第16章 尤利西斯 (1)
小说以时间为顺序，描述了苦闷彷徨的都柏林小
市民、广告推销员利奥波德·布卢姆于1904 年6 月
16 日一昼夜之内在都柏林的日常经历。乔伊斯将布
卢姆在都柏林街头的一日游荡比作奥德修斯海外十年
的漂泊，同时刻画了他不忠诚的妻子摩莉以及斯蒂芬
寻找精神上的父亲的心理。
[ 爱尔兰] 詹姆斯·乔伊斯（James Joyce）
尤利西斯
Stately，plump Buck Mullingan came from the stainhead，
bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed.
A yellow dressing gown，ungirdled，was sustained gently-behind
him by the mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft and intoned:
Introibo ad altare Dei.
Halted，he peered down the dark winding stairs and called
up coarsely:
“Come up，Kinch. Come up，you fearful jesuit. ”
Solemnly he came forward and mounted the round gunrest.
He faced about and blessed gravely thrice the tower，the
surrounding country and the awaking mountains. Then，catching
sight of Stephen Dedalus，he bent towards him and made rapid
crosses in the air，gurgling in his throat and shaking his head.
Stephen Dedalus，displeased and sleepy，leaned his arms on the
top of the staircase and looked coldly at the shaking gurgling face
that blessed him，equine in its length，and at the light untonsured
hair，grained and hued like pale oak.
Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under the mirror and then
covered the bowl smartly.
“Back to barracks.”he said sternly.
He added in a preacher’s tone:
“For this，O dearly beloved，is the genuine Christine: body
and soul and blood and ouns. Slow music，please. Shut your
eyes，gents. One moment. A little trouble about those white
corpuscles. Silence，all. ”
He peered sideways up and gave a long low whistle of
call，then paused a while in rapt attention，his even white teeth
glistening here and there with gold points. Chrysostomos. Two
strong shrill whistles answered through the calm.
“Thanks，old chap，”he cried briskly.“ That will do nicely.
Switch off the current，will you? ”
He skipped off the gunrest and looked gravely at his
watcher，gathering about his legs the loose folds of his gown.
The plump shadowed face and sullen oval jowl recalled a prelate，
patron of arts in the middle ages. A pleasant smile broke quietly
over his lips.
“The mockery of it.”he said gaily.“ Your absurd name，an
ancient Greek. ”
He pointed his finger in friendly jest and went over to the parapet，
laughing to himself. Stephen Dedalus stepped up，followed
him wearily half way and sat down on the edge of the gunrest，
watching him still as he propped his mirror on the parapet，dipped
the brush in the bowl and lathered cheeks and neck.
Buck Mulligan’s gay voice went on.
“My name is absurd too Malachi Mulligan，two dactyls. But
it has a Hellenic ring，hasn’t it? Tripping and sunny like the buck
himself. We must go to Athens. Will you come if I can get the
aunt to fork out twenty quid? ”
He laid the brush aside and，laughing with delight，cried:
“Will he come? The jejune jesuit. ”
Ceasing，he began to shave with care.
“Tell me，Mulligan.”Stephen said quietly.
“Yes，my love? ”
“How long is Haines going to stay in this tower? ”
Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his right
shoulder.
“God，isn’t he dreadful? ”he said frankly.“ A ponderous
Saxon. He thinks you’re not a gentleman God，these bloody
English. Bursting with money and indigestion. Because he comes
from Oxford You know，Dedalus ；you have the real Oxford
manner. He can’t make you out. O，my name for you is the best.
Kinch，the knife-blade.”
He shaved warily over his chin.
“He was raving all night about a black panther，”Stephen
said.“ Where is his guncase? ”
“A woful lunatic! ”Mulligan said.“ Were you in a funk? ”
“I was”，Stephen said with energy and growing fear.“Out
here in the dark with a man I don’t know raving and moaning
to himself about shooting a black panther. You saved men from
drowning. I’m not a hero，however. If he stays on here I am off.”
Buck Mulligan frowned at the lather on his razorblade. He
hopped down from his perch and began to search his trouser
pockets hastily.
“Scutter，”he cried thickly.
He came over to the gunrest and，thrusting a hand into
Stephen’s upper pocket，said:
“ Lend us a loan of your noserag to wipe my razor. ”
Stephen suffered him to pull out and hold up on show by its
corner a dirty crumpled handkerchief. Buck Mulligan wiped the
razorblade neatly. Then，gazing over the handkerchief，he said:
“The bard’s noserag. A new art colour for our Irish poets:
snotgreen. You can almost taste it，can’t you? ”
He mounted to the parapet again and gazed out over Dublin
bay，his fair oak-pale hair stirring slightly.
“God，”he said quietly.“ Isn’t the sea what Algy calls it: a
grey sweet mother? The snotgreen sea. The scrotumtightening
sea. Epi oinopa ponton. Ah，Dedalus，the Greeks. I must teach
you. You must read them in the original. Thalatta! Thalatta! She is
our great sweet mother. Come and look. ”
Stephen stood up and went over to the parapet. Leaning on
it he looked down on the water and on the mailboat clearing the
harbour mouth of Kingstown.
“Our mighty mother.”Buck Mulligan said.