell, bright and new, on the soft pile of the tablecloth.

-- Three, Mr Deasy said, turning his little savingsbox about in his hand. These are handy things to have. See. This is for sovereigns. This is for shillings, sixpences, halfcrowns. And here crowns. See.

He shot from it two crowns and two shillings.

-- Three twelve, he said. I think you'll find that's right.

-- Thank you, sir, Stephen said, gathering the money together with shy haste and putting it all in a pocket of his trousers.

-- No thanks at all, Mr Deasy said. You have earned it.

Stephen's hand, free again, went back to the hollow shells. Symbols too of beauty and of power. A lump in my pocket. Symbols soiled by greed and misery.

-- Don't carry it like that, Mr Deasy said. You'll pull it out somewhere and lose it. You just buy one of these machines. You'll find them very handy.

Answer something.

-- Mine would be often empty, Stephen said.

The same room and hour, the same wisdom: and I the same. Three times now. Three nooses round me here. Well. I can break them in this instant if I will.

-- Because you don't save, Mr Deasy said, pointing his finger. You don't know yet what money is. Money is power, when you have lived as long as I have. I know, I know. If youth but knew. But what does Shakespeare say? Put but money in thy purse.

-- Iago, Stephen murmured.

He lifted his gaze from the idle shells to the old man's stare.

-- He knew what money was, Mr Deasy said. He made money. A poet but an Englishman too. Do you know what is the pride of the English? Do you know what is the proudest word you will ever hear from an Englishman's mouth?

The seas' ruler. His seacold eyes looked on the empty bay: history is to blame: on me and on my words, unhating.

-- That on his empire, Stephen said, the sun never sets.

-- Ba! Mr Deasy cried. That's not English. A French Celt said that. He tapped his savingsbox against his thumbnail.

-- I will tell you, he said solemnly, what is his proudest boast. I paid my way.

Good man, good man.

-- I paid my way. I never borrowed a shilling in my life. Can you feel that? I owe nothing. Can you?

Mulligan, nine pounds, three pairs of socks, one pair brogues, ties. Curran, ten guineas. McCann, one guinea. Fred Ryan, two shillings. Temple, two lunches. Russell, one guinea, Cousins, ten shillings, Bob Reynolds, half a guinea, Kohler, three guineas, Mrs McKernan, five weeks' board. The lump I have is useless.

-- For the moment, no, Stephen answered.

Mr Deasy laughed with rich delight, putting back his savingsbox.

-- I knew you couldn't, he said joyously. But one day you must feel it. We are a generous people but we must also be just.

-- I fear those big words, Stephen said, which make us so unhappy.

Mr Deasy stared sternly for some moments over the mantelpiece at the shapely bulk of a man in tartan fillibegs: Albert Edward, Prince of Wales.

-- You think me an old fogey and an old tory, his thoughtful voice said. I saw three generations since O'Connell's time. I remember the famine. Do you know that the orange lodges agitated for repeal of the union twenty years before O'Connell did or before the prelates of your communion denounced him as a demagogue? You fenians forget some things.

Glorious, pious and immortal memory. The lodge of Diamond in Armagh the splendid behung with corpses of papishes. Hoarse, masked and armed, the planters' covenant. The black north and true blue bible. Croppies lie down.

Stephen sketched a brief gesture.

-- I have rebel blood in me too, Mr Deasy said. On the spindle side. But I am descended from sir John Blackwood who voted for the union. We are all Irish, all kings' sons.

-- Alas, Stephen said.

-- Per vias rectas, Mr Deasy said firmly, was his motto. He voted for it and put on his topboots to ride to Dublin from the Ards of Down to do so.

Lal the ral the ra
The rocky road to Dublin.
A gruff squire on horseback with shiny topboots. Soft day, sir John. Soft day, your honour... Day... Day... Two topboots jog dangling on to Dublin. Lal the ral the ra, lal the ral the raddy.
-- That reminds me, Mr Deasy said. You can do me a favour, Mr Dedalus, with some of your literary friends: I have a letter here for the press. Sit down a moment. I have just to copy the end.

He went to the desk near the window, pulled in his chair twice and read off some words from the sheet on the drum of his typewriter.

-- Sit down. Excuse me, he said over his shoulder, the dictates of common sense. Just a moment.

He peered from under his shaggy brows at the manuscript by his elbow and, muttering, began to prod the stiff buttons of the keyboard slowly, some times blowing as he screwed up the drum to erase an error.

Stephen seated himself noiselessly before the princely presence. Framed around the walls images of vanished horses stood in homage, their meek heads poised in air: lord Hastings' Repulse, the duke of Westminster's Shotover, the duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, prix de Paris, 1866. Elfin riders sat them, watchful of a sign. He saw their speeds, backing King's colours, and shouted with the shouts of vanished crowds.

-- Full stop, Mr Deasy bade his keys. But prompt ventilation of this important question...

Where Cranly led me to get rich quick, hunting his winners among the mudsplashed brakes, amid the bawls of bookies on their pitches and reek of the canteen, over the motley slush. Even money Fair Rebel: ten to one the field. Dicers and thimbleriggers we hurried by after the hoofs, the vying caps and jackets and past the meatfaced woman, a butcher's dame, nuzzling thirstily her clove of orange.

