Ulysses Chapter 5 Lotus Eaters

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尤利西斯 第5章

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English to Chinese translation 英文到汉语中文翻译对照阅读 of Ulysses - Chapter 5 Lotus Eaters

1By lorries along sir John Rogerson's quay Mr Bloom walked soberly, past Windmill lane, Leask's the linseed crusher, the postal telegraph office. Could have given that address too. And past the sailors' home. He turned from the morning noises of the quayside and walked through Lime street. By Brady's cottages a boy for the skins lolled, his bucket of offal linked, smoking a chewed fagbutt. A smaller girl with scars of eczema on her forehead eyed him, listlessly holding her battered caskhoop. Tell him if he smokes he won't grow. O let him! His life isn't such a bed of roses. Waiting outside pubs to bring da home. Come home to ma, da. Slack hour: won't be many there. He crossed Townsend street, passed the frowning face of Bethel. El, yes: house of: Aleph, Beth. And past Nichols' the undertaker. At eleven it is. Time enough. Daresay Corny Kelleher bagged the job for O'Neill's. Singing with his eyes shut. Corny. Met her once in the park. In the dark. What a lark. Police tout. Her name and address she then told with my tooraloom tooraloom tay. O, surely he bagged it. Bury him cheap in a whatyoumaycall. With my tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom.


2In Westland row he halted before the window of the Belfast and Oriental Tea Company and read the legends of leadpapered packets: choice blend, finest quality, family tea. Rather warm. Tea. Must get some from Tom Kernan. Couldn't ask him at a funeral, though. While his eyes still read blandly he took off his hat quietly inhaling his hairoil and sent his right hand with slow grace over his brow and hair. Very warm morning. Under their dropped lids his eyes found the tiny bow of the leather headband inside his high grade ha. Just there. His right hand came down into the bowl of his hat. His fingers found quickly a card behind the headband and transferred it to his waistcoat pocket.


3So warm. His right hand once more more slowly went over his brow and hair. Then he put on his hat again, relieved: and read again: choice blend, made of the finest Ceylon brands. The far east. Lovely spot it must be: the garden of the world, big lazy leaves to float about on, cactuses, flowery meads, snaky lianas they call them. Wonder is it like that. Those Cinghalese lobbing about in the sun in dolce far niente, not doing a hand's turn all day. Sleep six months out of twelve. Too hot to quarrel. Influence of the climate. Lethargy. Flowers of idleness. The air feeds most. Azotes. Hothouse in Botanic gardens. Sensitive plants. Waterlilies. Petals too tired to. Sleeping sickness in the air. Walk on roseleaves. Imagine trying to eat tripe and cowheel. Where was the chap I saw in that picture somewhere? Ah yes, in the dead sea floating on his back, reading a book with a parasol open. Couldn't sink if you tried: so thick with salt. Because the weight of the water, no, the weight of the body in the water is equal to the weight of the what? Or is it the volume is equal to the weight? It's a law something like that. Vance in High school cracking his fingerjoints, teaching. The college curriculum. Cracking curriculum. What is weight really when you say the weight? Thirtytwo feet per second per second. Law of falling bodies: per second per second. They all fall to the ground. The earth. It's the force of gravity of the earth is the weight.


4He turned away and sauntered across the road. How did she walk with her sausages? Like that something. As he walked he took the folded Freeman from his sidepocket, unfolded it, rolled it lengthwise in a baton and tapped it at each sauntering step against his trouserleg. Careless air: just drop in to see. Per second per second. Per second for every second it means. From the curbstone he darted a keen glance through the door of the postoffice. Too late box. Post here. No-one. In.


5He handed the card through the brass grill.


6—Are there any letters for me? he asked.


7While the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he gazed at the recruiting poster with soldiers of all arms on parade: and held the tip of his baton against his nostrils, smelling freshprinted rag paper. No answer probably. Went too far last time.


8The postmistress handed him back through the grill his card with a letter. He thanked her and glanced rapidly at the typed envelope.


9Henry Flower Esq, c/o P. O. Westland Row, City.


10Answered anyhow. He slipped card and letter into his sidepocket, reviewing again the soldiers on parade. Where's old Tweedy's regiment? Castoff soldier. There: bearskin cap and hackle plume. No, he's a grenadier. Pointed cuffs. There he is: royal Dublin fusiliers. Redcoats. Too showy. That must be why the women go after them. Uniform. Easier to enlist and drill. Maud Gonne's letter about taking them off O'Connell street at night: disgrace to our Irish capital. Griffith's paper is on the same tack now: an army rotten with venereal disease: overseas or halfseasover empire. Half baked they look: hypnotised like. Eyes front. Mark time. Table: able. Bed: ed. The King's own. Never see him dressed up as a fireman or a bobby. A mason, yes.


11He strolled out of the postoffice and turned to the right. Talk: as if that would mend matters. His hand went into his pocket and a forefinger felt its way under the flap of the envelope, ripping it open in jerks. Women will pay a lot of heed, I don't think. His fingers drew forth the letter the letter and crumpled the envelope in his pocket. Something pinned on: photo perhaps. Hair? No.


12M'Coy. Get rid of him quickly. Take me out of my way. Hate company when you.


13—Hello, Bloom. Where are you off to?


