ULYSSES (Modern Classics Series). Джеймс Джойс
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I’ll get the design, Mr Nannetti, he said, and you’ll give it a good place I know.
– Monks!
– Yes, sir.
Three months’ renewal. Want to get some wind off my chest first. Try it anyhow. Rub in August : good idea : horseshow month. Ballsbridge. Tourists over for the show.
A DAYFATHER
He walked on through the caseroom, passing an old man, bowed, spectacled, aproned. Old Monks, the dayfather. Queer lot of stuff he must have put through his hands in his time : obituary notices, pubs’ ads, speeches, divorce suits, found drowned. Nearing the end of his tether now. Sober serious man with a bit in the savingsbank I’d say. Wife a good cook and washer. Daughter working the machine in the parlour. Plain Jane, no damn nonsense.
AND IT WAS THE FEAST OF THE PASSOVER
He stayed in his walk to watch a typesetter neatly distributing type. Reads it backwards first. Quickly he does it. Must require some practice that. mangiD. kcirtaP. Poor papa with his hagadah book, reading backwards with his finger to me. Pessach. Next year in Jerusalem. Dear, O dear! All that long business about that brought us out of the land of Egypt and into the house of bondage alleluia. Shema Israel Adonai Elohenu. No, that’s the other. Then the twelve brothers, Jacob’s sons. And then the lamb and the cat and the dog and the stick and the water and the butcher and then the angel of death kills the butcher and he kills the ox and the dog kills the cat. Sounds a bit silly till you come to look into it well. Justice it means but it’s everybody eating everyone else. That’s what life is after all. How quickly he does that job. Practice makes perfect. Seems to see with his fingers.
Mr Bloom passed on out of the clanking noises through the gallery on to the landing. Now am I going to tram it out all the way and then catch him out perhaps? Better phone him up first. Number? Same as Citron’s house. Twentyeight. Twentyeight double four.
ONLY ONCE MORE THAT SOAP
He went down the house staircase. Who the deuce scrawled all over these walls with matches? Looks as if they did it for a bet. Heavy greasy smell there always is in those works. Lukewarm glue in Thom’s next door when I was there.
He took out his handkerchief to dab his nose. Citronlemon? Ah, the soap I put there. Lose it out of that pocket. Putting back his handkerchief he took out the soap and stowed it away, buttoned into the hip pocket of his trousers.
What perfume does your wife use? I could go home still : tram : something I forgot. Just to see before dressing. No. Here. No.
A sudden screech of laughter came from the Evening Telegraph office. Know who that is. What’s up? Pop in a minute to phone. Ned Lambert it is.
He entered softly.
ERIN, GREEN GEM OF THE SILVER SEA
– The ghost walks, professor MacHugh murmured softly, biscuitfully to the dusty windowpane.
Mr Dedalus, staring from the empty fireplace at Ned Lambert’s quizzing face, asked of it sourly :
– Agonising Christ, wouldn’t it give you a heartburn on your arse?
Ned Lambert, seated on the table, read on :
– Or again, note the meanderings of some purling rill as it babbles on its way, fanned by gentlest zephyrs tho’ quarrelling with the stony obstacles, to the tumbling waters of Neptune’s blue domain, mid mossy banks, played on by the glorious sunlight or ’neath the shadows cast o’er its pensive bosom by the overarching leafage of the giants of the forest. What about that, Simon? he asked over the fringe of his newspaper. How’s that for high?
– Changing his drink, Mr Dedalus said.
Ned Lambert, laughing, struck the newspaper on his knees, repeating :
– The pensive bosom and the overarsing leafage. O boys! O boys!
– And Xenophon looked upon Marathon, Mr Dedalus said, looking again on the fireplace and to the window, and Marathon looked on the sea.
– That will do, professor MacHugh cried from the window. I don’t want to hear any more of the stuff.
He ate off the crescent of water biscuit he had been nibbling and, hungered, made ready to nibble the biscuit in his other hand.
High falutin stuff. Bladderbags. Ned Lambert is taking a day off I see. Rather upsets a man’s day a funeral does. He has influence they say. Old Chatterton, the vice-chancellor, is his granduncle or his greatgranduncle. Close on ninety they say. Subleader for his death written this long time perhaps. Living to spite them. Might go first himself. Johnny, make room for your uncle. The right honourable Hedges Eyre Chatterton. Daresay he writes him an odd shaky cheque or two on gale days. Windfall when he kicks out. Alleluia.
– Just another spasm, Ned Lambert said.
– What is it? Mr Bloom asked.
– A recently discovered fragment of Cicero’s, professor Mac Hugh answered with pomp of tone. Our lovely land.
SHORT BUT TO THE POINT
– Whose land? Mr Bloom said simply.
– Most pertinent question, the professor said between his chews. With an accent on the whose.
– Dan Dawson’s land, Mr Dedalus said.
– Is it his speech last night? Mr Bloom asked.
Ned Lambert nodded.
– But listen to this, he said.
The doorknob hit Mr Bloom in the small of the back as the door was pushed in.
– Excuse me, J.J. O’Molloy said, entering.
Mr Bloom moved nimbly aside.
– I beg yours, he said.
– Good day, Jack.
– Come in. Come in.
– Good day.
– How are you, Dedalus?
– Well. And yourself?
J.J. O’Molloy shook his head.
SAD
Cleverest fellow at the junior bar he used to be. Decline poor chap. That hectic flush spells finis for a man. Touch and go with him. What’s in the wind, I wonder. Money worry.
– Or again if we but climb the serried mountain peaks.
– You’re looking extra.
– Is the editor to be seen? J.J. O’Molloy asked, looking towards the inner door.
– Very much so, professor MacHugh said. To be seen and heard. He’s in his sanctum with Lenehan.
J.J. O’Molloy strolled Jo the sloping desk and began to turn back the pink pages of the file.
Practice dwindling. A mighthavebeen. Losing heart. Gambling. Debts of honour. Reaping the whirlwind. Used to get good retainers from D. and T. Fitzgerald. Their wigs to show their grey matter. Brains on their sleeve like the statue in Glasnevin. Believe he does some literary work for the Express with Gabriel Conroy. Wellread fellow. Myles Crawford began on the Independent. Funny the way those newspaper men veer about when they get wind of a new opening. Weathercocks. Hot and cold in the same breath. Wouldn’t know which to believe. One story good till you hear the next. Go for one another baldheaded in the papers and then all blows over. Hailfellow well met the next moment.
– Ah, listen to this for God’ sake, Ned Lambert pleaded. Or again if we but climb the serried mountain peaks…
– Bombast! the professor broke in testily. Enough of the inflated windbag!
– Peaks, Ned Lambert went on, towering high on high, to bathe our souls, as it were…
– Bathe his lips, Mr Dedalus said. Blessed and eternal God! Yes? Is he taking anything for it?
– As ’twere, in the peerless panorama of Ireland’s