Улисс
Chapter 1
—What’sthisIwassaying?Ah,yes!Mywife,heintimated,plunginginmediasres,wouldhavethegreatestofpleasureinmakingyouracquaintanceassheispassionatelyattachedtomusicofanykind.
HelookedsidewaysinafriendlyfashionatthesidefaceofStephen,imageofhismother,whichwasnotquitethesameastheusualhandsomeblackguardtypetheyunquestionablyhadaninsatiablehankeringafterashewasperhapsnotthatwaybuilt.
Still,supposinghehadhisfather’sgiftashemorethansuspected,itopenedupnewvistasinhismindsuchasLadyFingall’sIrishindustries,concertontheprecedingMonday,andaristocracyingeneral.
ExquisitevariationshewasnowdescribingonanairYouthherehasEndbyJansPieterSweelinck,aDutchmanofAmsterdamwherethefrowscomefrom.EvenmorehelikedanoldGermansongofJohannesJeepabouttheclearseaandthevoicesofsirens,sweetmurderersofmen,whichboggledBloomabit:
VonderSirenenListigkeit
TundiePoetendichten.
Theseopeningbarshesangandtranslatedextempore.Bloom,nodding,saidheperfectlyunderstoodandbeggedhimtogoonbyallmeanswhichhedid.