14—Hello, M'Coy. Nowhere in particular.


15—How's the body?


16—Fine. How are you?


17—Just keeping alive, M'Coy said.


18His eyes on the black tie and clothes he asked with low respect:


19—Is there any... no trouble I hope? I see you're...


20—O, no, Mr Bloom said. Poor Dignam, you know. The funeral is today.


21—To be sure, poor fellow. So it is. What time?


22A photo it isn't. A badge maybe.


23—E... eleven, Mr Bloom answered.


24—I must try to get out there, M'Coy said. Eleven, is it? I only heard it last night. Who was telling me? Holohan. You know Hoppy?


25—I know.


26Mr Bloom gazed across the road at the outsider drawn up before the door of the Grosvenor. The porter hoisted the valise up on the well. She stood still, waiting, while the man, husband, brother, like her, searched his pockets for change. Stylish kind of coat with that roll collar, warm for a day like this, looks like blanketcloth. Careless stand of her with her hands in those patch pockets. Like that haughty creature at the polo match. Women all for caste till you touch the spot. Handsome is and handsome does. Reserved about to yield. The honourable Mrs and Brutus is an honourable man. Possess her once take the starch out of her.


27—I was with Bob Doran, he's on one of his periodical bends, and what do you call him Bantam Lyons. Just down there in Conway's we were.


28Doran Lyons in Conway's. She raised a gloved hand to her hair. In came Hoppy. Having a wet. Drawing back his head and gazing far from beneath his vailed eyelids he saw the bright fawn skin shine in the glare, the braided drums. Clearly I can see today. Moisture about gives long sight perhaps. Talking of one thing or another. Lady's hand. Which side will she get up?


29—And he said: Sad thing about our poor friend Paddy! What Paddy? I said. Poor little Paddy Dignam, he said.


30Off to the country: Broadstone probably. High brown boots with laces dangling. Wellturned foot. What is he foostering over that change for? Sees me looking. Eye out for other fellow always. Good fallback. Two strings to her bow.


31Why? I said. What's wrong with him? I said.


32Proud: rich: silk stockings.


33—Yes, Mr Bloom said.


34He moved a little to the side of M'Coy's talking head. Getting up in a minute.


35What's wrong with him? He said. He's dead, he said. And, faith, he filled up. Is it Paddy Dignam? I said. I couldn't believe it when I heard it. I was with him no later than Friday last or Thursday was it in the Arch. Yes, he said. He's gone. He died on Monday, poor fellow. Watch! Watch! Silk flash rich stockings white. Watch!


36A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between.


37Lost it. Curse your noisy pugnose. Feels locked out of it. Paradise and the peri. Always happening like that. The very moment. Girl in Eustace street hallway Monday was it settling her garter. Her friend covering the display of esprit de corps. Well, what are you gaping at?


38—Yes, yes, Mr Bloom said after a dull sigh. Another gone.


39—One of the best, M'Coy said.


40The tram passed. They drove off towards the Loop Line bridge, her rich gloved hand on the steel grip. Flicker, flicker: the laceflare of her hat in the sun: flicker, flick.


41—Wife well, I suppose? M'Coy's changed voice said.


42—O, yes, Mr Bloom said. Tiptop, thanks.


43He unrolled the newspaper baton idly and read idly:


44What is home without Plumtree's Potted Meat? Incomplete With it an abode of bliss.


45—My missus has just got an engagement. At least it's not settled yet.


46Valise tack again. By the way no harm. I'm off that, thanks.


47Mr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes with unhasty friendliness.


48—My wife too, he said. She's going to sing at a swagger affair in the Ulster Hall, Belfast, on the twenty-fifth.


49—That so? M'Coy said. Glad to hear that, old man. Who's getting it up?


50Mrs Marion Bloom. Not up yet. Queen was in her bedroom eating bread and. No book. Blackened court cards laid along her thigh by sevens. Dark lady and fair man. Letter. Cat furry black ball. Torn strip of envelope.










55Comes lo-ove's old...


56—It's a kind of a tour, don't you see, Mr Bloom said thoughtfully. Sweeeet song. There's a committee formed. Part shares and part profits.


57M'Coy nodded, picking at his moustache stubble.


58—O, well, he said. That's good news.


59He moved to go.


60—Well, glad to see you looking fit, he said. Meet you knocking around.


61—Yes, Mr Bloom said.


62—Tell you what, M'Coy said. You might put down my name at the funeral, will you? I'd like to go but I mightn't be able, you see. There's a drowning case at Sandycove may turn up and then the coroner and myself would have to go down if the body is found. You just shove in my name if I'm not there, will you?


63—I'll do that, Mr Bloom said, moving to get off. That'll be all right.


64—Right, M'Coy said brightly. Thanks, old man. I'd go if I possibly could. Well, tolloll. Just C. P. M'Coy will do.


65—That will be done, Mr Bloom answered firmly.


66Didn't catch me napping that wheeze. The quick touch. Soft mark. I'd like my job. Valise I have a particular fancy for. Leather. Capped corners, rivetted edges, double action lever lock. Bob Cowley lent him his for the Wicklow regatta concert last year and never heard tidings of it from that good day to this.


