尤利西斯- 第21部分

Mr　Bloom　nodded　gravely；　looking　in　the　quick　bloodshot　eyes。　Secret　eyes；　secret　searching　eyes。　Mason；　I　think：　not　sure。　Beside　him　again。　We　are　the　last。　In　the　same　boat。　Hope　he'll　say　something　else。　
Mr　Kernan　added：　
　The　service　of　the　Irish　church；　used　in　Mount　Jerome；　is　simpler；　more　impressive；　I　must　say。　
Mr　Bloom　gave　prudent　assent。　The　language　of　course　was　another　thing。　
Mr　Kernan　said　with　solemnity：　
　I　am　the　resurrection　and　the　life。　That　touches　a　man's　inmost　heart。　
　It　does；　Mr　Bloom　said。　
Your　heart　perhaps　but　what　price　the　fellow　in　the　six　feet　by　two　with　his　toes　to　the　daisies？　No　touching　that。　Seat　of　the　affections。　Broken　heart。　A　pump　after　all；　pumping　thousands　of　gallons　of　blood　every　day。　One　fine　day　it　gets　bunged　up　and　there　you　are。　Lots　of　them　lying　around　here：　lungs；　hearts；　livers。　Old　rusty　pumps：　damn　the　thing　else。　The　resurrection　and　the　life。　Once　you　are　dead　you　are　dead。　That　last　day　idea。　Knocking　them　all　up　out　of　their　graves。　e　forth；　Lazarus！　And　he　came　fifth　and　lost　the　job。　Get　up！　　day！　Then　every　fellow　mousing　around　for　his　liver　and　his　lights　and　the　rest　of　his　traps。　Find　damn　all　of　himself　that　morning。　Pennyweight　of　powder　in　a　skull。　Twelve　grammes　one　pennyweight。　Troy　measure。　
Corny　Kelleher　fell　into　step　at　their　side。　
　Everything　went　off　A　1；　he　said。　What？　
He　looked　on　them　from　his　drawling　eye。　Policeman's　shoulders。　With　your　tooraloom　tooraloom。　
　As　it　should　be；　Mr　Kernan　said。　
　What？　Eh？　Corny　Kelleher　said。　
Mr　Kernan　assured　him。　
　Who　is　that　chap　behind　with　Tom　Kernan？　John　Henry　Menton　asked。　I　know　his　face。　
Ned　Lambert　glanced　back。　
　Bloom；　he　said；　Madam　Marion　Tweedy　that　was；　is；　I　mean；　the　soprano。　She's　his　wife。　
　O；　to　be　sure；　John　Henry　Menton　said。　I　haven't　seen　her　for　some　time。　She　was　a　finelooking　woman。　I　danced　with　her；　wait；　fifteen　seventeen　golden　years　ago；　at　Mat　Dillon's；　in　Roundtown。　And　a　good　armful　she　was。　
He　looked　behind　through　the　others。　
　What　is　he？　he　asked。　What　does　he　do？　Wasn't　he　in　the　stationery　line？　I　fell　foul　of　him　one　evening；　I　remember；　at　bowls。　
Ned　Lambert　smiled。　
　Yes；　he　was；　he　said；　in　Wisdom　Hely's。　A　traveller　for　blottingpaper。　
　In　God's　name；　John　Henry　Menton　said；　what　did　she　marry　a　coon　like　that　for？　She　had　plenty　of　game　in　her　then。　
　Has　still；　Ned　Lambert　said。　He　does　some　canvassing　for　ads。　
John　Henry　Menton's　large　eyes　stared　ahead。　
The　barrow　turned　into　a　side　lane。　A　portly　man；　ambushed　among　the　grasses；　raised　his　hat　in　homage。　The　gravediggers　touched　their　caps。　
　John　O'Connell；　Mr　Power　said；　pleased。　He　never　forgets　a　friend。　
Mr　O'Connell　shook　all　their　hands　in　silence。　Mr　Dedalus　said：　
　I　am　e　to　pay　you　another　visit。　
　My　dear　Simon；　the　caretaker　answered　in　a　low　voice。　I　don't　want　your　custom　at　all。　
Saluting　Ned　Lambert　and　John　Henry　Menton　he　walked　on　at　Martin　Cunningham's　side；　puzzling　two　keys　at　his　back。　
　Did　you　hear　that　one；　he　asked　them；　about　Mulcahy　from　the　Coombe？　
　I　did　not；　Martin　Cunningham　said。　
They　bent　their　silk　hats　in　concert　and　Hynes　inclined　his　ear。　The　caretaker　hung　his　thumbs　in　the　loops　of　his　gold　watch　chain　and　spoke　in　a　discreet　tone　to　their　vacant　smiles。　
