Ulysses
161
of
1305
wheel itself much handier? Well but that fellow would
lose his job then? Well but then another fellow would get
a job making the new invention?
Antient concert rooms. Nothing on there. A man in a
buff suit with a crape armlet. Not much grief there.
Quarter mourning. People in law perhaps.
They went past the bleak pulpit of saint Mark’s, under
the railway bridge, past the Queen’s theatre: in silence.
Hoardings: Eugene Stratton, Mrs Bandmann Palmer.
Could I go to see LEAH tonight, I wonder. I said I. Or
the Lily of Killarney? Elster Grimes Opera Company. Big
powerful change. Wet bright bills for next week. Fun on
the Bristol. Martin Cunningham could work a pass for the
Gaiety. Have to stand a drink or two. As broad as it’s long.
He’s coming in the afternoon. Her songs.
Plasto’s. Sir Philip Crampton’s memorial fountain bust.
Who was he?
—How do you do? Martin Cunningham said, raising
his palm to his brow in salute.
—He doesn’t see us, Mr Power said. Yes, he does.
How do you do?
—Who? Mr Dedalus asked.
—Blazes Boylan, Mr Power said. There he is airing his
quiff.
Ulysses
162
of
1305
Just that moment I was thinking.
Mr Dedalus bent across to salute. From the door of the
Red Bank the white disc of a straw hat flashed reply:
spruce figure: passed.
Mr Bloom reviewed the nails of his left hand, then
those of his right hand. The nails, yes. Is there anything
more in him that they she sees? Fascination. Worst man in
Dublin. That keeps him alive. They sometimes feel what a
person is. Instinct. But a type like that. My nails. I am just
looking at them: well pared. And after: thinking alone.
Body getting a bit softy. I would notice that: from
remembering. What causes that? I suppose the skin can’t
contract quickly enough when the flesh falls off. But the
shape is there. The shape is there still. Shoulders. Hips.
Plump. Night of the dance dressing. Shift stuck between
the cheeks behind.
He clasped his hands between his knees and, satisfied,
sent his vacant glance over their faces.
Mr Power asked:
—How is the concert tour getting on, Bloom?
—O, very well, Mr Bloom said. I hear great accounts
of it. It’s a good idea, you see ...
—Are you going yourself?
Ulysses
163
of
1305
—Well no, Mr Bloom said. In point of fact I have to
go down to the county Clare on some private business.
You see the idea is to tour the chief towns. What you lose
on one you can make up on the other.
—Quite so, Martin Cunningham said. Mary Anderson
is up there now.
Have you good artists?
—Louis Werner is touring her, Mr Bloom said. O yes,
we’ll have all topnobbers. J. C. Doyle and John
MacCormack I hope and. The best, in fact.
—And Madame, Mr Power said smiling. Last but not
least.
Mr Bloom unclasped his hands in a gesture of soft
politeness and clasped them. Smith O’Brien. Someone has
laid a bunch of flowers there. Woman. Must be his
deathday. For many happy returns. The carriage wheeling
by Farrell’s statue united noiselessly their unresisting knees.
Oot: a dullgarbed old man from the curbstone tendered
his wares, his mouth opening: oot.
—Four bootlaces for a penny.
Wonder why he was struck off the rolls. Had his office
in Hume street. Same house as Molly’s namesake,
Tweedy, crown solicitor for Waterford. Has that silk hat
ever since. Relics of old decency. Mourning too. Terrible
Ulysses
164
of
1305
comedown, poor wretch! Kicked about like snuff at a
wake. O’Callaghan on his last legs.
And Madame. Twenty past eleven. Up. Mrs Fleming is
in to clean. Doing her hair, humming. voglio e non vorrei.
No. vorrei e non. Looking at the tips of her hairs to see if
they are split. Mi trema un poco il. Beautiful on that tre her
voice is: weeping tone. A thrush. A throstle. There is a
word throstle that expresses that.
His eyes passed lightly over Mr Power’s goodlooking
face. Greyish over the ears. Madame: smiling. I smiled
back. A smile goes a long way. Only politeness perhaps.
Nice fellow. Who knows is that true about the woman he
keeps? Not pleasant for the wife. Yet they say, who was it
told me, there is no carnal. You would imagine that
would get played out pretty quick. Yes, it was Crofton
met him one evening bringing her a pound of rumpsteak.
What is this she was? Barmaid in Jury’s. Or the Moira, was
it?
They passed under the hugecloaked Liberator’s form.
Martin Cunningham nudged Mr Power.
—Of the tribe of Reuben, he said.
A tall blackbearded figure, bent on a stick, stumping
round the corner of Elvery’s Elephant house, showed
them a curved hand open on his spine.
Ulysses
165
of
1305
—In all his pristine beauty, Mr Power said.
Mr Dedalus looked after the stumping figure and said
mildly:
—The devil break the hasp of your back!
Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face from
the window as the carriage passed Gray’s statue.
—We have all been there, Martin Cunningham said
broadly.
His eyes met Mr Bloom’s eyes. He caressed his beard,
adding:
—Well, nearly all of us.
Mr Bloom began to speak with sudden eagerness to his
companions’ faces.
—That’s an awfully good one that’s going the rounds
about Reuben J and the son.
—About the boatman? Mr Power asked.
—Yes. Isn’t it awfully good?
—What is that? Mr Dedalus asked. I didn’t hear it.
—There was a girl in the case, Mr Bloom began, and
he determined to send him to the Isle of Man out of
harm’s way but when they were both ...
—What? Mr Dedalus asked. That confirmed bloody
hobbledehoy is it?
Dostları ilə paylaş: |