67Mr Bloom, strolling towards Brunswick street, smiled. My missus has just got an. Reedy freckled soprano. Cheeseparing nose. Nice enough in its way: for a little ballad. No guts in it. You and me, don't you know: in the same boat. Softsoaping. Give you the needle that would. Can't he hear the difference? Think he's that way inclined a bit. Against my grain somehow. Thought that Belfast would fetch him. I hope that smallpox up there doesn't get worse. Suppose she wouldn't let herself be vaccinated again. Your wife and my wife.


68Wonder is he pimping after me?


69Mr Bloom stood at the corner, his eyes wandering over the multicoloured hoardings. Cantrell and Cochrane's Ginger Ale (Aromatic). Clery's Summer Sale. No, he's going on straight. Hello. Leah tonight. Mrs Bandmann Palmer. Like to see her again in that. Hamlet she played last night. Male impersonator. Perhaps he was a woman. Why Ophelia committed suicide. Poor papa! How he used to talk of Kate Bateman in that. Outside the Adelphi in London waited all the afternoon to get in. Year before I was born that was: sixtyfive. And Ristori in Vienna. What is this the right name is? By Mosenthal it is. Rachel, is it? No. The scene he was always talking about where the old blind Abraham recognises the voice and puts his fingers on his face.

69布卢姆先生在街角停下脚步,两眼瞟着那些五颜六色的广告牌。坎特雷尔与科克伦姜麦酒(加了香料的)。克勒利的夏季大甩卖。不,他笔直地走下去了。嘿,今晚上演班德曼·帕默夫人的《丽亚》哩。 巴不得再看一遍她扮演这个角色。昨晚她演的是哈姆莱特。女扮男装。说不定他本来就是个女的哩。所以奥菲利娅才自杀了。可怜的爸爸!他常提起凯特·贝特曼扮演的这个角色。他在伦敦的阿德尔菲剧场外面足足等了一个下午才进去的。那是一八六五年——我出生前一年的事。还有里斯托里在维也纳的演出。剧目该怎么叫来着?作者是莫森索尔。是《蕾洁》吧?不是的。他经常谈到的场景是,又老又瞎的亚伯拉罕听出了那声音,就把手指放在他的脸上。

70Nathan's voice! His son's voice! I hear the voice of Nathan who left his father to die of grief and misery in my arms, who left the house of his father and left the God of his father.


71Every word is so deep, Leopold.


72Poor papa! Poor man! I'm glad I didn't go into the room to look at his face. That day! O, dear! O, dear! Ffoo! Well, perhaps it was best for him.


73Mr Bloom went round the corner and passed the drooping nags of the hazard. No use thinking of it any more. Nosebag time. Wish I hadn't met that M'Coy fellow.


74He came nearer and heard a crunching of gilded oats, the gently champing teeth. Their full buck eyes regarded him as he went by, amid the sweet oaten reek of horsepiss. Their Eldorado. Poor jugginses! Damn all they know or care about anything with their long noses stuck in nosebags. Too full for words. Still they get their feed all right and their doss. Gelded too: a stump of black guttapercha wagging limp between their haunches. Might be happy all the same that way. Good poor brutes they look. Still their neigh can be very irritating.


75He drew the letter from his pocket and folded it into the newspaper he carried. Might just walk into her here. The lane is safer.


76He passed the cabman's shelter. Curious the life of drifting cabbies. All weathers, all places, time or setdown, no will of their own. Voglio e non. Like to give them an odd cigarette. Sociable. Shout a few flying syllables as they pass. He hummed:


77La ci darem la mano


78La la lala la la.


79He turned into Cumberland street and, going on some paces, halted in the lee of the station wall. No-one. Meade's timberyard. Piled balks. Ruins and tenements. With careful tread he passed over a hopscotch court with its forgotten pickeystone. Not a sinner. Near the timberyard a squatted child at marbles, alone, shooting the taw with a cunnythumb. A wise tabby, a blinking sphinx, watched from her warm sill. Pity to disturb them. Mohammed cut a piece out of his mantle not to wake her. Open it. And once I played marbles when I went to that old dame's school. She liked mignonette. Mrs Ellis's. And Mr? He opened the letter within the newspaper.


80A flower. I think it's a. A yellow flower with flattened petals. Not annoyed then? What does she say?


81Dear Henry


82I got your last letter to me and thank you very much for it. I am sorry you did not like my last letter. Why did you enclose the stamps? I am awfully angry with you. I do wish I could punish you for that. I called you naughty boy because I do not like that other world. Please tell me what is the real meaning of that word? Are you not happy in your home you poor little naughty boy? I do wish I could do something for you. Please tell me what you think of poor me. I often think of the beautiful name you have. Dear Henry, when will we meet? I think of you so often you have no idea. I have never felt myself so much drawn to a man as you. I feel so bad about. Please write me a long letter and tell me more. Remember if you do not I will punish you. So now you know what I will do to you, you naughty boy, if you do not wrote. O how I long to meet you. Henry dear, do not deny my request before my patience are exhausted. Then I will tell you all. Goodbye now, naughty darling, I have such a bad headache. today. and write by return to your longing

