Joyce J. Ulysses

-- If Bloom were here, the professor said. The gentle art of
advertisement.
-- And Madam Bloom, Mr O'Madden Burke added. The vocal muse. Dublin's
prime favourite.
Lenehan gave a loud cough.
-- Ahem! he said very softly. O, for a fresh of breath air! I caught a
cold in the park. The gate was open.
You can do it!
The editor laid a nervous hand on Stephen's shoulder.
-- I want you to write something for me, he said. Something with a bite
in it. You can do it. I see it in your face. In the lexicon of youth...
See it in your face. See it in your eye. Lazy idle little schemer.
-- Foot and mouth disease! the editor cried in scornful invective.
Great nationalist meeting in Borris-in-Ossory. All balls! Bulldosing the
public! Give them something with a bite in it. Put us all into it, damn its
soul. Father Son and Holy Ghost and fakes M'Carthy.
-- We can all supply mental pabulum, Mr O'Madden Burke said.
Stephen raised his eyes to the bold unheeding stare.
-- He wants you for the pressgang, J.J. O'Molloy said.
The Great Gallaher
-- You can do it, Myles Crawford repeated, clenching his hand in
emphasis. Wait a minute. We'll paralyse Europe as Ignatius Gallaher used to
say when he was on the shaughraun, doing billiardmarking in the Clarence.
Gallaher, that was a pressman for you. That was a pen. You know how he made
his mark? I'll tell you. That was the smartest piece of journalism ever
known. That was in eightyone, sixth of May, time of the invincibles, murder
in the Phoenix park, before you were born, I suppose. I'll show you.
He pushed past them to the files.
-- Look at here, he said, turning. The New York World cabled for a
special. Remember that time?
Professor MacHugh nodded.
-- New York World, the editor said, excitedly pushing back his straw
hat. Where it took place. Tim Kelly, or Kavanagh I mean, Joe Brady and the
rest of them. Where Skin-the-goat drove the car. Whole route, see?
-- Skin-the-goat, Mr O'Madden Burke said. Fitzharris. He has that
cabman's shelter, they say, down there at Butt bridge. Holohan told me. You
know Holohan?
-- Hop and carry one, is it? Myles Crawford said.
-- And poor Gumley is down there too, so he told me, minding stones for
the corporation. A night watchman.
Stephen turned in surprise.
-- Gumley? he said. You don't say so? A friend of my father's, is he?
-- Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford cried angrily. Let Gumley mind the
stones, see they don't run away. Look at here. What did Ignatius Gallaher
do? I'll tell you. Inspiration of genius. Cabled right away. Have you Weekly
Freeman of 17 March? Right. Have you got that?
He flung back pages of the files and stuck his finger on a point.
-- Take page four, advertisement for Bransome's coffee let us say. Have
you got that? Right.
The telephone whirred.
A distant voice
-- I'll answer it, the professor said going.
-- B is parkgate. Good.
His finger leaped and struck point after point, vibrating.
-- T is viceregal lodge. C is where murder took place. K is Knockmaroon
gate.
The loose flesh of his neck shook like a cock's wattles. An illstarched
dicky jutted up and with a rude gesture he thrust it back into his
waistcoat.
-- Hello? Evening Telegraph here... Hello?... Who's there?... Yes...
Yes...
-- F to P is the route Skin-the-goat drove the car for an alibi.
Inchicore, Roundtown, Windy Arbour, Palmerston Park, Ranelagh. F. A. B. P.
Got that? X is Davy's publichouse in upper Leeson street.
The professor came to the inner door.
-- Bloom is at the telephone, he said.
-- Tell him go to hell, the editor said promptly. X is Burke's
publichouse, see?
Clever, Very
Clever, Lenehan said. Very.
-- Gave it to them on a hot plate, Myles Crawford said, the whole
bloody history.
Nightmare from which you will never awake.
-- I saw it, the editor said proudly. I was present, Dick Adams, the
besthearted bloody Corkman the Lord ever put the breath of life in, and
myself.
Lenehan bowed to a shape of air, announcing:
-- Madam, I'm Adam. And Able was I ere I saw Elba.
-- History! Myles Crawford cried. The Old Woman of Prince's street was
there first. There was weeping and gnashing of teeth over that. Out of an
advertisement. Gregor Grey made the design for it. That gave him the leg up.
Then Paddy Hooper worked Tay Pay who took him on to the Star. Now he's got
in with Blumenfeld. That's press. That's talent. Pyatt! He was all their
daddies.
-- The father of scare journalism, Lenehan confirmed, and the
brother-in-law of Chris Callinan.
-- Hello?... Are you there?... Yes, he's here still. Come across
yourself.
-- Where do you find a pressman like that now, eh? the editor cried. He
flung the pages down.
-- Clamn dever, Lenehan said to Mr O'Madden Burke.
-- Very smart, Mr O'Madden Burke said.
Professor MacHugh came from the inner office.
