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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Стр. 49/821
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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
underfoot
,
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
underfoot
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
.