82我收到了你的上一封信,很是感谢。遗憾的是,你不喜欢我上次的信。你为什么要附邮票呢?我非常生气。 我多么希望能够为这件事惩罚你一下啊。我曾称你作淘气鬼,因为我不喜欢那另一个世界。请告诉我那另一个字真正的含意。你在自己家里不幸福吗?你这可怜的小淘气鬼? 我巴不得能替你做点什么。请告诉我,你对我这个可怜虫有什么看法。我时常想起你这个名字有多么可爱。亲爱的亨利,咱们什么时候能见面呢?你简直无法想像我多么经常地想念你。我从来没有被一个男人像被你这么吸引过。弄得我心慌意乱。请给我写一封长信,告诉我更多的事情。不然的话我可要惩罚你啦,你可要记住。你这淘气鬼,现在你晓得了,假若你不写信,我会怎样对付你。哦,我多么盼望跟你见面啊。亲爱的亨利,请别拒绝我的要求,否则我的耐心就要耗尽了。到那时候我就一古脑儿告诉你。现在,再见吧,心爱的淘气鬼。今天我的头疼得厉害,所以一定要立即回信给苦苦思念你的



84P. S. Do tell me what kind of perfume does your wife use. I want to know.


85He tore the flower gravely from its pinhold smelt its almost no smell and placed it in his heart pocket. Language of flowers. They like it because no-one can hear. Or a poison bouquet to strike him down. Then walking slowly forward he read the letter again, murmuring here and there a word. Angry tulips with you darling manflower punish your cactus if you don't please poor forgetmenot how I long violets to dear roses when we soon anemone meet all naughty nightstalk wife Martha's perfume. Having read it all he took it from the newspaper and put it back in his sidepocket.

85他神情严肃地扯下那朵用饰针别着的花儿,嗅了嗅几乎消失殆尽的香气,将它放在胸兜里。花的语言。人们喜欢它,因为谁也听不见。要么就用一束毒花将对方击倒。于是,他慢慢地往前踱着,把信重读一遍,东一个字、西一个词地念出声来。对你郁金香 生气 亲爱的 男人花 惩罚 你的 仙人掌 假若你不 请 可怜虫 勿忘草 我多么盼望 紫罗兰 给亲爱的 玫瑰 当我们快要 银莲花 见面 一古脑儿 淘气鬼 夜茎 太太 玛莎的香水。读完之后,他把信从报纸卷里取出来,又放回到侧兜里。

86Weak joy opened his lips. Changed since the first letter. Wonder did she wrote it herself. Doing the indignant: a girl of good family like me, respectable character. Could meet one Sunday after the rosary. Thank you: not having any. Usual love scrimmage. Then running round corners. Bad as a row with Molly. Cigar has a cooling effect. Narcotic. Go further next time. Naughty boy: punish: afraid of words, of course. Brutal, why not? Try it anyhow. A bit at a time.


87Fingering still the letter in his pocket he drew the pin out of it. Common pin, eh? He threw it on the road. Out of her clothes somewhere: pinned together. Queer the number of pins they always have. No roses without thorns.


88Flat Dublin voices bawled in his head. Those two sluts that night in the Coombe, linked together in the rain.


89O, Mary lost the pin of her drawers.


90She didn't know what to do


91To keep it up


92To keep it up.


93It? Them. Such a bad headache. Has her roses probably. Or sitting all day typing. Eyefocus bad for stomach nerves. What perfume does your wife use. Now could you make out a thing like that?


94To keep it up.


95Martha, Mary. I saw that picture somewhere I forget now old master or faked for money. He is sitting in their house, talking. Mysterious. Also the two sluts in the Coombe would listen.


96To keep it up.


97Nice kind of evening feeling. No more wandering about. Just loll there: quiet dusk: let everything rip. Forget. Tell about places you have been, strange customs. The other one, jar on her head, was getting the supper: fruit, olives, lovely cool water out of a well, stonecold like the hole in the wall at Ashtown. Must carry a paper goblet next time I go to the trottingmatches. She listens with big dark soft eyes. Tell her: more and more: all. Then a sigh: silence. Long long long rest.


98Going under the railway arch he took out the envelope, tore it swiftly in shreds and scattered them towards the road. The shreds fluttered away, sank in the dank air: a white flutter, then all sank.


99Henry Flower. You could tear up a cheque for a hundred pounds in the same way. Simple bit of paper. Lord Iveagh once cashed a sevenfigure cheque for a million in the bank of Ireland. Shows you the money to be made out of porter. Still the other brother lord Ardilaun has to change his shirt four times a day, they say. Skin breeds lice or vermin. A million pounds, wait a moment. Twopence a pint, fourpence a quart, eightpence a gallon of porter, no, one and fourpence a gallon of porter. One and four into twenty: fifteen about. Yes, exactly. Fifteen millions of barrels of porter.


100What am I saying barrels? Gallons. About a million barrels all the same.


101An incoming train clanked heavily above his head, coach after coach. Barrels bumped in his head: dull porter slopped and churned inside. The bungholes sprang open and a huge dull flood leaked out, flowing together, winding through mudflats all over the level land, a lazy pooling swirl of liquor bearing along wideleaved flowers of its froth.


102He had reached the open backdoor of All Hallows. Stepping into the porch he doffed his hat, took the card from his pocket and tucked it again behind the leather headband. Damn it. I might have tried to work M'Coy for a pass to Mullingar.


