Chapter2 Nestor

YOU, COCHRANE, WHAT CITY SENT FOR HIM?

-- Tarentum, sir.

-- Very good. Well?

-- There was a battle, sir.

-- Very good. Where?

The boy's blank face asked the blank window.

Fabled by the daughters of memory. And yet it was in some way if not as memory fabled it. A phrase, then, of impatience, thud of Blake's wings of excess. I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppling masonry, and time one livid final flame. What's left us then?

-- I forgot the place, sir. 279 B.C.

-- Asculum, Stephen said, glancing at the name and date in the gorescarred book.

-- Yes, sir. And he said: Another victory like that and we are done for.

That phrase the world had remembered. A dull ease of the mind. From a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his officers, leaned upon his spear. Any general to any officers. They lend ear.

-- You, Armstrong, Stephen said. What was the end of Pyrrhus?

-- End of Pyrrhus, sir?

-- I know, sir. Ask me, sir, Comyn said.

-- Wait. You, Armstrong. Do you know anything about Pyrrhus?

A bag of figrolls lay snugly in Armstrong's satchel. He curled them between his palms at whiles and swallowed them softly. Crumbs adhered to the tissues of his lips. A sweetened boy's breath. Welloff people, proud that their eldest son was in the navy. Vico Road, Dalkey.

-- Pyrrhus, sir? Pyrrhus, a pier.

All laughed. Mirthless high malicious laughter. Armstrong looked round at his classmates, silly glee in profile. In a moment they will laugh more loudly, aware of my lack of rule and of the fees their papas pay.

-- Tell me now, Stephen said, poking the boy's shoulder with the book, what is a pier.

-- A pier, sir, Armstrong said. A thing out in the waves. A kind of bridge. Kingstown pier, sir.

Some laughed again: mirthless but with meaning. Two in the back bench whispered. Yes. They knew: had never learned nor ever been innocent. All. With envy he watched their faces. Edith, Ethel, Gerty, Lily. Their likes: their breaths, too, sweetened with tea and jam, their bracelets tittering in the struggle.

-- Kingstown pier, Stephen said. Yes, a disappointed bridge.

The words troubled their gaze.

-- How, sir? Comyn asked. A bridge is across a river.

For Haines's chapbook. No-one here to hear. Tonight deftly amid wild drink and talk, to pierce the polished mail of his mind. What then? A jester at the court of his master, indulged and disesteemed, winning a clement master's praise. Why had they chosen all that part? Not wholly for the smooth caress. For them too history was a tale like any other too often heard, their land a pawnshop.

Had Pyrrhus not fallen by a beldam's hand in Argos or Julius Caesar not been knifed to death? They are not to be thought away. Time has branded them and fettered they are lodged in the room of the infinite possibilities they have ousted. But can those have been possible seeing that they never were? Or was that only possible which came to pass? Weave, weaver of the wind.

-- Tell us a story, sir.

-- Oh, do, sir, a ghost story.

-- Where do you begin in this? Stephen asked, opening another book.

-- Weep no more, Comyn said.

-- Go on then, Talbot.

-- And the history, sir?

-- After, Stephen said. Go on, Talbot.

A swarthy boy opened a book and propped it nimbly under the breastwork of his satchel. He recited jerks of verse with odd glances at the text:

It must be a movement then, an actuality of the possible as possible. Aristotle's phrase formed itself within the gabbled verses and floated out into the studious silence of the library of Saint Genevieve where he had read, sheltered from the sin of Paris, night by night. By his elbow a delicate Siamese conned a handbook of strategy. Fed and feeding brains about me: under glowlamps, impaled, with faintly beating feelers: and in my mind's darkness a sloth of the underworld, reluctant, shy of brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds. Thought is the thought of thought. Tranquil brightness. The soul is in a manner all that is: the soul is the form of forms. Tranquillity sudden, vast, candescent: form of forms.

Talbot repeated:

-- Turn over, Stephen said quietly. I don't see anything.

-- What, sir? Talbot asked simply, bending forward.

His hand turned the page over. He leaned back and went on again having just remembered. Of him that walked the waves. Here also over these craven hearts his shadow lies and on the scoffer's heart and lips and on mine. It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a coin of the tribute. To Caesar what is Caesar's, to God what is God's. A long look from dark eyes, a riddling sentence to be woven on the church's looms. Ay.

Talbot slid his closed book into his satchel.

-- Have I heard all? Stephen asked.

-- Yes, sir. Hockey at ten, sir.

-- Half day, sir. Thursday.

-- Who can answer a riddle? Stephen asked.

They bundled their books away, pencils clacking, pages rustling. Crowding together they strapped and buckled their satchels, all gabbling gaily:

-- A riddle, sir? Ask me, sir.

-- O, ask me, sir.

-- A hard one, sir.

-- This is the riddle, Stephen said.

-- What is that?

-- What, sir?

-- Again, sir. We didn't hear.

Their eyes grew bigger as the lines were repeated. After a silence Cochrane said:

-- What is it, sir? We give it up.

Stephen, his throat itching, answered:

-- The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush.

He stood up and gave a shout of nervous laughter to which their cries echoed dismay.

A stick struck the door and a voice in the corridor called:

-- Hockey!

They broke asunder, sidling out of their benches, leaping them. Quickly they were gone and from the lumberroom came the rattle of sticks and clamour of their boots and tongues.