Shouts rang shrill from the boys' playfield and a whirring whistle.

Again: a goal. I am among them, among their battling bodies in a medley, the joust of life. You mean that knockkneed mother's darling who seems to be slightly crawsick? Jousts. Time shocked rebounds, shock by shock. Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the frozen deathspew of the slain, a shout of spear spikes baited with men's bloodied guts.

-- Now then, Mr Deasy said, rising.

He came to the table, pinning together his sheets. Stephen stood up.

-- I have put the matter into a nutshell, Mr Deasy said. It's about the foot and mouth disease. Just look through it. There can be no two opinions on the matter.

May I trespass on your valuable space. That doctrine of laissez faire which so often in our history. Our cattle trade. The way of all our old industries. Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme. European conflagration. Grain supplies through the narrow waters of the channel. The pluterperfect imperturbability of the department of agriculture. Pardoned a classical allusion. Cassandra. By a woman who was no better than she should be. To come to the point at issue.

-- I don't mince words, do I? Mr Deasy asked as Stephen read on.

Foot and mouth disease. Known as Koch's preparation. Serum and virus. Percentage of salted horses. Rinderpest. Emperor's horses at Mürzsteg, lower Austria. Veterinary surgeons. Mr Henry Blackwood Price. Courteous offer a fair trial, Dictates of common sense. Allimportant question. In every sense of the word take the bull by the horns. Thanking you for the hospitality of your columns.

-- I want that to be printed and read, Mr Deasy said. You will see at the next outbreak they will put an embargo on Irish cattle. And it can be cured. It is cured. My cousin, Blackwood Price, writes to me it is regularly treated and cured in Austria by cattledoctors there. They offer to come over here. I am trying to work up influence with the department. Now I'm going to try publicity. I am surrounded by difficulties, by... intrigues, by... backstairs influence, by...

He raised his forefinger and beat the air oldly before his voice spoke.

-- Mark my words, Mr Dedalus, he said. England is in the hands of the jews. In all the highest places: her finance, her press. And they are the signs of a nation's decay. Wherever they gather they eat up the nation's vital strength. I have seen it Coming these years. As sure as we are standing here the jew merchants are already at their work of destruction. Old England is dying.

He stepped swiftly off, his eyes coming to blue life as they passed a broad sunbeam. He faced about and back again.

-- Dying, he said, if not dead by now.

The harlot's cry from street to street
Shall weave old England's winding sheet.
His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly across the sunbeam in which he halted.
-- A merchant, Stephen said, is one who buys cheap and sells dear, jew or gentile, is he not?

-- They sinned against the light, Mr Deasy said gravely. And you can see the darkness in their eyes. And that is why they are wanderers on the earth to this day.

On the steps of the Paris Stock Exchange the goldskinned men quoting prices on their gemmed fingers. Gabbles of geese. They swarmed loud, uncouth about the temple, their heads thickplotting under maladroit silk hats. Not theirs: these clothes, this speech, these gestures. Their full slow eyes belied the words, the gestures eager and unoffending, but knew the rancours massed about them and knew their zeal was vain. Vain patience to heap and hoard. Time surely would scatter all. A hoard heaped by the roadside: plundered and passing on. Their eyes knew the years of wandering and, patient, knew the dishonours of their flesh.

-- Who has not? Stephen said.

-- What do you mean? Mr Deasy asked.

He came forward a pace and stood by the table. His underjaw fell sideways open uncertainly. Is this old wisdom? He waits to hear from me.

-- History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.

From the playfield the boys raised a shout. A whirring whistle: goal. What if that nightmare gave you a back kick?

-- The ways of the Creator are not our ways, Mr Deasy said. All history moves towards one great goal, the manifestation of God.

Stephen jerked his thumb towards the window, saying:

-- That is God.

Hooray! Ay! Whrrwhee!

-- What? Mr Deasy asked.

-- A shout in the street, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders.

Mr Deasy looked down and held for a while the wings of his nose tweaked between his fingers. Looking up again he set them free.

-- I am happier than you are, he said. We have committed many errors and many sins. A woman brought sin into the world. For a woman who was no better than she should be, Helen, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten years the Greeks made war on Troy. A faithless wife first brought the strangers to our shore here, MacMurrough's wife and her leman O'Rourke, prince of Breffni. A woman too brought Parnell low. Many errors, many failures but not the one sin. I am a struggler now at the end of my days. But I will fight for the right till the end.

For Ulster will fight
And Ulster will be right.
Stephen raised the sheets in his hand.
-- Well, sir, he began.

-- I foresee, Mr Deasy said, that you will not remain here very long at this work. You were not born to be a teacher, I think. Perhaps I am wrong.

-- A learner rather, Stephen said.

And here what will you learn more?

Mr Deasy shook his head.

-- Who knows? he said. To learn one must be humble. But life is the great teacher.

Stephen rustled the sheets again.

-- As regards these, he began.