　They　tell　the　story；　he　said；　that　two　drunks　came　out　here　one　foggy　evening　to　look　for　the　grave　of　a　friend　of　theirs。　They　asked　for　Mulcahy　from　the　Coombe　and　were　told　where　he　was　buried。　After　traipsing　about　in　the　fog　they　found　the　grave；　sure　enough。　One　of　the　drunks　spelt　out　the　name：　Terence　Mulcahy。　The　other　drunk　was　blinking　up　at　a　statue　of　our　Saviour　the　widow　had　got　put　up。　
The　caretaker　blinked　up　at　one　of　the　sepulchres　they　passed。　He　resumed：　
　And；　after　blinking　up　at　the　sacred　figure；　Not　a　bloody　bit　like　the　man；　says　he。　That's　not　Mulcahy；　says　he；　whoever　done　it。　
Rewarded　by　smiles　he　fell　back　and　spoke　with　Corny　Kelleher；　accepting　the　dockets　given　him；　turning　them　over　and　scanning　them　as　he　walked。　
　That's　all　done　with　a　purpose；　Martin　Cunningham　explained　to　Hynes。　
　I　know；　Hynes　said；　I　know　that。　
　To　cheer　a　fellow　up；　Martin　Cunningham　said。　It's　pure　goodheartedness：　damn　the　thing　else。　
Mr　Bloom　admired　the　caretaker's　prosperous　bulk。　All　want　to　be　on　good　terms　with　him。　Decent　fellow；　John　O'Connell；　real　good　sort。　Keys：　like　Keyes's　ad：　no　fear　of　anyone　getting　out；　no　passout　checks。　Habeat　corpus。　I　must　see　about　that　ad　after　the　funeral。　Did　I　write　Ballsbridge　on　the　envelope　I　took　to　cover　when　she　disturbed　me　writing　to　Martha？　Hope　it's　not　chucked　in　the　dead　letter　office。　Be　the　better　of　a　shave。　Grey　sprouting　beard。　That's　the　first　sign　when　the　hairs　e　out　grey　and　temper　getting　cross。　Silver　threads　among　the　grey。　Fancy　being　his　wife。　Wonder　how　he　had　the　gumption　to　propose　to　any　girl。　e　out　and　live　in　the　graveyard。　Dangle　that　before　her。　It　might　thrill　her　first。　Courting　death。。。　Shades　of　night　hovering　here　with　all　the　dead　stretched　about。　The　shadows　of　the　tombs　when　churchyards　yawn　and　Daniel　O'Connell　must　be　a　descendant　I　suppose　who　is　this　used　to　say　he　was　a　queer　breedy　man　great　catholic　all　the　same　like　a　big　giant　in　the　dark。　Will　o'the　wisp。　Gas　of　graves。　Want　to　keep　her　mind　off　it　to　conceive　at　all。　Women　especially　are　so　touchy。　Tell　her　a　ghost　story　in　bed　to　make　her　sleep。　Have　you　ever　seen　a　ghost？　Well；　I　have。　It　was　a　pitchdark　night。　The　clock　was　on　the　stroke　of　twelve。　Still　they'd　kiss　all　right　if　properly　keyed　up。　Whores　in　Turkish　graveyards。　Learn　anything　if　taken　young。　You　might　pick　up　a　young　widow　here。　Men　like　that。　Love　among　the　tombstones。　Romeo。　Spice　of　pleasure。　In　the　midst　of　death　we　are　in　life。　Both　ends　meet。　Tantalising　for　the　poor　dead。　Smell　of　frilled　beefsteaks　to　the　starving　gnawing　their　vitals。　Desire　to　grig　people。　Molly　wanting　to　do　it　at　the　window。　Eight　children　he　has　anyway。　
He　has　seen　a　fair　share　go　under　in　his　time；　lying　around　him　field　after　field。　Holy　fields。　More　room　if　they　buried　them　standing。　Sitting　or　kneeling　you　couldn't。　Standing？　His　head　might　e　up　some　day　above　ground　in　a　landslip　with　his　hand　pointing。　All　honeybed　the　ground　must　be：　oblong　cells。　And　very　neat　he　keeps　it　too；　trim　grass　and　edgings。　His　garden　Major　Gamble　calls　Mount　Jerome。　Well　so　it　is。　Ought　to　be　flowers　of　sleep。　Chinese　cemeteries　with　giant　poppies　growing　produce　the　best　opium　Mastiansky　told　me。　The　Botanic　Gardens　are　just　over　there。　It's　the　blood　sinking　in　the　earth　gives　new　life。　Same　idea　those　jews　they　said　killed　the　christian　boy。　Every　man　his　price。　Well　preserved　fat　corpse　gentleman；　epicure；　invaluable　for　fruit　garden。　A　bargain。　By　carcass　of　William　Wilkinson；　auditor　and　accountant；　lately　deceased；　three　pounds　thirteen　and　six。　With　thanks。　