103Same notice on the door. Sermon by the very reverend John Conmee S.J. on saint Peter Claver S.J. and the African Mission. Prayers for the conversion of Gladstone they had too when he was almost unconscious. The protestants are the same. Convert Dr William J. Walsh D.D. to the true religion. Save China's millions. Wonder how they explain it to the heathen Chinee. Prefer an ounce of opium. Celestials. Rank heresy for them. Buddha their god lying on his side in the museum. Taking it easy with hand under his cheek. Josssticks burning. Not like Ecce Homo. Crown of thorns and cross. Clever idea Saint Patrick the shamrock. Chopsticks? Conmee: Martin Cunningham knows him: distinguishedlooking. Sorry I didn't work him about getting Molly into the choir instead of that Father Farley who looked a fool but wasn't. They're taught that. He's not going out in bluey specs with the sweat rolling off him to baptise blacks, is he? The glasses would take their fancy, flashing. Like to see them sitting round in a ring with blub lips, entranced, listening. Still life. Lap it up like milk, I suppose.


104The cold smell of sacred stone called him. He trod the worn steps, pushed the swingdoor and entered softly by the rere.


105Something going on: some sodality. Pity so empty. Nice discreet place to be next some girl. Who is my neighbour? Jammed by the hour to slow music. That woman at midnight mass. Seventh heaven. Women knelt in the benches with crimson halters round their necks, heads bowed. A batch knelt at the altarrails. The priest went along by them, murmuring, holding the thing in his hands. He stopped at each, took out a communion, shook a drop or two (are they in water?) off it and put it neatly into her mouth. Her hat and head sank. Then the next one. Her hat sank at once. Then the next one: a small old woman. The priest bent down to put it into her mouth, murmuring all the time. Latin. The next one. Shut your eyes and open your mouth. What? Corpus: body. Corpse. Good idea the Latin. Stupefies them first. Hospice for the dying. They don't seem to chew it: only swallow it down. Rum idea: eating bits of a corpse. Why the cannibals cotton to it.

105正在进行着什么活动,教友的聚会吧。可惜这么空空荡荡的。要是找个不显眼的位子,旁边有个少女倒不赖。谁是我的邻人呢?听着悠扬的音乐,挤在一起坐上一个钟头。就是望午夜弥撒时遇见的那个女人,使人觉得仿佛上了七重天。妇女们跪在长凳上,脖间系着深红色圣巾,低看头。有几个跪在祭坛的栏杆那儿。神父嘴里念念有词,双手捧着那东西,从她们前边走过。他在每个人面前都停下来,取出一枚圣体。甩上一两下(难道那是浸泡在水里的不成?),利利索索地送到她嘴里。她的帽子和头耷拉下去。接着就是第二个。她的帽子也立即垂下来。随后是旁边的那个:矮个子的老妪。神父弯下腰,把圣体送进她的嘴里,她不断地咕哝着。那是拉丁文。下一个。闭上眼,张开嘴。是什么来着?Corpus: body。 Corpse。用拉丁文可是个高明的主意。首先,那就会使这些女人感到茫然。收容垂死者的救济院。她们好像并不咀嚼:只是把圣体吞咽下去。吃尸体的碎片,可谓异想天开,正投食人族之所好。

106He stood aside watching their blind masks pass down the aisle, one by one, and seek their places. He approached a bench and seated himself in its corner, nursing his hat and newspaper. These pots we have to wear. We ought to have hats modelled on our heads. They were about him here and there, with heads still bowed in their crimson halters, waiting for it to melt in their stomachs. Something like those mazzoth: it's that sort of bread: unleavened shewbread. Look at them. Now I bet it makes them feel happy. Lollipop. It does. Yes, bread of angels it's called. There's a big idea behind it, kind of kingdom of God is within you feel. First communicants. Hokypoky penny a lump. Then feel all like one family party, same in the theatre, all in the same swim. They do. I'm sure of that. Not so lonely. In our confraternity. Then come out a bit spreeish. Let off steam. Thing is if you really believe in it. Lourdes cure, waters of oblivion, and the Knock apparition, statues bleeding. Old fellow asleep near that confessionbox. Hence those snores. Blind faith. Safe in the arms of kingdom come. Lulls all pain. Wake this time next year.


107He saw the priest stow the communion cup away, well in, and kneel an instant before it, showing a large grey bootsole from under the lace affair he had on. Suppose he lost the pin of his. He wouldn't know what to do to. Bald spot behind. Letters on his back: I.N.R.I? No: I.H.S. Molly told me one time I asked her. I have sinned: or no: I have suffered, it is. And the other one? Iron nails ran in.

107他望到神父把圣体杯收好,放回尽里边,对着它跪了片刻,身上那镶有花边的衣裙下边,露出老大的灰色靴底。要是他把里头的饰针弄丢了呢?他就不知道该怎么办啦。后脑勺上秃了一块。他背上写的是I.N.R.I.吗?不,是I·H·S·。有一回我问了问摩莉,她说那是:“I have sinned.”要么就是:“I have suffered.”另外那个呢?是:“Iron nails ran in.”

