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- Джеймс Джойс
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- Стр. 70/821
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Then
here
’
s
a
health
to
Mulligan
’
s
aunt
And
I
’
ll
tell
you
the
reason
why
.
She
always
kept
things
decent
in
The
Hannigan
famileye
.
His
feet
marched
in
sudden
proud
rhythm
over
the
sand
furrows
,
along
by
the
boulders
of
the
south
wall
.
He
stared
at
them
proudly
,
piled
stone
mammoth
skulls
.
Gold
light
on
sea
,
on
sand
,
on
boulders
.
The
sun
is
there
,
the
slender
trees
,
the
lemon
houses
.
Paris
rawly
waking
,
crude
sunlight
on
her
lemon
streets
.
Moist
pith
of
farls
of
bread
,
the
froggreen
wormwood
,
her
matin
incense
,
court
the
air
.
Belluomo
rises
from
the
bed
of
his
wife
’
s
lover
’
s
wife
,
the
kerchiefed
housewife
is
astir
,
a
saucer
of
acetic
acid
in
her
hand
.
In
Rodot
’
s
Yvonne
and
Madeleine
newmake
their
tumbled
beauties
,
shattering
with
gold
teeth
chaussons
of
pastry
,
their
mouths
yellowed
with
the
pus
of
flan
bréton
.
Faces
of
Paris
men
go
by
,
their
wellpleased
pleasers
,
curled
conquistadores
.
Noon
slumbers
.
Kevin
Egan
rolls
gunpowder
cigarettes
through
fingers
smeared
with
printer
’
s
ink
,
sipping
his
green
fairy
as
Patrice
his
white
.
About
us
gobblers
fork
spiced
beans
down
their
gullets
.
Un
demi
sétier
!
A
jet
of
coffee
steam
from
the
burnished
caldron
.
She
serves
me
at
his
beck
.
Il
est
irlandais
.
Hollandais
?
Non
fromage
.
Deux
irlandais
,
nous
,
Irlande
,
vous
savez
ah
,
oui
!
She
thought
you
wanted
a
cheese
hollandais
.
Your
postprandial
,
do
you
know
that
word
?
Postprandial
.
There
was
a
fellow
I
knew
once
in
Barcelona
,
queer
fellow
,
used
to
call
it
his
postprandial
.
Well
:
slainte
!
Around
the
slabbed
tables
the
tangle
of
wined
breaths
and
grumbling
gorges
.
His
breath
hangs
over
our
saucestained
plates
,
the
green
fairy
’
s
fang
thrusting
between
his
lips
.
Of
Ireland
,
the
Dalcassians
,
of
hopes
,
conspiracies
,
of
Arthur
Griffith
now
,
A
E
,
pimander
,
good
shepherd
of
men
.
To
yoke
me
as
his
yokefellow
,
our
crimes
our
common
cause
.
You
’
re
your
father
’
s
son
.
I
know
the
voice
.
His
fustian
shirt
,
sanguineflowered
,
trembles
its
Spanish
tassels
at
his
secrets
.
M
.
Drumont
,
famous
journalist
,
Drumont
,
know
what
he
called
queen
Victoria
?
Old
hag
with
the
yellow
teeth
.
Vieille
ogresse
with
the
dents
jaunes
.
Maud
Gonne
,
beautiful
woman
,
La
Patrie
,
M
.
Millevoye
,
Félix
Faure
,
know
how
he
died
?
Licentious
men
.
The
froeken
,
bonne
à
tout
faire
,
who
rubs
male
nakedness
in
the
bath
at
Upsala
.
Moi
faire
,
she
said
,
Tous
les
messieurs
.
Not
this
Monsieur
,
I
said
.
Most
licentious
custom
.
Bath
a
most
private
thing
.
I
wouldn
’
t
let
my
brother
,
not
even
my
own
brother
,
most
lascivious
thing
.
Green
eyes
,
I
see
you
.
Fang
,
I
feel
.
Lascivious
people
.
The
blue
fuse
burns
deadly
between
hands
and
burns
clear
.
Loose
tobaccoshreds
catch
fire
:
a
flame
and
acrid
smoke
light
our
corner
.
Raw
facebones
under
his
peep
of
day
boy
’
s
hat
.
How
the
head
centre
got
away
,
authentic
version
.
Got
up
as
a
young
bride
,
man
,
veil
,
orangeblossoms
,
drove
out
the
road
to
Malahide
.
Did
,
faith
.
Of
lost
leaders
,
the
betrayed
,
wild
escapes
.
Disguises
,
clutched
at
,
gone
,
not
here
.