Sargent who alone had lingered came forward slowly, showing an open copybook. His tangled hair and scraggy neck gave witness of unreadiness and through his misty glasses weak eyes looked up pleading. On his cheek, dull and bloodless, a soft stain of ink lay, dateshaped, recent and damp as a snail's bed.

He held out his copybook. The word Sums was written on the headline. Beneath were sloping figures and at the foot a crooked signature with blind loops and a blot. Cyril Sargent: his name and seal.

-- Mr Deasy told me to write them out all again, he said, and show them to you, sir.

Stephen touched the edges of the book. Futility.

-- Do you understand how to do them now? he asked.

-- Numbers eleven to fifteen, Sargent answered. Mr Deasy said I was to copy them off the board, sir.

-- Can you do them yourself? Stephen asked.

-- No, sir.

Ugly and futile: lean neck and tangled hair and a stain of ink, a snail's bed. Yet someone had loved him, borne him in her arms and in her heart. But for her the race of the world would have trampled him under foot, a squashed boneless snail. She had loved his weak watery blood drained from her own. Was that then real? The only true thing in life? His mother's prostrate body the fiery Columbanus in holy zeal bestrode. She was no more: the trembling skeleton of a twig burnt in the fire, an odour of rosewood and wetted ashes. She had saved him from being trampled under foot and had gone, scarcely having been. A poor soul gone to heaven: and on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red reek of rapine in his fur, with merciless bright eyes scraped in the earth, listened, scraped up the earth, listened, scraped and scraped.

Sitting at his side Stephen solved out the problem. He proves by algebra that Shakespeare's ghost is Hamlet's grandfather. Sargent peered askance through his slanted glasses. Hockeysticks rattled in the lumberroom: the hollow knock of a ball and calls from the field.

Across the page the symbols moved in grave morrice, in the mummery of their letters, wearing quaint caps of squares and cubes. Give hands, traverse, bow to partner: so: imps of fancy of the Moors. Gone too from the world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien and movement, flashing in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of the world, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not comprehend.

-- Do you understand now? Can you work the second for yourself?

-- Yes, sir.

In long shady strokes Sargent copied the data. Waiting always for a word of help his hand moved faithfully the unsteady symbols, a faint hue of shame flickering behind his dull skin. Amor matris: subjective and objective genitive. With her weak blood and wheysour milk she had fed him and hid from sight of others his swaddling bands.

Like him was I, these sloping shoulders, this gracelessness. My childhood bends beside me. Too far for me to lay a hand there once or lightly. Mine is far and his secret as our eyes. Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants willing to be dethroned.

The sum was done.

-- It is very simple, Stephen said as he stood up.

-- Yes, sir. Thanks, Sargent answered.

He dried the page with a sheet of thin blottingpaper and carried his copybook back to his desk.

-- You had better get your stick and go out to the others, Stephen said as he followed towards the door the boy's graceless form.

-- Yes, sir.

In the corridor his name was heard, called from the playfield.

-- Sargent!

-- Run on, Stephen said. Mr Deasy is calling you.

He stood in the porch and watched the laggard hurry towards the scrappy field where sharp voices were in strife. They were sorted in teams and Mr Deasy came stepping over wisps of grass with gaitered feet. When he had reached the schoolhouse voices again contending called to him. He turned his angry white moustache.

-- What is it now? he cried continually without listening.

-- Cochrane and Halliday are on the same side, sir, Stephen cried.

-- Will you wait in my study for a moment, Mr Deasy said, till I restore order here.

And as he stepped fussily back across the field his old man's voice cried sternly:

-- What is the matter? What is it now?

Their sharp voices cried about him on all sides: their many forms closed round him, the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of his illdyed head.

Stale smoky air hung in the study with the smell of drab abraded leather of its chairs. As on the first day he bargained with me here. As it was in the beginning, is now. On the sideboard the tray of Stuart coins, base treasure of a bog: and ever shall be. And snug in their spooncase of purple plush, faded, the twelve apostles having preached to all the gentiles: world without end.

A hasty step over the stone porch and in the corridor. Blowing out his rare moustache Mr Deasy halted at the table.

-- First, our little financial settlement, he said.

He brought out of his coat a pocketbook bound by a leather thong. It slapped open and he took from it two notes, one of joined halves, and laid them carefully on the table.

-- Two, he said, strapping and stowing his pocketbook away.

And now his strongroom for the gold. Stephen's embarrassed hand moved over the shells heaped in the cold stone mortar: whelks and money, cowries and leopard shells: and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and this, the scallop of Saint James. An old pilgrim's hoard, dead treasure, hollow shells.

A sovereign fell, bright and new, on the soft pile of the tablecloth.

-- Three, Mr Deasy said, turning his little savingsbox about in his hand. These are handy things to have. See. This is for sovereigns. This is for shillings, sixpences, halfcrowns. And here crowns. See.

He shot from it two crowns and two shillings.

-- Three twelve, he said. I think you'll find that's right.

-- Thank you, sir, Stephen said, gathering the money together with shy haste and putting it all in a pocket of his trousers.

-- No thanks at all, Mr Deasy said. You have earned it.

Stephen's hand, free again, went back to the hollow shells. Symbols too of beauty and of power. A lump in my pocket. Symbols soiled by greed and misery.

-- Don't carry it like that, Mr Deasy said. You'll pull it out somewhere and lose it. You just buy one of these machines. You'll find them very handy.

Answer something.

-- Mine would be often empty, Stephen said.

The same room and hour, the same wisdom: and I the same. Three times now. Three nooses round me here. Well. I can break them in this instant if I will.

