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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Стр. 531/821
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No
longer
is
Leopold
,
as
he
sits
there
,
ruminating
,
chewing
the
cud
of
reminiscence
,
that
staid
agent
of
publicity
and
holder
of
a
modest
substance
in
the
funds
.
A
score
of
years
are
blown
away
.
He
is
young
Leopold
.
There
,
as
in
a
retrospective
arrangement
,
a
mirror
within
a
mirror
(
hey
,
presto
!
)
,
he
beholdeth
himself
.
That
young
figure
of
then
is
seen
,
precociously
manly
,
walking
on
a
nipping
morning
from
the
old
house
in
Clanbrassil
street
to
the
high
school
,
his
booksatchel
on
him
bandolierwise
,
and
in
it
a
goodly
hunk
of
wheaten
loaf
,
a
mother
’
s
thought
.
Or
it
is
the
same
figure
,
a
year
or
so
gone
over
,
in
his
first
hard
hat
(
ah
,
that
was
a
day
!
)
,
already
on
the
road
,
a
fullfledged
traveller
for
the
family
firm
,
equipped
with
an
orderbook
,
a
scented
handkerchief
(
not
for
show
only
)
,
his
case
of
bright
trinketware
(
alas
!
a
thing
now
of
the
past
!
)
and
a
quiverful
of
compliant
smiles
for
this
or
that
halfwon
housewife
reckoning
it
out
upon
her
fingertips
or
for
a
budding
virgin
,
shyly
acknowledging
(
but
the
heart
?
tell
me
!
)
his
studied
baisemoins
.
The
scent
,
the
smile
,
but
,
more
than
these
,
the
dark
eyes
and
oleaginous
address
,
brought
home
at
duskfall
many
a
commission
to
the
head
of
the
firm
,
seated
with
Jacob
’
s
pipe
after
like
labours
in
the
paternal
ingle
(
a
meal
of
noodles
,
you
may
be
sure
,
is
aheating
)
,
reading
through
round
horned
spectacles
some
paper
from
the
Europe
of
a
month
before
.
But
hey
,
presto
,
the
mirror
is
breathed
on
and
the
young
knighterrant
recedes
,
shrivels
,
dwindles
to
a
tiny
speck
within
the
mist
.
Now
he
is
himself
paternal
and
these
about
him
might
be
his
sons
.
Who
can
say
?
The
wise
father
knows
his
own
child
.
He
thinks
of
a
drizzling
night
in
Hatch
street
,
hard
by
the
bonded
stores
there
,
the
first
.
Together
(
she
is
a
poor
waif
,
a
child
of
shame
,
yours
and
mine
and
of
all
for
a
bare
shilling
and
her
luckpenny
)
,
together
they
hear
the
heavy
tread
of
the
watch
as
two
raincaped
shadows
pass
the
new
royal
university
.
Bridie
!
Bridie
Kelly
!
He
will
never
forget
the
name
,
ever
remember
the
night
:
first
night
,
the
bridenight
.
They
are
entwined
in
nethermost
darkness
,
the
willer
with
the
willed
,
and
in
an
instant
(
fiat
!
)
light
shall
flood
the
world
.
Did
heart
leap
to
heart
?
Nay
,
fair
reader
.
In
a
breath
’
twas
done
but
—
hold
!
Back
!
It
must
not
be
!
In
terror
the
poor
girl
flees
away
through
the
murk
.
She
is
the
bride
of
darkness
,
a
daughter
of
night
.
She
dare
not
bear
the
sunnygolden
babe
of
day
.
No
,
Leopold
.
Name
and
memory
solace
thee
not
.
That
youthful
illusion
of
thy
strength
was
taken
from
thee
—
and
in
vain
.
No
son
of
thy
loins
is
by
thee
.
There
is
none
now
to
be
for
Leopold
,
what
Leopold
was
for
Rudolph
.
The
voices
blend
and
fuse
in
clouded
silence
:
silence
that
is
the
infinite
of
space
:
and
swiftly
,
silently
the
soul
is
wafted
over
regions
of
cycles
of
generations
that
have
lived
.
A
region
where
grey
twilight
ever
descends
,
never
falls
on
wide
sagegreen
pasturefields
,
shedding
her
dusk
,
scattering
a
perennial
dew
of
stars
.
She
follows
her
mother
with
ungainly
steps
,
a
mare
leading
her
fillyfoal
.
Twilight
phantoms
are
they
,
yet
moulded
in
prophetic
grace
of
structure
,
slim
shapely
haunches
,
a
supple
tendonous
neck
,
the
meek
apprehensive
skull
.