I　daresay　the　soil　would　be　quite　fat　with　corpse　manure；　bones；　flesh；　nails；　charnelhouses。　Dreadful。　Turning　green　and　pink；　deposing。　Rot　quick　in　damp　earth。　The　lean　old　ones　tougher。　Then　a　kind　of　a　tallowy　kind　of　a　cheesy。　Then　begin　to　get　black；　treacle　oozing　out　of　them。　Then　dried　up。　Deathmoths。　Of　course　the　cells　or　whatever　they　are　go　on　living。　Changing　about。　Live　for　ever　practically。　Nothing　to　feed　on　feed　on　themselves。　
But　they　must　breed　a　devil　of　a　lot　of　maggots。　Soil　must　be　simply　swirling　with　them。　Your　head　it　simply　swurls。　Those　pretty　little　seaside　gurls。　He　looks　cheerful　enough　over　it。　Gives　him　a　sense　of　power　seeing　all　the　others　go　under　first。　Wonder　how　he　looks　at　life。　Cracking　his　jokes　too：　warms　the　cockles　of　his　heart。　The　one　about　the　bulletin。　Spurgeon　went　to　heaven　4　A。M。　this　morning。　11　P。M。　（closing　time）。　Not　arrived　yet。　Peter。　The　dead　themselves　the　men　anyhow　would　like　to　hear　an　odd　joke　or　the　women　to　know　what's　in　fashion。　A　juicy　pear　or　ladies'　punch；　hot；　strong　and　sweet。　Keep　out　the　damp。　You　must　laugh　sometimes　so　better　do　it　that　way。　Gravediggers　in　Hamlet。　Shows　the　profound　knowledge　of　the　human　heart。　Daren't　joke　about　the　dead　for　two　years　at　least。　De　mortuis　nil　nisi　prius。　Go　out　of　mourning　first。　Hard　to　imagine　his　funeral。　Seems　a　sort　of　a　joke。　Read　your　own　obituary　notice　they　say　you　live　longer。　Gives　you　second　wind。　New　lease　of　life。　
　How　many　have　you　for　tomorrow？　the　caretaker　asked。　
　Two；　Corny　Kelleher　said。　Half　ten　and　eleven。　
The　caretaker　put　the　papers　in　his　pocket。　The　barrow　had　ceased　to　trundle。　The　mourners　split　and　moved　to　each　side　of　the　hole；　stepping　with　care　round　the　graves。　The　gravediggers　bore　the　coffin　and　set　its　nose　on　the　brink；　looping　the　bands　round　it。　
Burying　him。　We　e　to　bury　Caesar。　His　ides　of　March　or　June。　He　doesn't　know　who　is　here　nor　care。　
Now　who　is　that　lankylooking　galoot　over　there　in　the　macintosh？　Now　who　is　he　I'd　like　to　know？　Now；　I'd　give　a　trifle　to　know　who　he　is。　Always　someone　turns　up　you　never　dreamt　of。　A　fellow　could　live　on　his　lonesome　all　his　life。　Yes；　he　could。　Still　he'd　have　to　get　someone　to　sod　him　after　he　died　though　he　could　dig　his　own　grave。　We　all　do。　Only　man　buries。　No　ants　too。　First　thing　strikes　anybody。　Bury　the　dead。　Say　Robinson　Crusoe　was　true　to　life。　Well　then　Friday　buried　him。　Every　Friday　buries　a　Thursday　if　you　e　to　look　at　it。　
O；　poor　Robinson　Crusoe；
How　could　you　possibly　do　so？
Poor　Dignam！　His　last　lie　on　the　earth　in　his　box。　When　you　think　of　them　all　it　does　seem　a　waste　of　wood。　All　gnawed　through。　They　could　invent　a　handsome　bier　with　a　kind　of　panel　sliding　let　it　down　that　way。　Ay　but　they　might　object　to　be　buried　out　of　another　fellow's。　They're　so　particular。　Lay　me　in　my　native　earth。　Bit　of　clay　from　the　holy　land。　Only　a　mother　and　deadborn　child　ever　buried　in　the　one　coffin。　I　see　what　it　means。　I　see。　To　protect　him　as　long　as　possible　even　in　the　earth。　The　Irishman's　house　is　his　coffin。　Enbalming　in　catabs；　mummies；　the　same　idea。　
Mr　Bloom　stood　far　back；　his　hat　in　his　hand；　counting　the　bared　heads。　Twelve。　I'm　thirteen。　No。　The　chap　in　the　macintosh　is　thirteen。　Death's　number。　Where　the　deuce　did　he　pop　out　of？　He　wasn't　in　the　chapel；　that　I'll　swear。　Silly　s