-- Because you don't save, Mr Deasy said, pointing his finger. You don't know yet what money is. Money is power, when you have lived as long as I have. I know, I know. If youth but knew. But what does Shakespeare say? Put but money in thy purse.

-- Iago, Stephen murmured.

He lifted his gaze from the idle shells to the old man's stare.

-- He knew what money was, Mr Deasy said. He made money. A poet but an Englishman too. Do you know what is the pride of the English? Do you know what is the proudest word you will ever hear from an Englishman's mouth?

The seas' ruler. His seacold eyes looked on the empty bay: history is to blame: on me and on my words, unhating.

-- That on his empire, Stephen said, the sun never sets.

-- Ba! Mr Deasy cried. That's not English. A French Celt said that. He tapped his savingsbox against his thumbnail.

-- I will tell you, he said solemnly, what is his proudest boast. I paid my way.

Good man, good man.

-- I paid my way. I never borrowed a shilling in my life. Can you feel that? I owe nothing. Can you?

Mulligan, nine pounds, three pairs of socks, one pair brogues, ties. Curran, ten guineas. McCann, one guinea. Fred Ryan, two shillings. Temple, two lunches. Russell, one guinea, Cousins, ten shillings, Bob Reynolds, half a guinea, Kohler, three guineas, Mrs McKernan, five weeks' board. The lump I have is useless.

-- For the moment, no, Stephen answered.

Mr Deasy laughed with rich delight, putting back his savingsbox.

-- I knew you couldn't, he said joyously. But one day you must feel it. We are a generous people but we must also be just.

-- I fear those big words, Stephen said, which make us so unhappy.

Mr Deasy stared sternly for some moments over the mantelpiece at the shapely bulk of a man in tartan fillibegs: Albert Edward, Prince of Wales.

-- You think me an old fogey and an old tory, his thoughtful voice said. I saw three generations since O'Connell's time. I remember the famine. Do you know that the orange lodges agitated for repeal of the union twenty years before O'Connell did or before the prelates of your communion denounced him as a demagogue? You fenians forget some things.

Glorious, pious and immortal memory. The lodge of Diamond in Armagh the splendid behung with corpses of papishes. Hoarse, masked and armed, the planters' covenant. The black north and true blue bible. Croppies lie down.

Stephen sketched a brief gesture.

-- I have rebel blood in me too, Mr Deasy said. On the spindle side. But I am descended from sir John Blackwood who voted for the union. We are all Irish, all kings' sons.

-- Alas, Stephen said.

-- Per vias rectas, Mr Deasy said firmly, was his motto. He voted for it and put on his topboots to ride to Dublin from the Ards of Down to do so.

A gruff squire on horseback with shiny topboots. Soft day, sir John. Soft day, your honour... Day... Day... Two topboots jog dangling on to Dublin. Lal the ral the ra, lal the ral the raddy.

-- That reminds me, Mr Deasy said. You can do me a favour, Mr Dedalus, with some of your literary friends: I have a letter here for the press. Sit down a moment. I have just to copy the end.

He went to the desk near the window, pulled in his chair twice and read off some words from the sheet on the drum of his typewriter.

-- Sit down. Excuse me, he said over his shoulder, the dictates of common sense. Just a moment.

He peered from under his shaggy brows at the manuscript by his elbow and, muttering, began to prod the stiff buttons of the keyboard slowly, some times blowing as he screwed up the drum to erase an error.

Stephen seated himself noiselessly before the princely presence. Framed around the walls images of vanished horses stood in homage, their meek heads poised in air: lord Hastings' Repulse, the duke of Westminster's Shotover, the duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, prix de Paris, 1866. Elfin riders sat them, watchful of a sign. He saw their speeds, backing King's colours, and shouted with the shouts of vanished crowds.

-- Full stop, Mr Deasy bade his keys. But prompt ventilation of this important question...

Where Cranly led me to get rich quick, hunting his winners among the mudsplashed brakes, amid the bawls of bookies on their pitches and reek of the canteen, over the motley slush. Even money Fair Rebel: ten to one the field. Dicers and thimbleriggers we hurried by after the hoofs, the vying caps and jackets and past the meatfaced woman, a butcher's dame, nuzzling thirstily her clove of orange.

Shouts rang shrill from the boys' playfield and a whirring whistle.

Again: a goal. I am among them, among their battling bodies in a medley, the joust of life. You mean that knockkneed mother's darling who seems to be slightly crawsick? Jousts. Time shocked rebounds, shock by shock. Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the frozen deathspew of the slain, a shout of spear spikes baited with men's bloodied guts.

-- Now then, Mr Deasy said, rising.

He came to the table, pinning together his sheets. Stephen stood up.

-- I have put the matter into a nutshell, Mr Deasy said. It's about the foot and mouth disease. Just look through it. There can be no two opinions on the matter.

May I trespass on your valuable space. That doctrine of laissez faire which so often in our history. Our cattle trade. The way of all our old industries. Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme. European conflagration. Grain supplies through the narrow waters of the channel. The pluterperfect imperturbability of the department of agriculture. Pardoned a classical allusion. Cassandra. By a woman who was no better than she should be. To come to the point at issue.

-- I don't mince words, do I? Mr Deasy asked as Stephen read on.

Foot and mouth disease. Known as Koch's preparation. Serum and virus. Percentage of salted horses. Rinderpest. Emperor's horses at Mürzsteg, lower Austria. Veterinary surgeons. Mr Henry Blackwood Price. Courteous offer a fair trial, Dictates of common sense. Allimportant question. In every sense of the word take the bull by the horns. Thanking you for the hospitality of your columns.