They
fade
,
sad
phantoms
:
all
is
gone
.
Agendath
is
a
waste
land
,
a
home
of
screechowls
and
the
sandblind
upupa
.
Netaim
,
the
golden
,
is
no
more
.
And
on
the
highway
of
the
clouds
they
come
,
muttering
thunder
of
rebellion
,
the
ghosts
of
beasts
.
Huuh
!
Hark
!
Huuh
!
Parallax
stalks
behind
and
goads
them
,
the
lancinating
lightnings
of
whose
brow
are
scorpions
.
Elk
and
yak
,
the
bulls
of
Bashan
and
of
Babylon
,
mammoth
and
mastodon
,
they
come
trooping
to
the
sunken
sea
,
Lacus
Mortis
.
Ominous
revengeful
zodiacal
host
!
They
moan
,
passing
upon
the
clouds
,
horned
and
capricorned
,
the
trumpeted
with
the
tusked
,
the
lionmaned
,
the
giantantlered
,
snouter
and
crawler
,
rodent
,
ruminant
and
pachyderm
,
all
their
moving
moaning
multitude
,
murderers
of
the
sun
.
Onward
to
the
dead
sea
they
tramp
to
drink
,
unslaked
and
with
horrible
gulpings
,
the
salt
somnolent
inexhaustible
flood
.
And
the
equine
portent
grows
again
,
magnified
in
the
deserted
heavens
,
nay
to
heaven
’
s
own
magnitude
,
till
it
looms
,
vast
,
over
the
house
of
Virgo
.
And
lo
,
wonder
of
metempsychosis
,
it
is
she
,
the
everlasting
bride
,
harbinger
of
the
daystar
,
the
bride
,
ever
virgin
.
It
is
she
,
Martha
,
thou
lost
one
,
Millicent
,
the
young
,
the
dear
,
the
radiant
.
How
serene
does
she
now
arise
,
a
queen
among
the
Pleiades
,
in
the
penultimate
antelucan
hour
,
shod
in
sandals
of
bright
gold
,
coifed
with
a
veil
of
what
do
you
call
it
gossamer
.
It
floats
,
it
flows
about
her
starborn
flesh
and
loose
it
streams
,
emerald
,
sapphire
,
mauve
and
heliotrope
,
sustained
on
currents
of
the
cold
interstellar
wind
,
winding
,
coiling
,
simply
swirling
,
writhing
in
the
skies
a
mysterious
writing
till
,
after
a
myriad
metamorphoses
of
symbol
,
it
blazes
,
Alpha
,
a
ruby
and
triangled
sign
upon
the
forehead
of
Taurus
.
Francis
was
reminding
Stephen
of
years
before
when
they
had
been
at
school
together
in
Conmee
’
s
time
.
He
asked
about
Glaucon
,
Alcibiades
,
Pisistratus
.
Where
were
they
now
?
Neither
knew
.
You
have
spoken
of
the
past
and
its
phantoms
,
Stephen
said
.
Why
think
of
them
?
If
I
call
them
into
life
across
the
waters
of
Lethe
will
not
the
poor
ghosts
troop
to
my
call
?
Who
supposes
it
?
I
,
Bous
Stephanoumenos
,
bullockbefriending
bard
,
am
lord
and
giver
of
their
life
.
He
encircled
his
gadding
hair
with
a
coronal
of
vineleaves
,
smiling
at
Vincent
.
That
answer
and
those
leaves
,
Vincent
said
to
him
,
will
adorn
you
more
fitly
when
something
more
,
and
greatly
more
,
than
a
capful
of
light
odes
can
call
your
genius
father
.
All
who
wish
you
well
hope
this
for
you
.
All
desire
to
see
you
bring
forth
the
work
you
meditate
,
to
acclaim
you
Stephaneforos
.
I
heartily
wish
you
may
not
fail
them
.
O
no
,
Vincent
Lenehan
said
,
laying
a
hand
on
the
shoulder
near
him
.
Have
no
fear
.
He
could
not
leave
his
mother
an
orphan
.
The
young
man
’
s
face
grew
dark
.
All
could
see
how
hard
it
was
for
him
to
be
reminded
of
his
promise
and
of
his
recent
loss
.
He
would
have
withdrawn
from
the
feast
had
not
the
noise
of
voices
allayed
the
smart
.
Madden
had
lost
five
drachmas
on
Sceptre
for
a
whim
of
the
rider
’
s
name
:
Lenehan
as
much
more
.
He
told
them
of
the
race
.
The
flag
fell
and
,
huuh
!
off
,
scamper
,
the
mare
ran
out
freshly
with
O
.