-- Yes, Mr Deasy said. You have two copies there. If you can have them published at once.

Telegraph. Irish Homestead.

-- I will try, Stephen said, and let you know tomorrow. I know two editors slightly.

That will do, Mr Deasy said briskly. I wrote last night to Mr Field, M.P. There is a meeting of the cattletraders' association today at the City Arms Hotel. I asked him to lay my letter before the meeting. You see if you can get it into your two papers. What are they?

-- The Evening Telegraph...

-- That will do, Mr Deasy said. There is no time to lose. Now I have to answer that letter from my cousin.

-- Good morning, sir, Stephen said, putting the sheets in his pocket. Thank you.

-- Not at all, Mr Deasy said as he searched the papers on his desk. I like to break a lance with you, old as I am.

-- Good morning, sir, Stephen said again, bowing to his bent back.

He went out by the open porch and down the gravel path under the trees, hearing the cries of voices and crack of sticks from the playfield. The lions couchant on the pillars as he passed out through the gate; toothless terrors. Still I will help him in his fight. Mulligan will dub me a new name: the bullockbefriending bard.

-- Mr Dedalus!

Running after me. No more letters, I hope.

-- Just one moment.

-- Yes, sir, Stephen said, turning back at the gate.

Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath.

-- I just wanted to say, he said. Ireland, they say, has the honour of being the only country which never persecuted the jews. Do you know that? No. And do you know why?

He frowned sternly on the bright air.

-- Why, sir? Stephen asked, beginning to smile.

-- Because she never let them in, Mr Deasy said solemnly.

A coughball of laughter leaped from his throat dragging after it a rattling chain of phlegm. He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his lifted arms waving to the air.

-- She never let them in, he cried again through his laughter as he stamped on gaitered feet over the gravel of the path. That's why.

On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun flung spangles, dancing coins.

“你说说，科克伦，是哪个城市请他[1]的？”

“塔兰图姆[2]，老师。”

“好极了。后来呢？”

“打了一仗，老师。”

“好极了。在哪儿？”

孩子那张茫然的脸向那扇茫然的窗户去讨教。

记忆的女儿们[3]所编的寓言。然而，即便同记忆所编的寓言有出入，总有些相仿佛吧。那么，就是一句出自焦躁心情的话，是布莱克那过分之翅膀的扑扇[4]。我听到整个空间的毁灭，玻璃碎成碴儿，砖石建筑坍塌下来，时光化为终极的一缕死灰色火焰[5]。那样，还留给我们什么呢？

“地点我忘记啦，老师。公元前三七九年。”

“阿斯库拉姆[6]，”斯蒂芬朝着沾满血迹的书上那地名和年代望了一眼，说。

“是的，老师。他又说，再打赢这么一场仗，我们就完啦[7]。”

世人记住了此语。心情处于麻木而松驰的状态。尸骸累累的平原，一位将军站在小山岗上，拄着矛枪，正对他的部下训话。任何将军对任何部下。他们洗耳恭听。

“你，阿姆斯特朗，”斯蒂芬说。“皮勒斯的结尾怎么样？”

“皮勒斯的结尾吗，老师？”

“我晓得，老师。问我吧，老师，”科敏说。

“等一等。阿姆斯特朗，你说说，关于皮勒斯，你知道点什么吗？”

阿姆斯特朗的书包里悄悄地摆着一袋无花果夹心面包卷。他不时她用双掌把它搓成小卷儿，轻轻地咽下去。面包渣子还沾在他的嘴唇上呢。少年的呼吸发出一股甜味儿。这些阔人以长子进了海军而自豪。多基[8]的韦克街。

“皮勒斯吗，老师？皮勒斯是栈桥[9]。”

大家都笑了。并不快活的尖声嗤笑。阿姆斯特朗四下里打量着同学们，露出傻笑的侧影。过一会儿，他们将发觉我管教无方，也想到他们的爸爸所缴的学费，会越发放开嗓门大笑起来。

“现在告诉我，”斯蒂芬用书戳戳少年的肩头，“栈桥是什么？”

“栈桥，老师，”阿姆斯特朗说，“就是伸到海里的东西。一种桥梁。国王镇[10]桥，老师。”

有些人又笑了，不畅快，却别有用意。坐在后排凳子上的两个在小声讲着什么。是的。他们晓得，从未学习过，可一向也不是无知的。全都是这样。他怀着妒意注视着一张张的脸。伊迪丝、艾塞尔、格蒂、莉莉[11]。跟他们类似的人，她们的呼吸也给红茶、果酱弄得甜丝丝的，扭动时，她们腕上的镯子在窃笑着。

“国王镇码头，”斯蒂芬说，“是啊，一座失望之桥[12]。”

这句话使他们凝视着的眼神露出一片迷茫。

“老师，怎么会呢？”科敏问。“桥是架在河上的啊。”

可以收入海恩斯的小册子[13]。这里却没有一个人听。今晚在豪饮和畅叙中，如簧的巧舌将刺穿罩在他思想外面的那副锃亮的铠甲。然后呢？左不过是主人宫廷里的一名弄臣，既被纵容又受到轻视，博得宽厚的主人一声赞许而已。他们为什么都选择了这一角色呢？图的并不完全是温存的爱抚。对他们来说，历史也像其他任何一个听腻了的故事，他们的国土是一爿当铺[14]。

