ULYSSES. James Joyce

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ pace slackened. Here. Am I going to Aunt Sara’s or not? My consubstantial father’s voice. Did you see anything of your artist brother Stephen lately? No? Sure he’s not down in Strasburg terrace with his aunt Sally? Couldn’t he fly a bit higher than that, eh? And and and and tell us Stephen, how is uncle Si? O weeping God, the things I married into. De boys up in de hayloft. The drunken little costdrawer and his brother, the cornet player. Highly respectable gondoliers. And skeweyed Walter sirring his father, no less. Sir. Yes, sir. No, sir. Jesus wept : and no wonder, by Christ.

      I pull the wheezy bell of their shuttered cottage : and wait. They take me for a dun, peer out from a coign of vantage.

      — It’s Stephen, sir.

      — Let him in. Let Stephen in.

      A bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me.

      — We thought you were someone else.

      In his broad bed nuncle Richie, pillowed and blanketed, extends over the hillock of his knees a sturdy forearm. Cleanchested. He has washed the upper moiety.

      — Morrow, nephew.

      He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the eyes of Master Goff and Master Shapland Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a writ of Duces Tecum. A bogoak frame over his bald head : Wilde’s Requiescat. The drone of his misleading whistle brings Walter back.

      — Yes, sir?

      — Malt for Richie and Stephen, tell mother. Where is she?

      — Bathing Crissie, sir.

      Papa’s little bedpal. Lump of love.

      — No, uncle Richie…

      — Call me Richie. Damn your lithia water. It lowers. Whusky !

      — Uncle Richie, really…

      — Sit down or by the law. Harry I’ll knock you down.

      Walter squints vainly for a chair.

      — He has nothing to sit down on, sir.

      — He has nowhere put toit, you mug. Bring in our Chippendale chair. Would you like a bite of something? None of your damned lawdeedaw air here; the rich of a rasher fried with a herring? Sure? So much the better. We have nothing in the house but backache pills.

      All’erta !

      He drones bars of Ferrando’s aria di sortita. The grandest number, Stephen, in the whole opera. Listen.

      His tuneful whistle sounds again, finely shaded, with rushes of the air, his fists bigdrumming on his padded knees.

      This wind is sweeter.

      Houses of decay, mine, his and all. You told the Clongowes gentry you had an uncle a judge and an uncle a general in the army. Come out of them, Stephen. Beauty is not there. Nor in the stagnant bay, of Marsh’s library where you read the fading prophecies of Joachim Abbas. For whom? The hundredheaded rabble of the cathedral close. A hater of his kind ran from them to the wood of madness, his mane foaming in the moon, his eyeballs stars. Houyhnhnm, horsenostrilled. The oval equine faces. Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lantern jaws. Abbas father, furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? Paff ! Descende, calve, ut ne nimium decalveris. A garland of grey hair on his comminated head see him me clambering down to the footpace (descende), clutching a monstrance, basliskeyed. Get down, bald poll ! A choir gives back menace and echo, assisting about the altar’s horns, the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat with the fat of kidneys of wheat.

      And at the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating it. Dringdring ! And two streets off another locking it into a pyx. Dringadring ! And in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his own cheek. Dringdring ! Down, up, forward, back. Dan Occam thought of that, invincible doctor. A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickled his brain. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his second bell the first bell in the transept (he is lifting his) and, rising, heard (now I am lifting) their two bells (he is kneeling) twang in diphthong.

      Cousin Stephen, you will never be a saint. Isle of saints. You were awfully holy, weren’t you? You prayed to the Blessed Virgin that you might not have a red nose. You prayed to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the wet street. O si, certo ! Sell your soul for that, do, dyed rags pinned round a squaw. More tell me, more still ! On the top of the Howth tram alone crying to the rain : naked women ! What about that, eh?

      What about what? what else were they invented for?

      Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? I was young. You bowed to yourself in the mirror, stepping forward to applause earnestly, striking face. Hurray for the Goddamned idiot ! Hray ! No-one saw : tell no-one. Books you were going to write with letters for titles. Have you read his F? O yes, but I prefer Q. Yes, but W is wonderful. O yes, W. Remember your epiphanies on green oval leaves, deeeply deep, copies to be sent if you died to all the great libraries of the world, including Alexandria? Someone was to read them there after a few thousand years, a mahamanvantara. Pico della Mirandola like. Ay, very like a whale. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once…

      The grainy sand had gone from under his feet. His boots trod again a damp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles, that on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the shipworm, lost Armada. Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing upward sewage breath. He coasted them, walking warily. A porterbottle stood up, stogged to its waist, in the cakey sand dough. A sentinel : isle of dreadful thirst. Broken hoops on the shore; at the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts. Ringsend : wigwams of brown steersmen and master mariners. Human shells.

      He halted. I have passed the way to aunt Sara’s. Am I not going there? Seems not. No-one about. He turned northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the Pigeonhouse.

      — Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position?

      — C’est le pigeon, Joseph.

      Patrice, home on furlough, lapped warm milk with me in the bar MacMahon. Son of the wild goose, Kevin Egan of Paris. My father’s a bird, he lapped the sweet lait chaud with pink young tongue, plump bunny’s face. Lap, lapin. He hopes to win in the gros lots. About the nature of women he read in Michelet. But he must send me La Vie de Jésusby M. Léo Taxil. Lent it to his friend.

      — C’est tordant, vous savez. Moi je suis socialiste. Je ne crois pas en l’existence de Dieu. Faut pas le dire à mon père.

      — Il croit?

      — Mon père, oui.

      Schluss. He laps.

      My Latin quarter hat. God, we simply must dress the character. I want puce gloves. You were a student, weren’t you? Of what in the other devil’s name? Paysayenn. P. C. N., you know : physiques, chimiques et naturelles. Aha. Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen. Just say in the most natural tone : when I was in Paris, boul’ Mich’, I used to. Yes, СКАЧАТЬ