The Boarding Hou给自己定位
James Joyce
照片九宫格MRS. MOONEY was a butcher's daughter. She was a woman who was quite
able to keep things to herlf: a determined woman. She had married her father's foreman and opened a butcher's shop near Spring Gardens. But as
soon as his father-in-law was dead Mr. Mooney began to go to the devil. He drank, plundered the till, ran headlong into debt. It was no u making him take the pledge: he was sure to break out again a few days after. By fighting his wife in the prence of customers and by buying bad meat he ruined his business. One night he went for his wife with the cleaver and she had to sleep a neighbour's hou.
莫高窟余秋雨After that they lived apart. She went to the priest and got a paration from
him with care of the children. She would give him neither money nor food nor hou-room; and so he was obliged to enlist himlf as a sheriff's man. He was a shabby stooped little drunkard with a white face and a white moustache white eyebrows, pencilled above his little eyes, which were veined and raw; and all day long he sat in the bailiff's room, waiting to be put on a job. Mrs. Mooney, who had take
n what remained of her money out of the butcher business and t up a boarding hou in Hardwicke Street, was a big imposing woman. Her hou had a floating population made up of tourists from Liverpool and the Isle of Man and, occasionally, artistes from the music halls. Its resident population was made up of clerks from the city. She governed the hou cunningly and firmly, knew when to give credit, when to be stern and when to let things pass. All the resident young men spoke of her as The Madam.
Mrs. Mooney's young men paid fifteen shillings a week for board and
lodgings (beer or stout at dinner excluded). They shared in common tastes and occupations and for this reason they were very chummy with one another. They discusd with one another the chances of favourites and outsiders. Jack Mooney, the Madam's son, who was clerk to a commission agent in Fleet Street, had the reputation of being a hard ca. He was fond of using soldiers' obscenities: usually he came home in the small hours. When he met his friends he had always a good one to tell them and he was always sure to be on to a good thing-that is to say, a likely hor or a likely artiste. He was also handy with the mits and sang comic songs. On Sunday nights there would often be a reunion in Mrs. Mooney's front drawing-room. The
music-hall artistes would oblige; and Sheridan played waltzes and polkas and vamped accompaniments. Polly Mooney, the Madam's daughter, would also sing. She sang:
I'm a ... naughty girl.
You needn't sham:
You know I am.
Polly was a slim girl of nineteen; she had light soft hair and a small full mouth. Her eyes, which were grey with a shade of green through them, had a habit of glancing upwards when she spoke with anyone, which made her look like a little perver madonna. Mrs. Mooney had first nt her daughter to be a typist in a corn-factor's office but, as a disreputable sheriff's man ud to come every other day to the office, asking to be allowed to say a word to his daughter, she had taken her daughter home again and t her to do houwork. As Polly was very lively the intention was to give her the run of the young men. Besides young men like to feel that there is a young woman not very far away. Polly, of cour, flirted with the young men but Mrs. Mooney, who was a shrewd judge, knew that the young men were only passing the time away: none of them meant business. Things went on so for a long time and Mrs. Mooney began to think of nding Polly back to typewriting whe猫粮怎么选
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n she noticed that something was going on between Polly and one of the young men. She watched the pair and kept her own counl. Polly knew that she was being watched, but still her mother's persistent silence could not be misunderstood. There had been no open complicity between mother and daughter, no open understanding but, though people in the hou began to talk of the affair, still Mrs. Mooney did not intervene. Polly began to grow a little strange in her manner and the young man was evidently perturbed. At last, when she judged it to be the right moment, Mrs. Mooney intervened. She dealt with moral problems as a cleaver deals with meat: and in this ca she had made up her mind.
It was a bright Sunday morning of early summer, promising heat, but with a fresh breeze blowing. All the windows of the boarding hou were open and the lace curtains ballooned gently towards the street beneath the raid sashes. The belfry of George's Church nt out constant peals and worshippers, singly or in groups, traverd the little circus before the church, revealing their purpo by their lf-contained demeanour no less than by the little volumes in their gloved hands. Breakfast was over in the boarding
hou and the table of the breakfast-room was covered with plates on which lay yellow streaks of eggs with morls of bacon-fat and bacon-rind. Mrs. Mooney sat in the straw arm-chair and watched
the rvant Mary remove the breakfast things. She mad Mary collect the crusts and pieces of broken bread to help to make Tuesday's bread- pudding. When the table was cleared, the broken bread collected, the sugar and butter safe under lock and key, she began to reconstruct the interview which she had had the night before with Polly. Things were as she had suspected: she had been frank in her questions and Polly had been frank in her answers. Both had been somewhat awkward, of cour. She had been made awkward by her not wishing to receive the news in too cavalier a fashion or to em to have connived and Polly had been made awkward not merely becau allusions of that kind always made her awkward but also becau she did not wish it to be thought that in her wi innocence she had divined the intention behind her mother's tolerance. Mrs. Mooney glanced instinctively at the little gilt clock on the mantelpiece as soon as she had become aware through her revery that the bells of George's Church had stopped ringing. It was venteen minutes past eleven: she would have lots of time to have the matter out with Mr. Doran and then catch short twelve at Marlborough Street. She was sure she would win. To begin with she had all the weight of social opinion on her side: she was an outraged mother. She had allowed him to live beneath her roof, assuming that he was a man of honour and he had simply abud her hospitality. He was thirty-four or thirty-five years of age, so that youth could not be pleaded as his excu; nor could ignorance be his excu since he was a man who had en something of the world. He had simply taken adva
ntage of Polly's youth and inexperience: that was evident. The question was: What reparation would he make?