倘若皮勒斯并未在阿尔戈斯丧命于一个老太婆手下[15]，或是尤利乌斯·恺撒不曾被短剑刺死[16]呢？这些事不是想抹煞就能抹煞的。岁月已给它们打上了烙印，把它们束缚住，关在被它们排挤出去的无限的可能性的领域里[17]。但是，那些可能性既然从未实现，难道还说得上什么可能吗？抑或惟有发生了的才是可能的呢？织吧，织风者[18]。

“给我们讲个故事吧，老师。”

“请讲吧，老师。讲个鬼故事。”

“这从哪儿开始？”期蒂芬打开另一本书，问道。

“莫再哭泣，”科敏说。

“那么，接着背下去，塔尔博特。”

“故事呢，老师？”

“呆会儿，”斯蒂芬说。“背下去，塔尔博特。”

一个面色黧黑的少年打开书本，麻利地将它支在书包这座胸墙底下。他不时地瞥着课文，结结巴巴地背诵着诗句：

莫再哭泣，悲痛的牧羊人，莫再哭泣，

你们哀悼的利西达斯不曾死去，

虽然他已沉入水面下……[19]

说来那肯定是一种运动了，可能性由于有可能而变为现实[20]。在急促而咬字不清的朗诵声中，亚理斯多德的名言自行出现了，飘进圣热内维艾芙图书馆那勤学幽静的气氛中；他曾一夜一夜地隐退在此研读[21]，从而躲开了巴黎的罪恶。邻座上，一位纤弱的暹罗人正在那里展卷精读一部兵法手册。我周围的那些头脑已经塞满了，还在继续填塞着。头顶上是小铁栅围起的一盏盏白炽灯，有着微微颤动的触须。在我头脑的幽暗处，却是阴间的一个懒货，畏首畏尾，惧怕光明，蠕动着那像龙鳞般的裙皱[22]。思维乃是有关思维的思维[23]。静穆的光明。就某种意义上而言，灵魂是全部存在，灵魂乃是形态的形态[24]。突兀、浩翰、炽烈的静穆：形态的形态。

塔尔博特反复背诵着同一诗句：

借着在海浪上行走的主那亲切法力[25]，

借着在海浪上……

“翻过去吧。”斯蒂芬沉静地说，“我什么也没看见。”

“您说什么，老师？”塔尔博特向前探探身子，天真地问道。

他用手翻了一页。他这才想起来，于是，挺直了身子背诵下去。关于在海浪上行走的主。他的影子也投射在这些怯懦的心灵上，在嘲笑者的心坎和嘴唇上，也在我的心坎和嘴唇上。还投射在拿一枚上税的银币给他看的那些人殷切的面容上。属于恺撒的归给恺撒，属于天主的归给天主[26]。深色的眼睛长久地凝视着，一个谜语般的句子，在教会的织布机上不停地织了下去。就是这样。

让我猜，让我猜，嗨哟嗬。

我爸爸给种籽叫我播。[27]

塔尔博特把他那本阖上的书，轻轻地放进书包。

“都背完了吗？”斯蒂芬问。

“老师，背完了。十点钟打曲棍球，老师。”

“半天儿，老师。星期四嘛。”

“谁会破谜语？”斯蒂芬问。

他们把铅笔弄得咯吱咯吱响，纸页窸窸窣窣，将书胡乱塞进书包。他们挤作一团，勒上书包的皮带，扣紧了，全都快活地吵嚷起来：

“破谜语，老师。让我破吧，老师。”

“噢，让我破吧，老师。”

“出个难的，老师。”

“是这么个谜儿，”斯蒂芬说：

公鸡打了鸣，

天色一片蓝。

天堂那些钟，

敲了十一点。

可怜的灵魂，

该升天堂啦。[28]

“那是什么？”

“什么，老师？”

“再说一遍，老师，我们没听见。”

重复这些词句时，他们的眼睛越睁越大了。沉默半晌后，科克伦说：

“是什么呀，老师？我们不猜了。”

斯蒂芬回答说，嗓子直发痒：

“是狐狸在冬青树下埋葬它的奶奶[29]。”

他站起来，神经质地大笑了一声，他们的喊叫声反应着沮丧情绪。

一根棍子敲了敲门，又有个嗓门在走廊里吆唤着：

“曲棍球!”