-- Talking about the invincibles, he said, did you see that some
hawkers were up before the recorder...
-- O yes, J.J. O'Molloy said eagerly. Lady Dudley was walking home
through the park to see all the trees that were blown down by that cyclone
last year and thought she'd buy a view of Dublin. And it turned out to be a
commemoration postcard of Joe Brady or Number One or Skin-the-goat. Right
outside the viceregal lodge, imagine!
-- They're only in the hook and eye department, Myles Crawford said.
Psha! Press and the bar! Where have you a man now at the bar like those
fellows, like Whiteside, like Isaac Butt, like silvertongued O'Hagan? Eh?
Ah, bloody nonsense! Only in the halfpenny place!
His mouth continued to twitch unspeaking in nervous curls of disdain.
Would anyone wish that mouth for her kiss? How do you know? Why did you
write it then?
Rhymes and Reasons
Mouth, south. Is the mouth south someway? Or the south a mouth? Must be
some. South, pout, out, shout, drouth. Rhymes: two men dressed the same,
looking the same, two by two.
... la tua pace
... che parlar ti piace
... mentrechх il vento, come fa, si tace.
He saw them three by three, approaching girls, in green, in rose, in
russet, entwining, per l'aer perso in mauve, in purple, quella pacifica
oriafiamma, in gold of oriflamme, di rimirar fe piu ardenti. But I old men,
penitent, leadenfooted, underdarkneath the night: mouth south: tomb womb.
-- Speak up for yourself, Mr O'Madden Burke said.
Sufficient for the Day...
J.J. O'Molloy, smiling palely, took up the gage.
-- My dear Myles, he said, flinging his cigarette aside, you put a
false construction on my words. I hold no brief, as at present advised, for
the third profession qua profession but your Cork legs are running away with
you. Why not bring in Henry Grattan and Flood and Demosthenes and Edmund
Burke? Ignatius Gallaher we all know and his Chapelizod boss, Harmsworth of
the farthing press, and his American cousin of the Bowery gutter sheet not
to mention Paddy Kelly's Budget, Pue's Occurrences and our watchful friend
The Skibereen Eagle. Why bring in a master of forensic eloquence like
Whiteside? Sufficient for the day is the newspaper thereof.
Links with Bygone Days of Yore
Grattan and Flood wrote for this very paper, the editor cried in his
face. Irish volunteers. Where are you now? Established 1763. Dr Lucas. Who
have you now like John Philpot Curran? Psha!
-- Well, J.J. O'Molloy said, Bushe K. C., for example.
-- Bushe? the editor said. Well, yes. Bushe, yes. He has a strain of it
in his blood. Kendal Bushe or I mean Seymour Bushe.
-- He would have been on the bench long ago, the professor said, only
for... But no matter.
J.J. O'Molloy turned to Stephen and said quietly and slowly:
-- One of the most polished periods I think I ever listened to in my
life fell from the lips of Seymour Bushe. It was in that case of fratricide,
the Childs murder case. Bushe defended him.
And in the porches of mine ear did pour.
By the way how did he find that out? He died in his sleep. Or the other
story, beast with two backs?
-- What was that? the professor asked.
Italia, Magistra Artium
-- He spoke on the law of evidence, J.J. O'Molloy said, of Roman
justice as contrasted with the earlier Mosaic code, the lex talionis. And he
cited the Moses of Michelangelo in the Vatican.
-- Ha.
-- A few wellchosen words, Lenehan prefaced. Silence!
Pause. J.J. O'Molloy took out his cigarette case. False lull. Something
quite ordinary.
Messenger took out his matchbox thoughtfully and lit his cigar.
I have often thought since on looking back over that strange time that
it was that small act, trivial in itself, that striking of that match, that
determined the whole aftercourse of both our lives.
A Polished Period
J.J. O'Molloy resumed, moulding his words:
-- He said of it: that stony effigy in frozen music, horned and
terrible, of the human form divine, that eternal symbol of wisdom and
prophecy which if aught that the imagination or the hand of sculptor has
wrought in marble of soultransfigured and of soultransfiguring deserves to
live, deserves to live.
His slim hand with a wave graced echo and fall.
-- Fine! Myles Crawford said at once.
-- The divine afflatus, Mr O'Madden Burke said.
-- You like it? J.J. O'Molloy asked Stephen.
Stephen, his blood wooed by grace of language and gesture, blushed. He
took a cigarette from the case. J.J. O'Molloy offered his case to Myles
Crawford. Lenehan lit their cigarettes as before and took his trophy,
saying:
-- Muchibus thankibus.
A Man of High Morale
-- Professor Magennis was speaking to me about you, J.J. O'Molloy said
to Stephen. What do you think really of that hermetic crowd, the opal hush
poets: A. E. the master mystic? That Blavatsky woman started it. She was a
nice old bag of tricks. A. E. has been telling some yankee interviewer that
you came to him in the small hours of the morning to ask him about planes of
consciousness. Magennis thinks you must have been pulling A. E.'s leg. He is
a man of the very highest morale, Magennis.
