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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Улисс
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- Стр. 138/821
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Cramped
in
this
carriage
.
She
mightn
’
t
like
me
to
come
that
way
without
letting
her
know
.
Must
be
careful
about
women
.
Catch
them
once
with
their
pants
down
.
Never
forgive
you
after
.
Fifteen
.
The
high
railings
of
Prospect
rippled
past
their
gaze
.
Dark
poplars
,
rare
white
forms
.
Forms
more
frequent
,
white
shapes
thronged
amid
the
trees
,
white
forms
and
fragments
streaming
by
mutely
,
sustaining
vain
gestures
on
the
air
.
The
felly
harshed
against
the
curbstone
:
stopped
.
Martin
Cunningham
put
out
his
arm
and
,
wrenching
back
the
handle
,
shoved
the
door
open
with
his
knee
.
He
stepped
out
.
Mr
Power
and
Mr
Dedalus
followed
.
Change
that
soap
now
.
Mr
Bloom
’
s
hand
unbuttoned
his
hip
pocket
swiftly
and
transferred
the
paperstuck
soap
to
his
inner
handkerchief
pocket
.
He
stepped
out
of
the
carriage
,
replacing
the
newspaper
his
other
hand
still
held
.
Paltry
funeral
:
coach
and
three
carriages
.
It
’
s
all
the
same
.
Pallbearers
,
gold
reins
,
requiem
mass
,
firing
a
volley
.
Pomp
of
death
.
Beyond
the
hind
carriage
a
hawker
stood
by
his
barrow
of
cakes
and
fruit
.
Simnel
cakes
those
are
,
stuck
together
:
cakes
for
the
dead
.
Dogbiscuits
.
Who
ate
them
?
Mourners
coming
out
.
He
followed
his
companions
.
Mr
Kernan
and
Ned
Lambert
followed
,
Hynes
walking
after
them
.
Corny
Kelleher
stood
by
the
opened
hearse
and
took
out
the
two
wreaths
.
He
handed
one
to
the
boy
.
Where
is
that
child
’
s
funeral
disappeared
to
?
A
team
of
horses
passed
from
Finglas
with
toiling
plodding
tread
,
dragging
through
the
funereal
silence
a
creaking
waggon
on
which
lay
a
granite
block
.
The
waggoner
marching
at
their
head
saluted
.
Coffin
now
.
Got
here
before
us
,
dead
as
he
is
.
Horse
looking
round
at
it
with
his
plume
skeowways
.
Dull
eye
:
collar
tight
on
his
neck
,
pressing
on
a
bloodvessel
or
something
.
Do
they
know
what
they
cart
out
here
every
day
?
Must
be
twenty
or
thirty
funerals
every
day
.
Then
Mount
Jerome
for
the
protestants
.
Funerals
all
over
the
world
everywhere
every
minute
.
Shovelling
them
under
by
the
cartload
doublequick
.
Thousands
every
hour
.
Too
many
in
the
world
.
Mourners
came
out
through
the
gates
:
woman
and
a
girl
.
Leanjawed
harpy
,
hard
woman
at
a
bargain
,
her
bonnet
awry
.
Girl
’
s
face
stained
with
dirt
and
tears
,
holding
the
woman
’
s
arm
,
looking
up
at
her
for
a
sign
to
cry
.
Fish
’
s
face
,
bloodless
and
livid
.
