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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Улисс
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- Стр. 52/821
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—
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
.