Speaking about me. What did he say? What did he say? What did he say
about me? Don't ask.
-- No, thanks, professor MacHugh said, waving the cigarette case aside.
Wait a moment. Let me say one thing. The finest display of oratory I ever
heard was a speech made by John F. Taylor at the college historical society.
Mr Justice Fitzgibbon, the present lord justice of appeal, had spoken and
the paper under debate was an essay (new for those days), advocating the
revival of the Irish tongue.
He turned towards Myles Crawford and said:
-- You know Gerald Fitzgibbon. Then you can imagine the style of his
discourse.
-- He is sitting with Tim Healy, J.J. O'Molloy said, rumour has it, on
the Trinity college estates commission.
-- He is sitting with a sweet thing in a child's frock, Myles Crawford
said. Go on. Well?
-- It was the speech, mark you, the professor said, of a finished
orator, full of courteous haughtiness and pouring in chastened diction, I
will not say the vials of his wrath but pouring the proud man's contumely
upon the new movement. It was then a new movement. We were weak, therefore
worthless.
He closed his long thin lips an instant but, eager to be on, raised an
outspanned hand to his spectacles and, with trembling thumb and ringfinger
touching lightly the black rims, steadied them to a new focus.
Impromptu
In ferial tone he addressed J.J. O'Molloy:
-- Taylor had come there, you must know, from a sick bed. That he had
prepared his speech I do not believe for there was not even one
shorthandwriter in the hall. His dark lean face had a growth of shaggy beard
round it. He wore a loose neckcloth and altogether he looked (though he was
not) a dying man.
His gaze turned at once but slowly from J.J. O'Molloy's towards
Stephen's face and then bent at once to the ground, seeking. His unglazed
linen collar appeared behind his bent head, soiled by his withering hair.
Still seeking, he said:
-- When Fitzgibbon's speech had ended John F. Taylor rose to reply.
Briefly, as well as I can bring them to mind, his words were these.
He raised his head firmly. His eyes bethought themselves once more.
Witless shellfish swam in the gross lenses to and fro, seeking outlet.
He began:
-- Mr Chairman, ladies and gentlemen: Great was my admiration in
listening to the remarks addressed to the youth of Ireland a moment since by
my learned friend. It seemed to me that I had been transported into a
country far away from this country, into an age remote from this age, that I
stood in ancient Egypt and that I was listening to the speech of some
highpriest of that land addressed to the youthful Moses.
His listeners held their cigarettes poised to hear, their smoke
ascending in frail stalks that flowered with his speech. And let our crooked
smokes. Noble words coming. Look out. Could you try your hand at it
yourself?
-- And it seemed to me that I heard the voice of that Egyptian
highpriest raised in a tone of like haughtiness and like pride. I heard his
words and their meaning was revealed to me.
From the Fathers
It was revealed to me that those things are good which yet are
corrupted which neither if they were supremely good nor unless they were
good could be corrupted. Ah, curse you! That's saint Augustine.
-- Why will you jews not accept our culture, our religion and our
language? You are a tribe of nomad herdsmen; we are a mighty people. You
have no cities nor no wealth: our cities are hives of humanity and our
galleys, trireme and quadrireme, laden with all manner merchandise furrow
the waters of the known globe. You have but emerged from primitive
conditions: we have a literature, a priesthood, an agelong history and a
polity.
Nile.
Child, man, effigy.
By the Nilebank the babemaries kneel, cradle of bulrushes: a man supple
in combat: stonehorned, stonebearded, heart of stone.
-- You pray to a local and obscure idol: our temples, majestic and
mysterious, are the abodes of Isis and Osiris, of Horus and Ammon Ra. Yours
serfdom, awe and humbleness: ours thunder and the seas. Israel is weak and
few are her children: Egypt is an host and terrible are her arms. Vagrants
and daylabourers are you called: the world trembles at our name.
A dumb belch of hunger cleft his speech. He lifted his voice above it
boldly:
-- But, ladies and gentlemen, had the youthful Moses listened to and
accepted that view of life, had he bowed his head and bowed his will and
bowed his spirit before that arrogant admonition he would never have brought
the chosen people out of their house of bondage nor followed the pillar of
the cloud by day. He would never have spoken with the Eternal amid
lightnings on Sinai's mountaintop nor ever have come down with the light of
inspiration shining in his countenance and bearing in his arms the tables of
the law, graven in the language of the outlaw.
He ceased and looked at them, enjoying silence.
Ominous - for Him!
J.J. O'Molloy said not without regret:
-- And yet he died without having entered the land of promise.
-- A sudden - at - the - moment - though - from - lingering - illness -
often - previously - expectorated - demise, Lenehan said. And with a great
future behind him.
The troop of bare feet was heard rushing along the hallway and
pattering up the staircase.
-- That is oratory, the professor said, uncontradicted.