-- I want that to be printed and read, Mr Deasy said. You will see at the next outbreak they will put an embargo on Irish cattle. And it can be cured. It is cured. My cousin, Blackwood Price, writes to me it is regularly treated and cured in Austria by cattledoctors there. They offer to come over here. I am trying to work up influence with the department. Now I'm going to try publicity. I am surrounded by difficulties, by... intrigues, by... backstairs influence, by...

He raised his forefinger and beat the air oldly before his voice spoke.

-- Mark my words, Mr Dedalus, he said. England is in the hands of the jews. In all the highest places: her finance, her press. And they are the signs of a nation's decay. Wherever they gather they eat up the nation's vital strength. I have seen it Coming these years. As sure as we are standing here the jew merchants are already at their work of destruction. Old England is dying.

He stepped swiftly off, his eyes coming to blue life as they passed a broad sunbeam. He faced about and back again.

-- Dying, he said, if not dead by now.

His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly across the sunbeam in which he halted.

-- A merchant, Stephen said, is one who buys cheap and sells dear, jew or gentile, is he not?

-- They sinned against the light, Mr Deasy said gravely. And you can see the darkness in their eyes. And that is why they are wanderers on the earth to this day.

On the steps of the Paris Stock Exchange the goldskinned men quoting prices on their gemmed fingers. Gabbles of geese. They swarmed loud, uncouth about the temple, their heads thickplotting under maladroit silk hats. Not theirs: these clothes, this speech, these gestures. Their full slow eyes belied the words, the gestures eager and unoffending, but knew the rancours massed about them and knew their zeal was vain. Vain patience to heap and hoard. Time surely would scatter all. A hoard heaped by the roadside: plundered and passing on. Their eyes knew the years of wandering and, patient, knew the dishonours of their flesh.

-- Who has not? Stephen said.

-- What do you mean? Mr Deasy asked.

He came forward a pace and stood by the table. His underjaw fell sideways open uncertainly. Is this old wisdom? He waits to hear from me.

-- History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.

From the playfield the boys raised a shout. A whirring whistle: goal. What if that nightmare gave you a back kick?

-- The ways of the Creator are not our ways, Mr Deasy said. All history moves towards one great goal, the manifestation of God.

Stephen jerked his thumb towards the window, saying:

-- That is God.

Hooray! Ay! Whrrwhee!

-- What? Mr Deasy asked.

-- A shout in the street, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders.

Mr Deasy looked down and held for a while the wings of his nose tweaked between his fingers. Looking up again he set them free.

-- I am happier than you are, he said. We have committed many errors and many sins. A woman brought sin into the world. For a woman who was no better than she should be, Helen, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten years the Greeks made war on Troy. A faithless wife first brought the strangers to our shore here, MacMurrough's wife and her leman O'Rourke, prince of Breffni. A woman too brought Parnell low. Many errors, many failures but not the one sin. I am a struggler now at the end of my days. But I will fight for the right till the end.

Stephen raised the sheets in his hand.

-- Well, sir, he began.

-- I foresee, Mr Deasy said, that you will not remain here very long at this work. You were not born to be a teacher, I think. Perhaps I am wrong.

-- A learner rather, Stephen said.

And here what will you learn more?

Mr Deasy shook his head.

-- Who knows? he said. To learn one must be humble. But life is the great teacher.

Stephen rustled the sheets again.

-- As regards these, he began.

-- Yes, Mr Deasy said. You have two copies there. If you can have them published at once.

Telegraph. Irish Homestead.

-- I will try, Stephen said, and let you know tomorrow. I know two editors slightly.

That will do, Mr Deasy said briskly. I wrote last night to Mr Field, M.P. There is a meeting of the cattletraders' association today at the City Arms Hotel. I asked him to lay my letter before the meeting. You see if you can get it into your two papers. What are they?

-- The Evening Telegraph...

-- That will do, Mr Deasy said. There is no time to lose. Now I have to answer that letter from my cousin.

-- Good morning, sir, Stephen said, putting the sheets in his pocket. Thank you.

-- Not at all, Mr Deasy said as he searched the papers on his desk. I like to break a lance with you, old as I am.

-- Good morning, sir, Stephen said again, bowing to his bent back.

He went out by the open porch and down the gravel path under the trees, hearing the cries of voices and crack of sticks from the playfield. The lions couchant on the pillars as he passed out through the gate; toothless terrors. Still I will help him in his fight. Mulligan will dub me a new name: the bullockbefriending bard.

-- Mr Dedalus!

Running after me. No more letters, I hope.

-- Just one moment.

-- Yes, sir, Stephen said, turning back at the gate.

Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath.

-- I just wanted to say, he said. Ireland, they say, has the honour of being the only country which never persecuted the jews. Do you know that? No. And do you know why?

He frowned sternly on the bright air.

-- Why, sir? Stephen asked, beginning to smile.

-- Because she never let them in, Mr Deasy said solemnly.

A coughball of laughter leaped from his throat dragging after it a rattling chain of phlegm. He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing, his lifted arms waving to the air.

-- She never let them in, he cried again through his laughter as he stamped on gaitered feet over the gravel of the path. That's why.

On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun flung spangles, dancing coins.