There must be reparation made in such ca. It is all very well for the man: he can go his ways as if nothing had happened, having had his moment of pleasure, but the girl has to bear the brunt. Some mothers would be content to patch up such an affair for a sum of money; she had known cas of it. But she would not do so. For her only one reparation could make up for the loss of her daughter's honour: marriage.辣子牙签牛肉
She counted all her cards again before nding Mary up to Doran's room to say that she wished to speak with him. She felt sure she would win. He was a rious young man, not rakish or loud-voiced like the others. If it had been Mr. Sheridan or Mr. Meade or Bantam Lyons her task would have been
much harder. She did not think he would face publicity. All the lodgers in the hou knew something of the affair; details had been invented by some. Besides, he had been employed for thirteen years in a great Catholic wine-merchant's office and publicity would mean for him, perhaps, the loss of his job. Whereas if he agreed all might be well. She knew he had a good screw for one thing and she suspected he had a bit of stuff put by.
Nearly the half-hour! She stood up and surveyed herlf in the pier-glass. The decisive expression of her great florid face satisfied her and she thought of some mothers she knew who could not get their daughters off their hands. Mr. Doran was very anxious indeed this Sunday morning. He had made two attempts to shave but his hand had been so unsteady that he had been obliged to desist. Three days' reddish beard fringed his jaws and every two or three minutes a mist gathered on his glass so that he had to take them off and polish them with his pocket-handkerchief. The recollection of his confession of the night before was a cau of acute pain to him; the priest had drawn out every ridiculous detail of the affair and in the end had so magnified his sin that he was almost thankful at being afforded a loophole of reparation. The harm was done. What could he do now but marry her or run away? He could not brazen it out. The affair would be sure to be talked of and his employer would be certain to hear of it. Dublin is such a small city: everyone knows everyone el's business. He felt his heart leap warmly in his throat as he heard in his excited imagination old Mr. Leonard calling out in his rasping voice: "Send Mr. Doran here, plea."
All his long years of rvice gone for nothing! All his industry and diligence thrown away! As a young man he had sown his wild oats, of cour; he had boasted of his free-thinking and denied the existence of God to his companions in public- hous. But that was all pasd and nearl
y. He still bought a copy of Reynolds's Newspaper every week but he attended to his religious duties and for nine-tenths of the year lived a regular life. He had money enough to ttle down on; it was not that. But the family would look down on her. First of all there was her disreputable father and then her mother's boarding hou was beginning to get a certain fame. He had a notion that he was being had. He could imagine his friends talking of the affair and laughing. She was a little vulgar; some times she said "I en" and "If I had've known." But what would grammar matter if he really loved her? He could not make up his mind whether to like her or despi her for
what she had done. Of cour he had done it too. His instinct urged him to remain free, not to marry. Once you are married you are done for, it said. While he was sitting helplessly on the side of the bed in shirt and trours she tapped lightly at his door and entered. She told him all, that she had made a clean breast of it to her mother and that her mother would speak with him that morning. She cried and threw her arms round his neck, saying: "O Bob! Bob! What am I to do? What am I to do at all?"
She would put an end to herlf, she said.
He comforted her feebly, telling her not to cry, that it would be all right, never fear. He felt against his shirt the agitation of her bosom.
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It was not altogether his fault that it had happened. He remembered well, with the curious patient memory of the celibate, the first casual caress her dress, her breath, her fingers had given him. Then late one night as he was undressing for she had tapped at his door, timidly. She wanted to relight her candle at his for hers had been blown out by a gust. It was her bath night. She wore a loo open combing- jacket of printed flannel. Her white instep shone in the opening of her furry slippers and the blood glowed warmly behind her perfumed skin. From her hands and wrists too as she lit and steadied her candle a faint perfume aro.
On nights when he came in very late it was she who warmed up his dinner. He scarcely knew what he was eating feeling her beside him alone, at night, in the sleeping hou. And her thoughtfulness! If the night was anyway cold or wet or windy there was sure to be a little tumbler of punch ready for him. Perhaps they could be
They ud to go upstairs together on tiptoe, each with a candle, and on the third landing exchange reluctant goodnights. They ud to kiss. He remembered well her eyes, the touch of her hand and 妇可靖胶囊
But delirium pass. He echoed her phra, applying it to himlf: "What am I to do?" The instinct of
the celibate warned him to hold back. But the sin was there; even his n of honour told him that reparation must be made for such a sin.