Gone with the wind. Hosts at Mullaghmast and Tara of the kings. Miles
of ears of porches. The tribune's words howled and scattered to the four
winds. A people sheltered within his voice. Dead noise. Akasic records of
all that ever anywhere wherever was. Love and laud him: me no more
I have money.
-- Gentlemen, Stephen said. As the next motion on the agenda paper may
I suggest that the house do now adjourn?
-- You take my breath away. It is not perchance a French compliment? Mr
O'Madden Burke asked. 'Tis the hour, methinks, when the winejug,
metaphorically speaking, is most grateful in Ye ancient hostelry.
-- That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved. All who are in favour
say ay, Lenehan announced. The contrary no. I declare it carried. To which
particular boosing shed?... My casting vote is: Mooney's!
He led the way, admonishing:
-- We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, will we not?
Yes, we will not. By no manner of means.
Mr O'Madden Burke, following close, said with an ally's lunge of his
umbrella:
-- Lay on, Macduff!
-- Chip of the old block! the editor cried, slapping Stephen on the
shoulder. Let us go. Where are those blasted keys?
He fumbled in his pocket, pulling out the crushed typesheets.
-- Foot and mouth. I know. That'll be all right. That'll go
in. Where are they? That's all right.
He thrust the sheets back and went into the inner office.
Let Us Hope
J.J. O'Molloy, about to follow him in, said quietly to Stephen:
-- I hope you will live to see it published. Myles, one moment.
He went into the inner office, closing the door behind him.
-- Come along, Stephen, the professor said. That is fine, isn't it? It
has the prophetic vision. Fuit Ilium! The sack of windy Troy. Kingdoms of
this world. The masters of the Mediterranean are fellaheen today.
The first newsboy came pattering down the stairs at their heels and
rushed out into the street, yelling:
-- Racing special!
Dublin. I have much, much to learn.
They turned to the left along Abbey street.
-- I have a vision too, Stephen said.
-- Yes, the professor said, skipping to get into step. Crawford will
follow.
Another newsboy shot past them, yelling as he ran:
-- Racing special!
Dear Dirty Dublin
Dubliners.
-- Two Dublin vestals, Stephen said, elderly and pious, have lived
fifty and fiftythree years in Fumbally's lane.
-- Where is that? the professor asked.
-- Off Blackpitts.
Damp night reeking of hungry dough. Against the wall. Face glistening
tallow under her fustian shawl. Frantic hearts. Akasic records. Quicker,
darlint!
On now. Dare it. Let there be life.
-- They want to see the views of Dublin from the top of Nelson's
pillar. They save up three and tenpence in a red tin letterbox moneybox.
They shake out the threepenny bits and a sixpence and coax out the pennies
with the blade of a knife. Two and three in silver and one and seven in
coppers. They put on their bonnets and best clothes and take their umbrellas
for fear it may come on to rain.
-- Wise virgins, professor MacHugh said.
Life on the Raw
-- They buy one and fourpenceworth of brawn and four slices of panloaf
at the north city dining rooms in Marlborough street from Miss Kate Collins,
proprietress... They purchase-our and twenty ripe plums from a girl at the
foot of Nelson's pillar to take off the thirst of the brawn. They give two
threepenny bits to the gentleman at the turnstile and begin to waddle slowly
up the winding staircase, grunting, encouraging each other, afraid of the
dark, panting, one asking the other have you the brawn, praising God and the
Blessed Virgin, threatening to come down, peeping at the airslits. Glory be
to God. They had no idea it was that high.
Their names are Anne Kearns and Florence MacCabe. Anne Kearns has the
lumbago for which she rubs on Lourdes water given her by a lady who got a
bottleful from a passionist father. Florence MacCabe takes a crubeen and a
bottle of double X for supper every Saturday.
-- Antithesis, the professor said, nodding twice. Vestal virgins. I can
see them. What's keeping our friend?
He turned.
A bevy of scampering newsboys rushed down the steps, scampering in all
directions, yelling, their white papers fluttering. Hard after them Myles
Crawford appeared on the steps, his hat aureoling his scarlet face, talking
with J.J. O'Molloy.
-- Come along, the professor cried, waving his arm.
He set off again to walk by Stephen's side.
Return of Bloom
-- Yes, he said. I see them.
-- Mr Bloom, breathless, caught in a whirl of wild newsboys near the
offices of the Irish Catholic and Dublin Penny Journal, called:
-- Mr Crawford! A moment!
-- Telegraph! Racing special!
-- What is it? Myles Crawford said, falling back a pace. A newsboy
cried in Mr Bloom's face:
-- Terrible tragedy in Rathmines! A child bit by a bellows!