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[1]指皮勒斯(公元前319——公元前272)，希腊西北部伊庇鲁斯的国王。

[2]塔兰图姆乃今意大利东南部城市塔兰托的旧称。公元前人世纪沦为希腊殖民地。公元前三世纪罗马军队进逼时，塔兰图姆向伊庇鲁斯求救兵。

[3]“记忆的女儿们”指希腊神话里主神宙斯与摩涅莫绪涅(记忆女神)之间所生的九位缪斯(司文艺、音乐、天文等的女神)。语出英国诗人威廉・布莱克(1757-1827)的名句：“寓言或讽喻系记忆的女儿们所编。想像被灵感的女儿们所包围……”。见《最后审判的景象》(1810)。

[4]这是把布莱克的《天堂与地狱的婚姻》(约1790)中的两句箴言合并而成：“过分之路导向智慧之宫”和“只要凭自已的翼，不愁鸟儿飞不高”。

[5]在第三章中，描述炸监狱的场面时，也用了“玻璃碎成碴儿，砖石建筑坍塌下来”之句。见该章注[130]及有关正文。“终极的一缕死灰色火焰”出自《天堂与地狱的婚姻》。

[6]阿斯库拉姆是阿斯科利・萨特里亚诺的古称，在今意大利南部。公元前二七八年，皮勒斯在此击败罗马军队。

[7]皮勒斯是在伤亡惨重的情况下，于阿斯科利・萨特里亚诺之役中取得胜利的。

[8]多基是斯蒂芬执教的学校所在地，位于都柏林郡海滨区，属旅游胜地，到处是富人的住宅及别墅。

[9]皮勒斯(Pyrrhus)与栈桥(pier)二字发音近似。这里，阿姆斯特朗搞错了。

[10]国王镇(见第一章注[15])与学校所在地多基相距不近。东码头长达一英里，夏季常有乐队在此举行露天音乐会。

[11]斯蒂芬教的是男校，他从班上男生的脸联想到可能与他们相好的四个女孩子的名字。

[12]皮勒斯那场以惨重伤亡换得的胜利，使斯蒂芬联想到栈桥。栈桥不能通到彼岸，所以是一座失望之桥。

[13]当天早晨即将离开圆塔时，海恩斯曾对斯蒂芬说，他想把斯蒂芬的说词儿搜集起来。见第一章。

[14]此语令人联想到莎士比亚的历史剧《约翰王》第3幕第4场中康斯丹丝的一句台词：“人生犹如一段重复叙述的故事那洋可厌，扰乱一个倦怠者的懒洋洋的耳朵……”

[15]公元前二七二年，在阿尔戈斯巷战中，皮勒斯正要杀一个敌人时，其老母从屋顶上对推骑着马的他抛下一片瓦，致使他坠马丧命。

[16]古罗马统帅尤利乌斯・恺撒(公元前100——前44)集执政官、保民官、独裁官等大权于一身，被以布鲁图和卡西乌为首的共和派贵族阴谋刺死。

[17]古希腊哲学家亚理斯多德(公元前384——前322)在《形而上学》中提出，事情发生之前，有多种可能性;一旦其中一种成为事实之后，其他可能性便统统被排除掉了。

[18]织风者，参看第一章注[118]。

[19]出自英国诗人弥尔顿(1608一1674)为悼念一六三七年八月十日溺死于爱尔兰海的友人爱德华・金而作的《利西达斯》(1638)一诗。

[20]亚理斯多德在《物理学》中指出，潜在的可能住变为现实的过程即是运动。

[21]圣热内维艾芙(约422一约500)是巴黎的女主保圣人。这座图书馆即以她的名字命名。乔伊斯本人在巴黎时常来此阅读。下文中的暹罗是泰国旧称。

[22]布莱克在《天堂与地狱的婚姻》中写道:“我在地狱的一家印刷厂里看见知识怎样一代伏地传播。第一车间有个龙人在清除洞口的垃圾;里面，一批龙在挖洞。”

[23]亚理斯多德在《形而上学》中提出了“主导力是有关思维本身的思维”的论断。

[24]参看亚理斯多德的《论灵魂》:“正如手是工具的工具，头脑乃是形态的形态。”头脑即指灵魂。意思是，一切事物都须通过头脑的活动来认识。

[25]见《马太福音》第14章第25节:“耶稣在海面上走，往门徒那里去。”

[26]据《马太福音》第22章第15至21 节，法利赛人想用耶稣的话陷害耶稣，便问他可否纳税给恺撒。耶稣问：上税的钱币上的像和号是谁的?人们答以是恺撒的。耶稣便说了这句话。

[27]这是一个谜语的前半段，后半段是：“黑黑的籽儿，白白的地儿。/这谜语，你能破，我献给你喝。”(谜底：写信。)

[28]、[29]这个谜语见P・W・乔伊斯著《我们今日在爱尔兰所说的英语》一书。斯蒂芬把词句改得简练了，而且因对其亡母有着负疚感，故把原谜底中的“母亲”改为“奶奶”。原来的谜语和谜底是：“我猜谜，猜个准儿：/ 昨晚我看见了啥?/风儿刮，/公鸡打了鸣。/天堂那些钟，/敲了十一点。/我可怜的灵魂，/该升天堂啦。”(谜底，狐狸在冬青树下埋葬它的母亲。)

[28]、[29]这个谜语见P・W・乔伊斯著《我们今日在爱尔兰所说的英语》一书。斯蒂芬把词句改得简练了，而且因对其亡母有着负疚感，故把原谜底中的“母亲”改为“奶奶”。原来的谜语和谜底是：“我猜谜，猜个准儿：/ 昨晚我看见了啥?/风儿刮，/公鸡打了鸣。/天堂那些钟，/敲了十一点。/我可怜的灵魂，/该升天堂啦。”(谜底，狐狸在冬青树下埋葬它的母亲。)