他们忽然散开来，有的侧身从凳子前挤出去，有的从上面一跃而过。他们很快就消失了踪影，接着，从堆房传来棍子的碰击声、嘈杂的皮靴声和饶舌声。

萨金特独自留了下来。他慢慢腾腾地走过来，出示一本摊开的练习本。他那其乱如麻的头发和瘦削的脖颈都表明他的笨拙。透过模糊不清的镜片，他翻起一双弱视的眼睛，央求着。他那灰暗而毫无血色的脸蛋儿上，沾了块淡淡的枣子形墨水渍，刚刚抹上去，还湿润得像蜗牛窝似的。

他递过练习本来。头一行标着算术字样。下面是歪歪拧拧的数字，末尾是弯弯曲曲的签名，带圈儿的笔划填得满满当当，另外还有一团墨水渍。西里尔·萨金特：他的姓名和印记。

“迪希先生叫我整个儿重写一遍，”他说，“还要拿给您看，老师。”

斯蒂芬摸了一下本子的边儿。徒劳无益。

“你现在会做这些了吗？”他问。

“十一题到十五题，”萨金特回答说。“老师，迪希先生要我从黑板上抄下来的。”

“你自己会做这些了吗？”斯蒂芬问。

“不会，老师。”

长得丑，而且没出息，细细的脖颈，其乱如麻的头发，一抹墨水渍，蜗牛窝。但还是有人爱过他，搂在怀里，疼在心上。倘非有她，在这谁也不让谁的世间，他早就被脚踩得烂成一摊无骨的蜗牛浆了。她爱的是从她自己身上流进去的他那虚弱稀薄的血液。那么，那是真实的喽？是人生唯一靠得住的东西喽[30]？暴躁的高隆班[31]凭着一股神圣的激情，曾迈过他母亲那横卧的身躯。她已经不在了，一根在火中燃烧过的小树枝那颤巍巍的残骸，一股黄檀和温灰气味。她拯救了他，使他免于被践踏在脚下，而她自己却没怎么活就走了。一副可怜的灵魂升了天堂：星光闪烁下，在石楠丛生的荒野上，一只皮毛上还沾着劫掠者那血红腥臭的狐狸，有着一双凶残明亮的跟睛，用爪子刨地，听了听，刨起土来又听，刨啊，刨啊。

斯蒂芬挨着他坐着解题。他用代数运算出莎士比亚的亡灵是哈姆莱特的祖父[32]。萨金特透过歪戴着的眼镜斜睨着他。堆房里有球棍的碰撞声，操场上传未了钝重的击球声和喊叫声。

这些符号戴着平方形、立方形的奇妙帽子在纸页上表演着字母的哑剧，来回跳着庄重的摩利斯舞[33]。手牵手，互换位置，向舞伴鞠躬。就是这样，摩尔人幻想出来的一个个小鬼。阿威罗伊和摩西·迈蒙尼德[34]也都离开了人世，这些在音容和举止上都诡秘莫测的人，用他们那嘲讽的镜子[35]照着朦朦胧胧的世界之灵[36]。黑暗在光中照耀，而光却不能理解它[37]。

“这会子你明白了吧？第二道自己会做了吗？”

“会做啦，老师。”

萨金特用长长的、颤悠悠的笔划抄写着数字。他一边不断地期待着得到指点，一边忠实地描摹着那些不规则的符号。在他那灰暗的皮肤下面，是一抹淡淡的羞愧之色，忽隐忽现。母亲之爱[38]：主生格与宾生格。她用自己那虚弱的血液和稀溜发酸的奶汁喂养他，藏起他的尿布，不让人看到。

以前我就像他：肩膀也这么瘦削，也这么不起眼。我的童年在我旁边弯着腰。遥远得我甚至无从用手去摸一下，即便是轻轻地。我的太遥远了，而他的呢，就像我们的眼睛那样深邃。我们两人心灵的黑暗宫殿里，都一动不动地盘踞着沉默不语的一桩桩秘密:这些秘密对自己的专横已感到厌倦，是情愿被废黜的暴君。

题已经算出来了。

“这简单得很，”斯蒂芬边说边站起来。

“是的，老师。谢谢您啦，”萨金特回答说。

他用一张薄吸墨纸把那一页吸干，将练习本捧回到自己的课桌上。

“还不如拿上你的球棍，到外面找同学去呢，”斯蒂芬边说边跟着少年粗俗的背影走向门口。

“是的，老师。”

在走廊里就听见操场上喊着他名字的声音：

“萨金特!”

“快跑，”斯蒂芬说，“迪希先生在叫你哪。”

他站在门廊里，望着这个落伍者匆匆忙忙地奔向角逐场，那里是一片尖锐的争吵声。他们分好了队，迪希先生迈着戴鞋罩的脚，路过一簇簇的草丛踱来。他刚一定到校舍前，又有一片争辩声喊起他来了。他把怒气冲冲的白色口髭转过去。

“这回，怎么啦？”他一遍接一遍地嚷着，并不去听大家说的话。

“科克伦和哈利戴分到同一队里去啦，先生，”斯蒂芬大声说。

“请你在我的办公室等一会儿，”迪希先生说，“我把这里的秩序整顿好就来。”

他煞有介事地折回操场，扯着苍老的嗓子严厉地嚷着：

“什么事呀？这回又怎么啦？”