Interview with the Editor
Just this ad, Mr Bloom said, pushing through towards the steps,
puffing, and taking the cutting from his pocket. I spoke with Mr Keyes just
now. He'll give a renewal for two months, he says. After he'll see. But he
wants a par to call attention in the Telegraph too, the Saturday pink. And
he wants it if it's not too late I told councillor Nannetti from the
Kilkenny People. I can have access to it in the national library. House of
keys, don't you see? His name is Keyes. It's a play on the name. But he
practically promised he'd give the renewal. But he wants just a little puff.
What will I tell him, Mr Crawford?
K. M. A.
Will you tell him he can kiss my arse? Myles Crawford said, throwing
out his arm for emphasis. Tell him that straight from the stable.
A bit nervy. Look out for squalls. All off for a drink. Arm in arm.
Lenehan's yachting cap on the cadge beyond. Usual blarney. Wonder is that
young Dedalus the moving spirit. Has a good pair of boots on him today. Last
time I saw him he had his heels on view. Been walking in muck somewhere.
Careless chap. What was he doing in Irishtown?
-- Well, Mr Bloom said, his eyes returning, if I can get the design I
suppose it's worth a short par. He'd give the ad I think. I'll tell him...
-- He can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles Crawford cried loudly over
his shoulder. Any time he likes, tell him.
While Mr Bloom stood weighing the point and about to smile he strode on
jerkily.
Raising the Wind
-- Nulla bona, Jack, he said, raising his hand to his chin. I'm up to
here. I've been through the hoop myself. I was looking for a fellow to back
a bill for me no later than last week. You must take the will for the deed.
Sorry, Jack. With a heart and a half if I could raise the wind anyhow.
J. J. O'Molloy pulled a long face and walked on silently. They caught
up on the others and walked abreast.
-- When they have eaten the brawn and the bread and wiped their twenty
fingers in the paper the beard was wrapped in, they go nearer to the
railings.
-- Something for you, the professor explained to Myles Crawford. Two
old Dublin women on the top of Nelson's pillar.
Some Column! - That's What Waddler One Said
-- That's new, Myles Crawford said. That's copy. Out for the waxies'
Dargle. Two old trickies, what?
-- But they are afraid the pillar will fall, Stephen went on. They see
the roofs and argue about where the different churches are: Rathmines' blue
dome, Adam and Eve's, saint Laurence O'Toole's. But it makes them giddy to
look so they pull up their skirts...
Those Slightly Rambunctious Females
-- Easy all, Myles Crawford said, no poetic licence. We're in the
archdiocese here.
-- And settle down on their striped petticoats, peering up at the
statue of the onehandled adulterer.
-- Onehandled adulterer! the professor cried. I like that. I see the
idea. I see what you mean.
Dames Donate Dublin's Cits Speedpills Velocitous Aeroliths, Belief
-- It gives them a crick in their necks, Stephen said, and they are too
tired to look up or down or to speak. They put the bag of plums between them
and eat the plums out of it one after another, wiping off with their
handkerchiefs the plumjuice that dribbles out of their mouths and spitting
the plumstones slowly out between the railings.
He gave a sudden loud young laugh as a close. Lenehan and Mr O'Madden
Burke, hearing, turned, beckoned and led on across towards Mooney's.
-- Finished? Myles Crawford said. So long as they do no worse.
Sophist Wallops Haughty Helen Square on Proboscis. Spartans Gnash
Molars. Ithacans Vow Pen is Champ
-- You remind me of Antisthenes, the professor said, a disciple of
Gorgias, the sophist. It is said of him that none could tell if he were
bitterer against others or against himself. He was the son of a noble and a
bondwoman. And he wrote a book in which he took away the palm of beauty from
Argive Helen and handed it to poor Penelope.
Poor Penelope. Penelope Rich.
They made ready to cross O'Connell street.
Hello There, Central!
At various points along the eight lines tramcars with motionless
trolleys stood in their tracks, bound for or from Rathmines, Rathfarnham,
Blackrock, Kingstown and Dalkey, Sandymount Green, Ringsend and Sandymount
Tower, Donnybrook, Palmerston Park and Upper Rathmines, all still, becalmed
in short circuit. Hackney cars, cabs, delivery waggons, mail-vans, private
broughams, aerated mineral water floats with rattling crates of bottles,
rattled, lolled, horsedrawn, rapidly.
What? - and Likewise - Where?
-- But what do you call it? Myles Crawford asked. Where did they get
the plums?
Virgilian, Says Pedagogue. Sophomore Plumps for Old Man Moses
-- Call it, wait, the professor said, opening his long lips wide to
reflect. Call it, let me see. Call it: deus nobis hc otia fecit.
-- No, Stephen said, I call it A Pisgah Sight of Palestine or the
Parable of the Plums.
-- I see, the professor said.
He laughed richly.
-- I see, he said again with new pleasure. Moses and the promised land.
We gave him that idea, he added to J. J. O'Molloy.
Horatio is Cynosure this Fair June Day
J. J. O'Molloy sent a weary sidelong glance cowards the statue and held
his peace.
-- I see, the professor said.