[30]在《艺术家年轻时的写照》一书第5章的末尾，克兰利曾对斯蒂芬说：“在这个臭狗屎堆的世界上，你可以说任何东西都靠不住，但母亲的爱可是个例外。……她的感觉至少是真实的。”

[31]高隆班(约543一615)，爱尔兰人，凯尔特族基督教传教士。他不畏迫害，辗转在欧洲各地传教。他生性暴躁，在瑞士传教时曾放火焚烧过异教的教堂。死后被教皇封为圣徒。为了阻止他外出传教，他母亲曾横卧在家门口。

[32]在第一章中，勃克・穆利根曾对海恩斯说，斯蒂芬用代数运算出了莎士比亚与哈姆莱特及其父王亡灵的关系。现在斯蒂芬想起了穆利根这番话，然而这里的问句与前文略有出入。

[33]摩里斯一词源于摩里斯科，意力“摩尔人的”。摩尔人是在非洲西北部定居下来的西班牙、阿拉伯及柏柏尔人的混血后代。

[34]中世纪西欧人将阿拉伯哲学家伊本・路西德(1126一1198)的名字拉丁化了，称他为阿威罗伊。他属于摩尔族，是出生在伊斯兰教徒统治下的西班牙哲学家。他提出“双重真理”一说，对西欧中世纪和十六至十七世纪哲学和科学摆脱宗教束缚而获得发展，有过一定的影响。摩西・迈蒙尼德(1135一1204)，出生于伊斯兰教徒统治下的西班牙的犹太族哲学家。他企图调和亚理斯多德哲学和犹太主义。主要著作有用阿拉伯文写成的《迷途指津》。十三世纪传入西欧译为拉丁文后，对经院哲学家如托马斯・阿奎那等影响甚大。

[35]阿威罗伊和迈蒙尼德被控用“巫镜”(水晶球或盛满了水、表面发光的容器)进行占卜。

[36]“世纪之灵”是意大利哲学家、数学家家乔达诺・布鲁诺(1548－]600)在《关于原因、原则和一》中使用过的词。他将亚理斯多德的二元论演绎成一元论。

[37]参看《约翰福音》第1章第5节：“光在黑暗中照耀，而黑暗却不能理解它。”光指耶稣(见《约翰福音》第8章第12节：“我是世界的光，跟从我的会得着生命的光……”)，黑暗指世人。这里，作者把原话颠倒过来了。

[38]原文为拉丁文。按主生格讲是“母爱”，按宾主格讲是“爱母”。

[39]、[41]、[44]这里，作者把天主教《圣三光荣颂》的下半段拆开来引用了。全文是:“天主父，天主子，天主圣神，我愿其获光荣。厥初如何，今兹亦然，以迨永远，及世之世。啊们。”

[40]斯图亚特家族自一三七一年起为苏格兰王室，一六0三年起为英格兰王室。一六八五年詹姆斯二世继位，一六八八年黜础，逃到爱尔兰，次年用贱金属铸币，后成为罕见的收藏品。

[39]、[41]、[44]这里，作者把天主教《圣三光荣颂》的下半段拆开来引用了。全文是:“天主父，天主子，天主圣神，我愿其获光荣。厥初如何，今兹亦然，以迨永远，及世之世。啊们。”

[42]指刻在羹匙柄上的十二使徒的像。

[43]据《新约・使徒行传》第15章第7节：“彼得就起来，说：‘诸位弟兄，你们知道：神早已在你们中间拣选了我，要我把福音的信息传给外邦人，好使他们听见而相信。’”从此，使徒们不但向犹太人，也向外邦人(即非犹太人)传教。

[39]、[41]、[44]这里，作者把天主教《圣三光荣颂》的下半段拆开来引用了。全文是:“天主父，天主子，天主圣神，我愿其获光荣。厥初如何，今兹亦然，以迨永远，及世之世。啊们。”

[45]圣詹姆斯(或圣雅各)的圣祠坐落在西班牙的康波斯帖拉。中世纪的香客到此朝圣回去时，在附近拾一枚扇贝佩带在帽子上作纪念。贝壳又是金钱的象征。

[46]故事发生在这一天是六月十六日。这所私立学校每半个月发一次薪。这是斯蒂芬第三次领薪水，说明他是从五月初开始执教的。

[47]“倘若年轻人有经验”是意大利一句谚语的前一半。被省略的后一半是：“而老人有精力，则世上无难事。”“只要把钱放在你的钱袋里”是莎士比亚的悲剧《奥瑟罗》中的坏蛋伊阿古挑唆威尼斯绅士罗德利哥为非作歹时所说的话，见第1幕第3场。迪希只是从字面上来理解此语。

[48]凯尔特族是公无前一千年左右居住在欧洲莱茵、塞纳等河流域的一个部落。其后裔今散布在法国北部、爱尔兰岛、苏格兰高原、威尔士等地。凯尔特族分布的地区虽广，但从未形成一个帝国，所以也不会这样夸口。“太阳是永远不落的”一语，最早是古希腊历史学家希罗多德(约公元前484一前430/前420)说的，他指的是波斯帝国。到了近代，英帝国也曾这样自诩过。参看第十二章注[138]。下文“他用……指甲”诸本均接排。这里系按海德一九八九年版分段。