Madden
up
.
She
was
leading
the
field
.
All
hearts
were
beating
.
Even
Phyllis
could
not
contain
herself
.
She
waved
her
scarf
and
cried
:
Huzzah
!
Sceptre
wins
!
But
in
the
straight
on
the
run
home
when
all
were
in
close
order
the
dark
horse
Throwaway
drew
level
,
reached
,
outstripped
her
.
All
was
lost
now
.
Phyllis
was
silent
:
her
eyes
were
sad
anemones
.
Juno
,
she
cried
,
I
am
undone
.
But
her
lover
consoled
her
and
brought
her
a
bright
casket
of
gold
in
which
lay
some
oval
sugarplums
which
she
partook
.
A
tear
fell
:
one
only
.
A
whacking
fine
whip
,
said
Lenehan
,
is
W
.
Lane
.
Four
winners
yesterday
and
three
today
.
What
rider
is
like
him
?
Mount
him
on
the
camel
or
the
boisterous
buffalo
the
victory
in
a
hack
canter
is
still
his
.
But
let
us
bear
it
as
was
the
ancient
wont
.
Mercy
on
the
luckless
!
Poor
Sceptre
!
he
said
with
a
light
sigh
.
She
is
not
the
filly
that
she
was
.
Never
,
by
this
hand
,
shall
we
behold
such
another
.
By
gad
,
sir
,
a
queen
of
them
.
Do
you
remember
her
,
Vincent
?
I
wish
you
could
have
seen
my
queen
today
,
Vincent
said
.
How
young
she
was
and
radiant
(
Lalage
were
scarce
fair
beside
her
)
in
her
yellow
shoes
and
frock
of
muslin
,
I
do
not
know
the
right
name
of
it
.
The
chestnuts
that
shaded
us
were
in
bloom
:
the
air
drooped
with
their
persuasive
odour
and
with
pollen
floating
by
us
.
In
the
sunny
patches
one
might
easily
have
cooked
on
a
stone
a
batch
of
those
buns
with
Corinth
fruit
in
them
that
Periplipomenes
sells
in
his
booth
near
the
bridge
.
But
she
had
nought
for
her
teeth
but
the
arm
with
which
I
held
her
and
in
that
she
nibbled
mischievously
when
I
pressed
too
close
.
A
week
ago
she
lay
ill
,
four
days
on
the
couch
,
but
today
she
was
free
,
blithe
,
mocked
at
peril
.
She
is
more
taking
then
.
Her
posies
too
!
Mad
romp
that
she
is
,
she
had
pulled
her
fill
as
we
reclined
together
.
And
in
your
ear
,
my
friend
,
you
will
not
think
who
met
us
as
we
left
the
field
.
Conmee
himself
!
He
was
walking
by
the
hedge
,
reading
,
I
think
a
brevier
book
with
,
I
doubt
not
,
a
witty
letter
in
it
from
Glycera
or
Chloe
to
keep
the
page
.
The
sweet
creature
turned
all
colours
in
her
confusion
,
feigning
to
reprove
a
slight
disorder
in
her
dress
:
a
slip
of
underwood
clung
there
for
the
very
trees
adore
her
.
When
Conmee
had
passed
she
glanced
at
her
lovely
echo
in
that
little
mirror
she
carries
.
But
he
had
been
kind
.
In
going
by
he
had
blessed
us
.
The
gods
too
are
ever
kind
,
Lenehan
said
.
If
I
had
poor
luck
with
Bass
’
s
mare
perhaps
this
draught
of
his
may
serve
me
more
propensely
.
He
was
laying
his
hand
upon
a
winejar
:
Malachi
saw
it
and
withheld
his
act
,
pointing
to
the
stranger
and
to
the
scarlet
label
.
Warily
,
Malachi
whispered
,
preserve
a
druid
silence
.
His
soul
is
far
away
.
It
is
as
painful
perhaps
to
be
awakened
from
a
vision
as
to
be
born
.
Any
object
,
intensely
regarded
,
may
be
a
gate
of
access
to
the
incorruptible
eon
of
the
gods
.
Do
you
not
think
it
,
Stephen
?
Theosophos
told
me
so
,
Stephen
answered
,
whom
in
a
previous
existence
Egyptian
priests
initiated
into
the
mysteries
of
karmic
law
.
The
lords
of
the
moon
,
Theosophos
told
me
,
an
orangefiery
shipload
from
planet
Alpha
of
the
lunar
chain
would
not
assume
the
etheric
doubles
and
these
were
therefore
incarnated
by
the
rubycoloured
egos
from
the
second
constellation
.