He halted on sir John Gray's pavement island and peered aloft at Nelson
through the meshes of his wry smile.
Diminished Digits Prove Too Titillating for Frisky Frumps. Anne
Wimbles, Flo Wangles - Yet Can You Blame Them?
-- Onehandled adulterer, he said grimly. That tickles me I must say. --
Tickled the old ones too, Myles Crawford said, if the God Almighty's truth
was known.

Ulysses 8: Lestrygonians

PINEAPPLE ROCK, LEMON PLATT, BUTTER SCOTCH. A SUGARSTICKY GIRL
shovelling scoopfuls of creams for a christian brother. Some school treat.
Bad for their tummies. Lozenge and comfit manufacturer to His Majesty the
King. God. Save. Our. Sitting on his throne, sucking red jujubes white.
A sombre Y.M.C.A. young man, watchful among the warm sweet fumes of
Graham Lemon's, placed a throwaway in a hand of Mr Bloom.
Heart to heart talks.
Bloo... Me? No.
Blood of the Lamb.
His slow feet walked him riverward, reading. Are you saved? All are
washed in the blood of the lamb. God wants blood victim. Birth, hymen,
martyr, war, foundation of a building, sacrifice, kidney burntoffering,
druid's altars. Elijah is coming. Dr John Alexander Dowie, restorer of the
church in Zion, is coming.
Is coming! Is coming!! Is coming!!!
All heartily welcome.
Paying game. Torry and Alexander last year. Polygamy. His wife will put
the stopper on that. Where was that ad some Birmingham firm the luminous
crucifix? Our Saviour. Wake up in the dead of night and see him on the wall,
hanging. Pepper's ghost idea. Iron nails ran in.
Phosphorus it must be done with. If you leave a bit of codfish for
instance. I could see the bluey silver over it. Night I went down to the
pantry in the kitchen. Don't like all the smells in it waiting to rush out.
What was it she wanted? The Malaga raisins. Thinking of Spain. Before Rudy
was born. The phosphorescence, that bluey greeny. Very good for the brain.
>From Butler's monument house corner he glanced along Bachelor's walk.
Dedalus' daughter there still outside Dillon's auctionrooms. Must be selling
off some old furniture. Knew her eyes at once from the father. Lobbing about
waiting for him. Home always breaks up when the mother goes. Fifteen
children he had. Birth every year almost. That's in their theology or the
priest won't give the poor woman the confession, the absolution. Increase
and multiply. Did you ever hear such an idea? Eat you out of house and home.
No families themselves to feed. Living on the fat of the land. Their
butteries and larders. I'd like to see them do the black fast Yom Kippur.
Crossbuns. One meal and a collation for fear he'd collapse on the altar. A
housekeeper of one of those fellows If you could pick it out of her. Never
pick it out of her. Like getting L. s. d. out of him. Does himself well. No
guests. All for number one. Watching his water. Bring your own bread and
butter. His reverence. Mum's the word.
Good Lord, that poor child's dress is in flitters. Underfed she looks
too. Potatoes and marge, marge and potatoes. It's after they feel it. Proof
of the pudding. Undermines the constitution.
As he set foot on O'Connell bridge a puffball of smoke plumed up from
the parapet. Brewery barge with export stout. England. Sea air sours it, I
heard. Be interesting some day get a pass through Hancock to see the
brewery. Regular world in itself. Vats of porter, wonderful. Rats get in
too. Drink themselves bloated as big as a collie floating. Dead drunk on the
porter. Drink till they puke again like christians. Imagine drinking that!
Rats: vats. Well of course if we knew all the things.
Looking down he saw flapping strongly, wheeling between the gaunt quay
walls, gulls. Rough weather outside. If I threw myself down? Reuben J's son
must have swallowed a good bellyful of that sewage. One and eightpence too
much. Hhhhm. It's the droll way he comes out with the things. Knows how to
tell a story too.
They wheeled lower. Looking for grub. Wait.
He threw down among them a crumpled paper ball. Elijah thirtytwo feet
per sec is com. Not a bit. The ball bobbed unheeded on the wake of swells,
floated under by the bridge piers. Not such damn fools. Also the day I threw
that stale cake out of the Erin's King picked it up in the wake fifty yards
astern. Live by their wits. They wheeled, flapping.
The hungry famished gull
Flaps o'er the waters dull.
That is how poets write, the similar sounds. But then Shakespeare has
no rhymes: blank verse. The flow of the language it is. The thoughts.
Solemn.
Hamlet, I am thy father's spirit
Doomed for a certain time to walk the earth.
-- Two apples a penny! Two for a penny!
His gaze passed over the glazed apples serried on her stand.
Australians they must be this time of year. Shiny peels: polishes them up
with a rag or a handkerchief.
Wait. Those poor birds.
He halted again and bought from the old applewoman two Banbury cakes
for a penny and broke the brittle paste and threw its fragments down into
the Liffey. See that? The gulls swooped silently two, then all, from their
heights, pouncing on prey. Gone. Every morsel.