[49]康斯坦丁・P・柯伦和詹姆斯・H、卡曾斯分别为乔伊斯在都柏林的朋友和熟人(均见艾尔曼所著《詹姆斯・乔伊斯》第151页)。 麦卡恩和坦普尔均为《艺术家年轻时的写照》第5章中的人物。弗雷德・瑞安，参看第九章注[179]。T・G・凯勒是乔伊斯在都柏林的一个文友(同上书第164页、200页)。乔伊斯曾于一九O 四年做过麦克南太太的房客(同上书第151页)。

[50]艾伯特・爱德华(1841-1910)，维多利亚女王的长子，出生一个月即被其母封为威尔士亲王。女王于一九0一年去世后，他成为大不列颠和爱尔兰国王，即爱德华七世。

[51]丹尼尔・奥康内尔( 1775一1847 )，十九世纪英国下院中第一位爱尔兰民族独立领袖，毕生为爱尔兰人信仰天主教的自由和废除英、爱联合议会，建立独立的爱尔兰议会而奋斗。他曾成功地在爱尔兰境内各地组织一系列群众集会，因而于一八四四年以阴谋煽动叛乱罪被捕，监禁三个月。这里，迪希却将英政府当局把他斥为“煽动者”一事说成是天主教的主教、教长们所为。

[52]自一八四五年起，爱尔兰人民的主食土豆便歉收，一八四六、一八四七年间很多人死于大饥荒。

[53]橙带党(原名奥伦治党)是爱尔兰新教徒组成的一个政治集团，旨在维护新教及其王位继承权。一七九五年，该党在爱尔兰和英国各地秘密组成分支，加强抵制爱尔兰自治法案，坚决反对地方自治。橙带党初成立时，曾反对将爱尔兰议会并入英国议会。然而那时的爱尔兰议会反正是操纵在信仰新教的英国殖民者手里的，所以他们反对联合议会，与爱尔兰人民开展的主张废除联合议会的民族主义运动，其意义迥然不同。

[54]芬尼是爱尔兰古部落名。芬尼社是由爱尔兰革命家詹姆斯・斯蒂芬斯(1825－1901 )所领导的小资产阶级秘密革命组织，主张推翻英国统治，废除大地主所有制，建立共和国。该组织是一八五七年在美国成立的，不久即在爱尔兰本土展开反英活动。一八六六年十一月斯蒂芬斯因内奸告密被捕，关在都柏林的里奇蒙监狱里。不出几天，芬尼社成员就在看守女儿的协助下，把他救了出来。次年二月，偷渡到美国，被选为在美国的芬尼社领袖。美国的芬尼社社员于一八六六、一八七0 年和一八七一年三次越境至加拿大举行起义，均告流产。爱尔兰的芬尼社亦称爱尔兰共和兄弟会。这里，迪希是把芬尼社社员一词作为激进的共和党人的俗称采用的。

[55]此语出自橙带党纪念英国国王威廉三世(1650－1702 )的祝酒辞:“纪念伟大的好国王威廉三世，他光荣、虔诚、不朽，拯救了我们……”威廉生在海牙，原为奥伦冶亲王。一六八九年英国议会宣布信天主教的詹姆斯二世退位，威廉加冕为英格兰和苏格兰国王，并于一六九一年征服了爱尔兰。

[56]一七九五年九月二十一日，二十几个信天主教的爱尔兰农民在北爱尔兰阿马郡首府阿马镇的钻石会堂聚会，以抗拒英国殖民者把全体爱尔兰天主教徒从该郡驱逐出去的勒令。他们追到残酷屠杀，无一幸存。

[57]自十七世纪初起，英政府便没收了爱尔兰北部大批土地，凡是迁移到那里的英国殖民者，只要宣誓效忠于英王，并承认信新教的英王为宗教领袖，就能领到土地。从此，信天主教的爱尔兰当地农民便沦为佃农。后文中“被荒废的”，原文作“black”，也可译为“黑色的”，“险恶的”。

[58]“平头派倒下去”一语出自橙带党反对爱尔兰独立运动的一首歌。“平头派”指爱尔兰民族主义者。一七九八年，那些主张在爱尔兰实行共和制者，曾效仿法兰西革命者，也推成平头，故名。

[59]约翰・布莱克伍德(1722－1799)是爱尔兰议员。英国曾以晋升爵位为钓饵，要他投联合议会的赞成票， 但他坚决抵制。后却在前往都柏林去投反对票的途中，遽然去世。其子约翰・G・ 布莱克伍德倒确实投了联合议会的赞成票，从而被封为达弗林爵士。这里，迪希把儿子的事写在父亲身上了。“所有的爱尔兰人都是国王的子嗣”是一句成语。

[60]原文是拉丁文，出自《旧约・诗篇》第25篇第8 节。全句为：“耶和华是善良正直的，所以他必指示罪人走正路。”

[61]当郡是北爱尔兰东部一郡。十七世纪有大量移民涌入。阿兹是北爱尔兰的一个区，当时即属当郡。

[62]《一路坎坷，赴都柏林》是一首爱尔兰歌谣，写一个穷苦的农村少年行路时受尽侮辱、遭到抢劫的经历。

[63]“挫败”，马名，在英国新集市一年一度的赛马会中获一千基尼奖金(1866)。小母马“跨越”在新集市的赛马中获二千基尼奖金(1822)。“锡兰”在法国最著名的巴黎赛马中获大奖(1866)。