他们的尖嗓门从四面八方朝他喊叫，众多身姿把把团团包围住，刺目的阳光将他那没有染好的蜂蜜色头发晒得发白了。

工作室里空气浑浊，烟雾弥漫，同几把椅子那磨损咸淡褐色的皮革气味混在一起。跟第一天他和我在这里讨价还价时一个样儿。厥初如何，今兹亦然[39]。靠墙的餐具柜上摆着一盘斯图亚特[40]硬币，从泥塘里挖出来的劣等收藏品:以迨永远[41]。在褪了色的紫红丝绒羹匙匣里，舒适地躺着十二使徒[42]，他们曾向一切外邦人宣过教[43]，及世之世[44]。

沿着门廊的石板地和走廊传来一阵急促的脚步声。迪希先生吹着他那稀疏的口髭，在桌前站住了。

“头一桩，把咱们那一小笔帐结了吧，”他说。

他从上衣兜里掏出一个用皮条扎起来的皮夹子。它啪的一声开了，他就从里面取出两张钞票，其中一张还是由两个半截儿拼接起来的，并把它们小心翼翼地摊在桌子上。

“两镑，”他说着，把皮夹子扎上，收了起来。

现在该开保险库取金币了。斯蒂芬那双尴尬的手抚摩着堆在冰冷的石钵里的贝壳，蛾螺、子安贝、豹贝，这个有螺纹的像是酋长的头巾，还有这个圣詹姆斯的扇贝[45]。一个老朝圣者的收藏品，死去了的珍宝，空洞的贝壳。

一枚金镑，锃亮而崭新，落在厚实柔软的桌布上。

“三镑，”迪希先生把他那只小小的攒钱盒在手里转来转去，说。“有这么个玩艺儿可便当啦。瞧，这是放金镑的。这是放先令的，放六便士的，放半克朗的。这儿放克朗。瞧啊。”

他从里面倒出两枚克朗和两枚先令。

“三镑十二先令，”他说。“我想你会发现没错儿。”

“谢谢您啦，先生，”斯蒂芬说，他难为情地连忙把钱拢在一起，统统塞进裤兜里。

“完全不用客气，”迪希先生说。“这是你挣的嘛。”

斯蒂芬的手又空下来了，就回到空洞的贝壳上去。这也是美与权力的象征。我兜里有一小簇。被贪婪和贫困所砧污了的象征。

“不要那样随身带着钱，”迪希先生说。“不定在哪儿就会掏丢了。买上这样一个机器，你会觉得方便极啦。”

回答点儿什么吧。

“我要是有上一个，经常也只能是空着，”斯蒂芬说。

同一间房，同一时刻，同样的才智，我也是同一个我。这是第三次[46]了。我的脖子上套着二道绞索。唔。只要我愿意，马上就可以把它们挣断。

“因为你不攒钱，”迪希先生用手指着说。“你还不懂得金钱意味着什么。金钱是权，当你活到我这把岁数的时候嘛。我懂得，我懂得。倘若年轻人有经验……然而莎士比亚是怎么说的来看？只要把银钱放在你的钱袋里[47]。

“伊阿古，"斯蒂芬喃喃地说。

他把视线从纹丝不动的贝壳移向老人那凝视着他的目光。

“他懂得金钱是什么，”迪希先生说。“他赚下了钱。是个诗人，可也是个英国人。你知道英国人以什么为自豪吗？你知道能从英国人嘴里听到的他最得意的话是什么吗？”

海洋的统治者。他那双像海水一样冰冷的眼睛眺望着空荡荡的海湾:看来这要怪历史，对我和我所说的话也投以那样的目光，倒没有厌恶的意思。

“说什么在他的帝国中，”斯蒂芬说，“太阳是永远不落的。”

“不对!”迪希先生入声说。“那不是英国人说的。是一个法国的凯尔特族[48]人说的。”

他用攒钱盒轻轻敲着大拇指的指甲。

“我告诉你，”他一本正经地说，“他最爱自夸的话是什么吧。我没欠过债。”

好人哪，好人。

“我没欠过债。我一辈子没该过谁一先令。你能有这种感觉吗？我什么也不欠。你能吗？”

穆利根，九镑，三双袜子，一双粗革厚底皮鞋，几条领带。柯伦，十基尼。麦卡恩，一基尼。弗雷德·瑞安，两先令。坦普尔，两顿午饭。拉塞尔，一基尼，卡曾斯，十先令，鲍勃·雷诺兹，半基尼，凯勒，三基尼，麦克南太太[49]，五个星期的饭费。我这一小把钱可不顶用。

“现在还不能，”斯蒂芬回答说。

迪希先生十分畅快地笑了，把攒钱盒收了回去。

“我晓得你不能，”他开心地说。“然而有朝一日你一定体会得到。我们是个慷慨的民族，但我们也必须做到公正。”

“我怕这种冠冕堂皇的字眼儿，”斯蒂芬说，“这使我们遭到如此之不幸。”

迪希先生神情肃然地朝着壁炉上端的肖像凝视了好半晌。那是一位穿着苏格兰花格呢短裙、身材匀称魁梧的男子，威尔士亲王艾伯特·爱德华[50]。

“你认为我是个老古板，老保守党，”他那若有所思的嗓音说。

“从打奥康内尔[51]时期以来，我看到了三代人。我记得那次的大饥荒[52]。你晓得吗，橙带党[53]分支鼓动废除联合议会要比奥康内尔这样做，以及你们教派的主教、教长们把他斥为煽动者，还早二十年呢!你们这些芬尼社社员[54]有时候是健忘的。”