Aware of their greed and cunning he shook the powdery crumb from his
hands. They never expected that. Manna. Live on fishy flesh they have to,
all sea birds, gulls, seagoose. Swans from Anna Liffey swim down here
sometimes to preen themselves. No accounting for tastes. Wonder what kind is
swanmeat. Robinson Crusoe had to live on them.
They wheeled, flapping weakly. I'm not going to throw any more. Penny
quite enough. Lot of thanks I get. Not even a caw. They spread foot and
mouth disease too. If you cram a turkey, say, on chestnut meal it tastes
like that. Eat pig like pig. But then why is it that saltwater fish are not
salty? How is that?
His eyes sought answer from the river and saw a rowboat rock at anchor
on the treacly swells lazily its plastered board.
Kino's
11/-
Trousers.
Good idea that. Wonder if he pays rent to the corporation. How can you
own water really? It's always flowing in a stream, never the same, which in
the stream of life we trace. Because life is a stream. All kind of places
are good for ads. That quack doctor for the clap used to be stuck up in all
the greenhouses. Never see it now. Strictly confidential. Dr Hy Franks.
Didn't cost him a red like Maginni the dancing master self advertisement.
Got fellows to stick them up or stick them up himself for that matter on the
q.t. running in to loosen a button. Fly by night. Just the place too. POST
NO BILLS. POST 110 PILLS. Some chap with a dose burning him.
If he...
O!
Eh?
No... No.
No, no. I don't believe it. He wouldn't surely?
No, no.
Mr Bloom moved forward raising his troubled eyes. Think no more about
that. After one. Timeball on the ballast office is down. Dunsink time.
Fascinating little book that is of sir Robert Ball's. Parallax. I never
exactly understood. There's a priest. Could ask him. Par it's Greek:
parallel, parallax. Met him pikehoses she called it till I told her about
the transmigration. O rocks!
Mr Bloom smiled O rocks at two windows of the ballast office. She's
right after all. Only big words for ordinary things on account of the sound.
She's not exactly witty. Can be rude too. Blurt out what I was thinking.
Still I don't know. She used to say Ben Dollard had a base barreltone voice.
He has legs like barrels and you'd think he was singing into a barrel. Now,
isn't that wit? They used to call him big Ben. Not half as witty as calling
him base barreltone. Appetite like an albatross. Get outside of a baron of
beef. Powerful man he was at storing away number one Bass. Barrel of Bass.
See? it all works out.
A procession of whitesmocked men marched slowly towards him along the
gutter, scarlet sashes across their boards. Bargains. Like that priest they
are this morning: we have sinned: we have suffered. He read the scarlet
letters on their five tall white hats: H. E. L. Y. S. Wisdom Hely's. Y
lagging behind drew a chunk of bread from under his foreboard, crammed it
into his mouth and munched as he walked. Our staple food. Three bob a day,
walking along the gutters, street after street. Just keep skin and bone
together, bread and skilly. They are not Boyl: no: M'Glade's men. Doesn't
bring in any business either. I suggested to him about a transparent show
cart with two smart girls sitting inside writing letters, copybooks,
envelopes, blotting paper. I bet that would have caught on. Smart girls
writing something catch the eye at once. Everyone dying to know what she's
writing. Get twenty of them round you if you stare at nothing. Have a finger
in the pie. Women too. Curiosity. Pillar of salt, Wouldn't have it of course
because he didn't think of it himself first. Or the inkbottle I suggested
with a false stain of black celluloid. His ideas for ads like Plumtree's
potted under the obituaries, cold meat department. You can't lick 'em. What?
Our envelopes. Hello! Jones, where are you going? Can't stop, Robinson, I am
hastening to purchase the only reliable inkeraser Kansell, sold by Hely's
Ltd, 85 Dame Street. Well out of that ruck I am. Devil of a job it was
collecting accounts of those convents. Tranquilla convent. That was a nice
nun there, really sweet face. Wimple suited her small head. Sister? Sister?
I am sure she was crossed in love by her eyes. Very hard to bargain with
that sort of woman. I disturbed her at her devotions that morning. But glad
to communicate with the outside world. Our great day, she said. Feast of Our
Lady of Mount Carmel. Sweet name too: caramel. She knew, I think she knew by
the way she. If she had married she would have changed. I suppose they
really were short of money. Fried everything in the best butter all the
same. No lard for them. My heart's broke eating dripping. They like
buttering themselves in and out. Molly tasting it, her veil up. Sister? Pat
Claffey, the pawnbroker's daughter. It was a nun they say invented barbed
wire.
He crossed Westmoreland street when apostrophe S had plodded by. Rover
cycleshop. Those races are on today. How long ago is that? Year Phil
Gilligan died. We were in Lombard street west. Wait, was in Thom's. Got the
job in Wisdom Hely's year we married. Six years. Ten years ago: ninetyfour
he died, yes that's right, the big fire at Arnott's. Val Dillon was lord
mayor. The Glencree dinner. Alderman Robert O'Reilly emptying the port into
his soup before the flag fell, Bobbob lapping it for the inner alderman.