108Meet one Sunday after the rosary. Do not deny my request. Turn up with a veil and black bag. Dusk and the light behind her. She might be here with a ribbon round her neck and do the other thing all the same on the sly. Their character. That fellow that turned queen's evidence on the invincibles he used to receive the, Carey was his name, the communion every morning. This very church. Peter Carey, yes. No, Peter Claver I am thinking of. Denis Carey. And just imagine that. Wife and six children at home. And plotting that murder all the time. Those crawthumpers, now that's a good name for them, there's always something shiftylooking about them. They're not straight men of business either. O, no, she's not here: the flower: no, no. By the way, did I tear up that envelope? Yes: under the bridge.


109The priest was rinsing out the chalice: then he tossed off the dregs smartly. Wine. Makes it more aristocratic than for example if he drank what they are used to Guinness's porter or some temperance beverage Wheatley's Dublin hop bitters or Cantrell and Cochrane's ginger ale (aromatic). Doesn't give them any of it: shew wine: only the other. Cold comfort. Pious fraud but quite right: otherwise they'd have one old booser worse than another coming along, cadging for a drink. Queer the whole atmosphere of the. Quite right. Perfectly right that is.

109神父在涮圣爵,然后仰脖儿把剩下的酒一饮而尽。葡萄酒。这 要比大家喝惯了的吉尼斯黑啤酒或是无酒精饮料——惠特利牌都柏林蛇麻子苦味酒或者坎特雷尔与科克伦姜麦酒(加了香料的)都要来得气派。这是上供用的葡萄酒,一口也不给教徒喝;只给他们面饼。一种冷遇。这是虔诚的骗局,却也做得十分得体。不然的话,一个个酒鬼就都会蜂拥而至,全想过过瘾。整个气氛就会变得莫名其妙了。做得十分得体。这样做完全合理。

110Mr Bloom looked back towards the choir. Not going to be any music. Pity. Who has the organ here I wonder? Old Glynn he knew how to make that instrument talk, the vibrato: fifty pounds a year they say he had in Gardiner street. Molly was in fine voice that day, the Stabat Mater of Rossini. Father Bernard Vaughan's sermon first. Christ or Pilate? Christ, but don't keep us all night over it. Music they wanted. Footdrill stopped. Could hear a pin drop. I told her to pitch her voice against that corner. I could feel the thrill in the air, the full, the people looking up:


111Quis est homo.


112Some of that old sacred music splendid. Mercadante: seven last words. Mozart's twelfth mass: Gloria in that. Those old popes keen on music, on art and statues and pictures of all kinds. Palestrina for example too. They had a gay old time while it lasted. Healthy too, chanting, regular hours, then brew liqueurs. Benedictine. Green Chartreuse. Still, having eunuchs in their choir that was coming it a bit thick. What kind of voice is it? Must be curious to hear after their own strong basses. Connoisseurs. Suppose they wouldn't feel anything after. Kind of a placid. No worry. Fall into flesh, don't they? Gluttons, tall, long legs. Who knows? Eunuch. One way out of it.


113He saw the priest bend down and kiss the altar and then face about and bless all the people. All crossed themselves and stood up. Mr Bloom glanced about him and then stood up, looking over the risen hats. Stand up at the gospel of course. Then all settled down on their knees again and he sat back quietly in his bench. The priest came down from the altar, holding the thing out from him, and he and the massboy answered each other in Latin. Then the priest knelt down and began to read off a card:


114—O God, our refuge and our strength...


115Mr Bloom put his face forward to catch the words. English. Throw them the bone. I remember slightly. How long since your last mass? Glorious and immaculate virgin. Joseph, her spouse. Peter and Paul. More interesting if you understood what it was all about. Wonderful organisation certainly, goes like clockwork. Confession. Everyone wants to. Then I will tell you all. Penance. Punish me, please. Great weapon in their hands. More than doctor or solicitor. Woman dying to. And I schschschschschsch. And did you chachachachacha? And why did you? Look down at her ring to find an excuse. Whispering gallery walls have ears. Husband learn to his surprise. God's little joke. Then out she comes. Repentance skindeep. Lovely shame. Pray at an altar. Hail Mary and Holy Mary. Flowers, incense, candles melting. Hide her blushes. Salvation army blatant imitation. Reformed prostitute will address the meeting. How I found the Lord. Squareheaded chaps those must be in Rome: they work the whole show. And don't they rake in the money too? Bequests also: to the P.P. for the time being in his absolute discretion. Masses for the repose of my soul to be said publicly with open doors. Monasteries and convents. The priest in that Fermanagh will case in the witnessbox. No browbeating him. He had his answer pat for everything. Liberty and exaltation of our holy mother the church. The doctors of the church: they mapped out the whole theology of it.