[64]“美反叛”是一匹名马，曾在位于都柏林西南的豹镇一年一度的赛马中获胜。

[65]参看第十五章注[753)。[]内的词句系据海德一九八九年版补译。

[66]杯艺是一种赌博，有三个扣着的顶针状小杯，叫观众猜测哪一只底下藏着豆子。

[67]戈尔韦是爱尔兰戈尔韦郡港市。十九世纪五十年代，一度计划把它开辟为国际航运中心，后未能实现。但这里所说此事是被利物浦集团巧妙地操纵，与史实相悖。前文中的“自由放任主义”，原文为法语。

[68]按日俄战争已于这一年(1904年)的二月八日爆发。这里指万一战争蔓延到欧洲，横渡大西洋的船只就只好不取道爱尔兰与威尔士之间的圣乔治海峡或爱尔兰与苏格兰之间的北海峡，而径直驶入戈尔韦湾了。

[69]卡桑德拉是希腊神话中特洛伊最后一个国王普里阿摩斯的女儿，为阿波罗神所爱，被赐予卜吉凶的本领。但因不肯委身于阿波罗，受其诅咒，致使她的预言没人相信，因而无法避免灾祸。“不地道的女人”指的是海伦。她已嫁给斯巴达国王墨涅拉俄斯，却和普里阿摩斯王的儿子帕里斯一道私奔到特洛伊，从而引起了持续十年之久的特洛伊战争。

[70]这是德国医生、细菌学家罗勃特・科克(1843一1910)研究出来的预防炭疽病(不是口蹄疫)的配方。

[71]亨利・布莱克伍德・普赖斯是乔伊斯的朋友。关于医治在爱尔兰流行的口蹄疫问题，他曾于一九一二年和乔伊斯通过信。参看理查德・艾尔曼所著《詹姆斯・乔伊斯》(第325页)。

[72]“抓住公牛角”是英国谚语，意思是敢于处理棘手之事。

[73]出自布莱克的《清白的征兆》。原诗抨击了当时英国准许娼赌的政策。

[74]这里的光即指耶稣。参看本章注[37]。

[75]巴黎证券交易所的建筑，是十九世纪初叶仿造罗马的韦斯巴芗神殿盖越来的。斯蒂芬所回忆的这个场面，使人联想到《马太福音》第21章第12节：“耶稣进了神殿，赶出殿里一切做买卖的人，推倒兑换银钱之人的桌子，和卖鸽子之人的凳子……”

[76]这里套用法国印象派诗人朱尔斯・拉弗格(1860－1887)的遗作《杂记》(1903)中的书信里的句子：“历史是一场古老而变化多端的恶梦……”

[77]英语中，恶梦(nightmare)由夜晚(night)和母马(mare)二词组成。当天晚上斯蒂芬借用了迪希在下面所说的“朝着一个伟大的目标前进”一语。见第十五章注[705]。

[78]这里套用《箴言》第1章第20节的“听吧，智慧在街市上呼唤，…… 在热闹的街头减叫”。

[79]一个女人指夏娃。

[80]这里，迪希把事件中的人物关系颠倒了。史实是，一一五二年，爱尔兰的小国伦斯特的麦克默罗王把另一小国布雷夫尼的大公奥鲁尔克之妻拐走( 另有一种说法是二人一道私奔的) ，从而引起战争。麦克默罗向英国的亨利二世求援。这便是英国入侵爱尔兰的开始。

[81]查理・斯图尔特・巴涅尔(1846－1891)，十九世纪末爱尔兰自治运动和民族主义领袖。一八七九年任爱尔兰农民争取土地改革的土地同盟主席。土地同盟遭到镇压后，各地不断发生恐怖事件。巴涅尔很快就便民族主义运动受到严格纪律的约束。一八八二年五月，英国政治家、爱尔兰事务大臣卡文迪和次官伯克在都柏林西郊的凤凰公园散步时，被民族主义秘密团体“常胜军”成员刺杀。一八八七年四月十八日《泰晤士报》发表“巴涅尔信件”的影印图片，指控巴涅尔包庇凤凰公园暗杀案的凶手。巴涅尔立即指出这是纯属捏造的。约两年后，伪造信件者畏罪自杀，巴涅尔在英国自由党人的眼中成为英雄。这时期是他一生的顶峰。一八八九年他因与有夫之妇姘居，被其丈夫奥谢上尉控告。天主教的主教们指责他道德败坏，不宜担任领导职务。次年与奥谢夫人结婚，舆论哗然，他的事业遂前功尽弃。

[82]阿尔斯特是爱尔兰古代省份之一。一五九四至一六0一年，这里曾发生反对伊丽莎白女王的叛乱。一六0七年以后有数千名苏格兰人移居此地。这两句话是英国政治家伦道夫・斯潘塞・丘吉尔(1849-1895)在竞选时为了煽动本地人反对爱尔兰自治而说的。后即成为爱尔兰北部反对爱尔兰自治、反对天主教的口号。

[83]《电讯报》，即都柏林的《电讯晚报》，创刊于一七六三年。《爱尔兰家园报》是都柏林的一份周报。

[84]牲畜商协会每星期四在市徽饭店开一次会。

[85]阉牛之友派“大诗人”暗指荷马，因为在他笔下，《奥德修纪》卷12中，凡是宰食了太阳神的牛者，全都送了命。

[86]这种说法与史实不符。其实早在十三世纪爱尔生就驱逐过犹太人，十八、十九世纪还通过立法，迫使犹太人归化。