光荣、虔诚、不朽的纪念[55]。在光辉的阿马的钻石会堂里，悬挂着天主教徒的一具具尸首[56]。沙哑着嗓子，戴面罩，手执武器，殖民者的宣誓[57]。被荒废的北部，确实正统的《圣经》。平头派倒下去[58]。

斯蒂芬像画草图似的打了个简短的手势。

“我身上也有造反者的血液，”迪希先生说。“母方的。然而我是投联合议会赞成票的约翰·布莱克伍德爵士的后裔。我们都是爱尔兰人，都是国王的子嗣[59]。”

“哎呀，”斯蒂芬说。

“走正路[60]，”迪希先生坚定地说，“这就是他的座右铭。他投了赞成票，是穿上高统马靴，从当郡的阿兹[61]骑马到都柏林去投的。”

吁——萧萧，吁——得得，

一路坎坷，赴都柏林。[62]

一个粗暴的绅士，足登锃亮的高统马靴，跨在马背上。雨天儿，约翰爵士。雨天儿，阁下……天儿……天儿…一双高统马靴荡悠着，一路荡到都柏林。吁——萧萧，吁——得得。吁——萧萧，吁——得得。

“这下子我想起来啦，”迪希先生说。“你可以帮我点儿忙，迪达勒斯先生，麻烦你去找几位文友。我这里有一封信想投给报纸。请稍坐一会儿。我只要把末尾誊清一下就行了。”

他走到窗旁的写字台那儿，把椅子往前拖了两下，读了读卷在打字机滚筒上那张纸上的几个字。

“坐下吧。对不起，”他转过脸来说，“按照常识行事。一会儿就好。”

他扬起浓眉，盯看看肘边的手稿，一面咕哝着，一面慢腾腾地去戳键盘上那僵硬的键。时而边吹气，边转动滚筒，擦掉错字。

斯蒂芬一声不响地在亲王那幅仪表堂堂的肖像前面坐下来，周围墙上的那些镜框里，毕恭毕敬地站着而今已消逝了的一匹匹马的形象，它们那温顺的头在空中昂着：黑斯廷斯勋爵的“挫败”，威斯敏斯特公爵的“跨越”，波弗特公爵的“锡兰”，一八六六年获巴黎奖[63]。小精灵般的骑手跨在马上，机警地等待着信号。他看到了这些佩带着英王徽记的马的速度，并随着早已消逝了的观众的欢呼而欢呼。

“句号，”迪希先生向打字机键盘发号施令。“但是，立即公开讨论这个最为重要的问题……”

为了及早发上一笔财，克兰利曾把我领到这里来;我们在溅满泥点子的大型四轮游览马车之间，在各据一方的赛马赌博经纪人那大声吆唤和饮食摊的强烈气味中，在色彩斑驳的烂泥上穿来穿去，寻找可能获胜的马匹。“美反叛”[64](!“美反叛”!大热门][65]以一博一;冷门马以十博一。我们跟在马蹄以及戴竞赛帽穿运动衫的骑手后边，从掷骰摊和玩杯艺[66]摊跟前匆匆走边，还遇上一个大胖脸的女人——肉铺的老板娘。她正饥渴地连皮啃着一掰两半的桔子，连鼻孔都扎进去了。

操场上传来少年们一片尖叫声和打嘟噜的哨子声。

又进了一球。我也是他们当中的一员，夹在那些你争我夺、混战着的身躯当中，一场生活的拼搏。你指的是那个妈妈的宠儿“外罗圈腿”吧？他好像宿酒未醒似的。拼搏啊。时间被冲撞得弹了回来，冲撞又冲撞。战场上的拼搏、泥泞和喊声，阵亡者弥留之际的呕吐物结成了冰，长矛挑起鲜血淋漓的内脏时那尖叫声。

“行啦，”迪希先生站起来说。

他踱到桌前，把打好了的信别在一起。斯蒂芬站了起来。

“我把这档子事与得简单明了，”迪希先生说。“是关于口蹄疫问题。你看一下吧。大家一定都会同意的。”

可否借用贵报一点宝贵的篇幅。在我国历史上屡见不鲜的自由放任主义原则。我国的牲畜贸易。我国各项旧有工业的方针。巧妙地操纵了戈尔韦建港计划[67]的利物浦集团。欧洲战火。通过海峡那狭窄水路的[68]粮食供应。农业部完完全全无动于衷。恕我借用一个典故。卡桑德拉。由于一个不怎么样的女人的关系[69]。现在言归正题。

“我够单刀直入了吧？”斯蒂芬往下读时，迪希先生问道。

口蹄疫。通称科克配方[70]。血清与病毒。免疫马的百分比。牛瘟。下奥地利慕尔斯泰格的御用马群。兽医外科。亨利·布莱克伍德·普赖斯[71]先生，献上处方，恭请一试。只能按照常识行事。无比重要的问题。名副其实地抓住公牛角[72]。感谢贵报慷慨地提供的篇幅。