115布卢姆先生为了听得真切一些,就朝前面探探头。用的是英语。丢给他们一块骨头。我依稀想起来了。上次是多久以前来望过弥撒?光荣而圣洁无玷的圣处女。约瑟是她的配偶。彼得和保罗。倘若你能了解这个中情节,就会更有趣一些。这个组织真了不起,一切都接班就绪,有条不紊。忏悔嘛,人人都想做。那么我就一古脑儿对您说出来吧。我悔改,请惩罚我吧。他们手握大权,医生和律师也都只能甘拜下风。女人最渴望忏悔了,而我呢,就嘘嘘嘘嘘嘘嘘。那么你喳喳喳喳喳喳了吗?为什么要这么做?她低头瞧着指环,好找个借口。回音回廊,隔墙有耳。丈夫要是听见了,会大吃一惊的。这是天主开的一个小小的玩笑。然后她就走出来了。其实,所忏悔的只不过是浮皮潦草。多么可爱的羞耻啊。她跪在祭坛前祷告,念着《万福玛利亚》和《至圣玛利亚》。鲜花,香火,蜡烛在融化。她把羞红的脸遮起。救世军不过是赤裸裸的模仿而已。改邪归正的卖淫妇将当众演说:我是怎样找到上主的。那些坐阵罗马的家伙们想必是顽固不化的,他们操纵着整套演出。他们不是也搜刮钱财吗? 一笔笔遗赠也滚滚而来,教皇能够暂且任意支配的圣厅献金。为了我灵魂的安息,敞开大门公开献弥撒。男女修道院。弗马纳的神父站在证人席上陈述。对他吹胡子瞪眼睛是不灵的。所有的提问他都回答得恰到好处。他维护了我们神圣的母亲——教会的自由,使其发扬光大。教会的博士们编出了整套的神学。

116The priest prayed:


117—Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the hour of conflict. Be our safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the devil (may God restrain him, we humbly pray!): and do thou, O prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God thrust Satan down to hell and with him those other wicked spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls.


118The priest and the massboy stood up and walked off. All over. The women remained behind: thanksgiving.


119Better be shoving along. Brother Buzz. Come around with the plate perhaps. Pay your Easter duty.


120He stood up. Hello. Were those two buttons of my waistcoat open all the time? Women enjoy it. Never tell you. But we. Excuse, miss, there's a (whh!) just a (whh!) fluff. Or their skirt behind, placket unhooked. Glimpses of the moon. Annoyed if you don't. Why didn't you tell me before. Still like you better untidy. Good job it wasn't farther south. He passed, discreetly buttoning, down the aisle and out through the main door into the light. He stood a moment unseeing by the cold black marble bowl while before him and behind two worshippers dipped furtive hands in the low tide of holy water. Trams: a car of Prescott's dyeworks: a widow in her weeds. Notice because I'm in mourning myself. He covered himself. How goes the time? Quarter past. Time enough yet. Better get that lotion made up. Where is this? Ah yes, the last time. Sweny's in Lincoln place. Chemists rarely move. Their green and gold beaconjars too heavy to stir. Hamilton Long's, founded in the year of the flood. Huguenot churchyard near there. Visit some day.


121He walked southward along Westland row. But the recipe is in the other trousers. O, and I forgot that latchkey too. Bore this funeral affair. O well, poor fellow, it's not his fault. When was it I got it made up last? Wait. I changed a sovereign I remember. First of the month it must have been or the second. O, he can look it up in the prescriptions book.


122The chemist turned back page after page. Sandy shrivelled smell he seems to have. Shrunken skull. And old. Quest for the philosopher's stone. The alchemists. Drugs age you after mental excitement. Lethargy then. Why? Reaction. A lifetime in a night. Gradually changes your character. Living all the day among herbs, ointments, disinfectants. All his alabaster lilypots. Mortar and pestle. Aq. Dist. Fol. Laur. Te Virid. Smell almost cure you like the dentist's doorbell. Doctor Whack. He ought to physic himself a bit. Electuary or emulsion. The first fellow that picked an herb to cure himself had a bit of pluck. Simples. Want to be careful. Enough stuff here to chloroform you. Test: turns blue litmus paper red. Chloroform. Overdose of laudanum. Sleeping draughts. Lovephiltres. Paragoric poppysyrup bad for cough. Clogs the pores or the phlegm. Poisons the only cures. Remedy where you least expect it. Clever of nature.

122药剂师一页页地往回翻着。他好像发散出一股粗涩、枯萎的气味。脑壳萎缩了。而且上了年纪。炼金术士们曾四处寻找点金石。麻醉剂使你的神经亢奋起来,接着就使你衰老。然后陷入昏睡状态。为什么呢?是一种副作用。一夜之间仿佛就过了一生。会使你的性格逐渐起变化。从早到晚在草药、药膏、消毒剂中间消磨岁月。周围都是些雪花石膏般纯白的瓶瓶罐罐。乳钵与乳钵槌。Aq.Dist.FoL.Laur. Te Virid,这气味几乎教你一闻就百病消除,犹如牙科医生的门铃。庸医。他应该给自己治治病。干药糖剂啦,乳剂啦。头一个采下药草试看医治自己的那个人,可真得需要点勇气哩。药用植物。可得多加小心。这里有的是足以使你神志昏迷的东西。做个试验吧,能把蓝色的石蕊试纸变成红色。用氯仿处理。服用了过量的鸦片酊剂。安眠药。春药。止痛用的鸦片糖浆对咳嗽有害处。要么是毛气孔被堵塞,要么就是粘痰反而会多起来。唯一的办法是以毒攻毒。在你最意想不到的地方能找到疗法。大自然多么乖巧啊。

123—About a fortnight ago, sir?


124—Yes, Mr Bloom said.


125He waited by the counter, inhaling slowly the keen reek of drugs, the dusty dry smell of sponges and loofahs. Lot of time taken up telling your aches and pains.


126—Sweet almond oil and tincture of benzoin, Mr Bloom said, and then orangeflower water...


127It certainly did make her skin so delicate white like wax.


128—And white wax also, he said.


129Brings out the darkness of her eyes. Looking at me, the sheet up to her eyes, Spanish, smelling herself, when I was fixing the links in my cuffs. Those homely recipes are often the best: strawberries for the teeth: nettles and rainwater: oatmeal they say steeped in buttermilk. Skinfood. One of the old queen's sons, duke of Albany was it? had only one skin. Leopold, yes. Three we have. Warts, bunions and pimples to make it worse. But you want a perfume too. What perfume does your? Peau d'Espagne. That orangeflower water is so fresh. Nice smell these soaps have. Pure curd soap. Time to get a bath round the corner. Hammam. Turkish. Massage. Dirt gets rolled up in your navel. Nicer if a nice girl did it. Also I think I. Yes I. Do it in the bath. Curious longing I. Water to water. Combine business with pleasure. Pity no time for massage. Feel fresh then all the day. Funeral be rather glum.


130—Yes, sir, the chemist said. That was two and nine. Have you brought a bottle?


131—No, Mr Bloom said. Make it up, please. I'll call later in the day and I'll take one of these soaps. How much are they?


132—Fourpence, sir.


133Mr Bloom raised a cake to his nostrils. Sweet lemony wax.


134—I'll take this one, he said. That makes three and a penny.


135—Yes, sir, the chemist said. You can pay all together, sir, when you come back.


136—Good, Mr Bloom said.


137He strolled out of the shop, the newspaper baton under his armpit, the coolwrappered soap in his left hand.


138At his armpit Bantam Lyons' voice and hand said:


139—Hello, Bloom. What's the best news? Is that today's? Show us a minute.


140Shaved off his moustache again, by Jove! Long cold upper lip. To look younger. He does look balmy. Younger than I am.


141Bantam Lyons's yellow blacknailed fingers unrolled the baton. Wants a wash too. Take off the rough dirt. Good morning, have you used Pears' soap? Dandruff on his shoulders. Scalp wants oiling.


142—I want to see about that French horse that's running today, Bantam Lyons said. Where the bugger is it?


143He rustled the pleated pages, jerking his chin on his high collar. Barber's itch. Tight collar he'll lose his hair. Better leave him the paper and get shut of him.


144—You can keep it, Mr Bloom said.


145—Ascot. Gold cup. Wait, Bantam Lyons muttered. Half a mo. Maximum the second.


146—I was just going to throw it away, Mr Bloom said.


147Bantam Lyons raised his eyes suddenly and leered weakly.


148—What's that? his sharp voice said.


149—I say you can keep it, Mr Bloom answered. I was going to throw it away that moment.


150Bantam Lyons doubted an instant, leering: then thrust the outspread sheets back on Mr Bloom's arms.


151—I'll risk it, he said. Here, thanks.


152He sped off towards Conway's corner. God speed scut.


153Mr Bloom folded the sheets again to a neat square and lodged the soap in it, smiling. Silly lips of that chap. Betting. Regular hotbed of it lately. Messenger boys stealing to put on sixpence. Raffle for large tender turkey. Your Christmas dinner for threepence. Jack Fleming embezzling to gamble then smuggled off to America. Keeps a hotel now. They never come back. Fleshpots of Egypt.


154He walked cheerfully towards the mosque of the baths. Remind you of a mosque, redbaked bricks, the minarets. College sports today I see. He eyed the horseshoe poster over the gate of college park: cyclist doubled up like a cod in a pot. Damn bad ad. Now if they had made it round like a wheel. Then the spokes: sports, sports, sports: and the hub big: college. Something to catch the eye.

154他高高兴兴地朝那盖得像是一座清真寺的澡堂走去。红砖和 尖塔都会使你联想到伊斯兰教的礼拜寺。原来今天学院里正举行运动会。他望了望贴在学院运动场大门上的那张马蹄形海报:骑自行车的恰似锅里的鳕鱼那样蜷缩着身子。多么蹩脚的广告!哪怕做成像车轮那样圆形的也好嘛。辐条上排列起“运动会、运动会、运动会”字样,轮毂上标上“学院”两个大字。这样一来该多醒目啊。

155There's Hornblower standing at the porter's lodge. Keep him on hands: might take a turn in there on the nod. How do you do, Mr Hornblower? How do you do, sir?


156Heavenly weather really. If life was always like that. Cricket weather. Sit around under sunshades. Over after over. Out. They can't play it here. Duck for six wickets. Still Captain Culler broke a window in the Kildare street club with a slog to square leg. Donnybrook fair more in their line. And the skulls we were acracking when M'Carthy took the floor. Heatwave. Won't last. Always passing, the stream of life, which in the stream of life we trace is dearer than them all.


157Enjoy a bath now: clean trough of water, cool enamel, the gentle tepid stream. This is my body.


158He foresaw his pale body reclined in it at full, naked, in a womb of warmth, oiled by scented melting soap, softly laved. He saw his trunk and limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow: his navel, bud of flesh: and saw the dark tangled curls of his bush floating, floating hair of the stream around the limp father of thousands, a languid floating flower.