“我要把这封信登在报上，让大家都读到，”迪希先生说。“你看吧，下次再突然闹瘟疫，他们就会对爱尔兰牛下禁运令了。可是这病是能治好的。已经有治好的了。我的表弟布莱克伍德·普赖斯给我来信说，在奥地利，那里的兽医挂牌医治牛瘟，并且都治好了。他们表示愿意到这里来。我正在想办法对部里的人施加点影响。现在我先从宣传方面着手。我面临的是重重困难，是……各种阴谋诡计，是……幕后操纵，是……”

他举起食指，老谋深算地在空中摆了几下才说下去。

“记住我的话，迪达勒斯先生，”他说。“英国已经掌握在犹太人手里了。占去了所有高层的位置，金融界、报界。而且他们是一个国家衰败的兆头。不论他们凑到哪儿，他们就把国家的元气吞掉。近年来，我一直看看事态的这种发展。犹太商人们已经干起破坏勾当了，这就跟咱们站在这里一样地确凿。古老的英国快要灭亡啦。”

他疾步向一旁走去，当他们跨过一束宽宽的日光时，他的两眼又恢复了生气勃勃的蓝色。他四下里打量了一番，又走了回来。

“快要灭亡了，”他又说，“如果不是已经灭亡了的话。”

妓女走街串巷到处高呼，

为老英格兰织起裹尸布。[73]

他在那束光里停下脚步，恍惚间见到了什么似的睁大了眼睛，严峻地逼视着。

“商人嘛，”斯蒂芬说，“左不过是贱买贵卖。犹太人也罢，非犹太人也罢，都一个样儿，不是吗？”

“他们对光[74]已下了罪，”迪希先生严肃地说。“你可以从他们的眼睛里看到黑暗。正因为如此，他们至今还在地球上流离失所。”

在巴黎证卷交易所的台阶上，金色皮肤的人们正伸出戴满宝石的手指，报着行情。嘎嘎乱叫的鹅群。他们成群结队地围着神殿[75]转，高声喧噪，粗鲁俗气，戴着不三不四的大礼帽，脑袋里装满了阴谋诡计。不是他们的，这些衣服，这种谈吐，这些手势。他们那睁得圆圆的滞钝的眼睛，与这些言谈，这些殷切、不冲撞人的举止相左，然而他们晓得自己周围积怨甚深，明白一腔热忱是徒然的。耐心地积累和贮藏也是白搭。时光必然使一切都一散而光。堆积在路旁的财宝:一旦遭到掠夺，就落入人家手里。他们的眼睛熟悉流浪的岁月，忍耐着，了解自已的肉体所遭受的凌辱。

“谁不是这样的呢？”斯蒂芬说。

“你指的是什么？”迪希先生问道。

他向前边了一步，站在桌旁。他的下巴颏歪向一边，犹豫不定地咧着嘴。这就是老人的智慧吗？他等着听我的呢。

“历史，”斯蒂芬说，“是我正努力从中醒过来的一场恶梦L76]。”

从操场上传来孩子们的一片喊叫声。一阵打嘟噜的哨子声，进球了。倘若那场恶梦像母马[77]似的尥蹶子，踢你一脚呢？

“造物主的做法跟咱们不一样，”迪希先生说。“整个人类的历史都朝着一个伟大的目标前进，神的体现。”

斯蒂芬冲着窗口翘了一下大拇指，说：

“那就是神。”

好哇!哎呀!呜噜噜噜!

“什么？”迪希先生问。

“街上的喊叫[78]，”斯蒂芬耸了耸肩头回答说。

迪希先生朝下面望去，用手指捏了一会儿鼻翅。他重新抬起头来，并撒开了手。

“我比你幸福，”他说。“我们曾犯过许多错误，有过种种罪孽。一个女人[79]把罪恶带到了人世间。为了一个不怎么样的女人，海伦，就是墨涅拉俄斯那个跟人跑了的妻子，希腊人同特洛伊打了十年仗。一个不贞的老婆首先把陌生人带到咱们这海岸上来了，就是麦克默罗的老婆和她的姘夫布雷夫尼大公奥鲁尔克[80]。巴涅尔[81]也是由于一个女人的缘故才栽的跟斗。很多错误，很多失败，然而惟独没有犯那种罪过。如今我已经进入暮年，却还从事着斗争。我要为正义而战斗到最后。”

因为阿尔斯特要战斗，

阿尔斯特在正义这一头。[82]

斯蒂芬举起手里那几页信。

“喏，先生，”他开口说。

“我估计，”迪希先生说，“你在这里干不长。我认为你生来就不是当老师的材料。兴许我错了。”

“不如说是来当学生的，”斯蒂芬说。

那么，你在这儿还能学到什么呢？

迪希先生摇了摇头。

“谁知道呢？”他说。“要学习嘛，就得虚心。然而人生就是一位伟大的老师。”

斯蒂芬又沙沙地抖动着那几页信。

“至于这封信，”他开口说。

“对，”迪希先生说。“你这儿是一式两份。你要是能马上把它们登出来就好了。”