Couldn't hear what the band played. For what we have already received may
the Lord make us. Milly was a kiddy then. Molly had that elephantgrey dress
with the braided frogs. Mantailored with self-covered buttons. She didn't
like it because I sprained my ankle first day she wore choir picnic at the
Sugarloaf. As if that. Old Goodwin's tall hat done up with some sticky
stuff. Flies' picnic too. Never put a dress on her back like it. Fitted her
like a glove, shoulder and hips. Just beginning to plump it out well. Rabbit
pie we had that day. People looking after her.
Happy. Happier then. Snug little room that was with the red wallpaper,
Dockrell's, one and ninepence a dozen. Milly's tubbing night. American soap
I bought: elderflower. Cosy smell of her bathwater. Funny she looked soaped
all over. Shapely too. Now photography. Poor papa's daguerreotype atelier he
told me of. Hereditary taste.
He walked along the curbstone.
Stream of life. What was the name of that priestylooking chap was
always squinting in when he passed? Weak eyes, woman. Stopped in Citron's
saint Kevin's parade. Pen something. Pendennis? My memory is getting. Pen...
? Of course it's years ago. Noise of the trams probably. Well, if he
couldn't remember the dayfather's name that he sees every day.
Bartell d'Arcy was the tenor, just coming out then. Seeing her home
after practice. Conceited fellow with his waxedup moustache. Gave her that
song Winds that blow from the south.
Windy night that was I went to fetch her there was that lodge meeting
on about those lottery tickets after Goodwin's concert in the supper room or
oakroom of the mansion house. He and I behind. Sheet of her music blew out
of my hand against the high school railings. Lucky it didn't. Thing like
that spoils the effect of a night for her. Professor Goodwin linking her in
front. Shaky on his pins, poor old sot. His farewell concerts. Positively
last appearance on any stage. May be for months and may be for never.
Remember her laughing at the wind, her blizzard collar up. Corner of
Harcourt road remember that gust? Brrfoo! Blew up all her skirts and her boa
nearly smothered old Goodwin. She did get flushed in the wind. Remember when
we got home raking up the fire and frying up those pieces of lap of mutton
for her supper with the Chutney sauce she liked. And the mulled rum. Could
see her in the bedroom from the hearth unclamping the busk of her stays.
White.
Swish and soft flop her stays made on the bed. Always warm from her.
Always liked to let herself out. Sitting there after till near two, taking
out her hairpins. Milly tucked up in beddyhouse. Happy. Happy. That was the
night.
-- O, Mr Bloom, how do you do?
-- Oh, how do you do, Mrs Breen?
-- No use complaining. How is Molly those times? Haven't seen her for
ages.
-- In the pink, Mr Bloom said gaily, Milly has a position down in
Mullingar, you know.
-- Go away! Isn't that grand for her?
-- Yes, in a photographer's there. Getting on like a house on fire. How
are all your charges?
-- All on the baker's list, Mrs Breen said.
How many has she? No other in sight.
-- You're in black I see. You have no...
-- No, Mr Bloom said. I have just come from a funeral.
Going to crop up all day, I foresee. Who's dead, when and what did he
die of? Turn up like a bad penny.
-- o dear me, Mrs Breen said, I hope it wasn't any near relation.
May as well get her sympathy.
-- Dignam, Mr Bloom said. An old friend of mine. He died quite
suddenly, poor fellow. Heart trouble, I believe. Funeral was this morning.
Your funeral's tomorrow
While you're coming through the rye.
Diddlediddle dumdum
Diddlediddle...
-- Sad to lose the old friends, Mrs Breen's womaneyes said
melancholily.
Now that's quite enough about that. Just quietly: husband.
-- And your lord and master?
Mrs Breen turned up her two large eyes. Hasn't lost them anyhow.
-- O, don't be talking, she said. He's a caution to rattlesnakes. He's
in there now with his lawbooks finding out the law of libel. He has me
heartscalded. Wait till I show you.
Hot mockturtle vapour and steam of newbaked jampuffs rolypoly poured
out from Harrison's. The heavy noonreek tickled the top of Mr Bloom's
gullet. Want to make good pastry, butter, best flour, Demerara sugar, or
they'd taste it with the hot tea. Or is it from her? A barefoot arab stood
over the grating, breathing in the fumes. Deaden the gnaw of hunger that
way. Pleasure or pain is it? Penny dinner. Knife and fork chained to the
table.
Opening her handbag, chipped leather, hatpin: ought to have a guard on
those things. Stick it in a chap's eye in the tram. Rummaging. Open. Money.
Please take one. Devils if they lose sixpence. Raise Cain. Husband barging.
Where's the ten shillings I gave you on Monday? Are you feeding your little
brother's family? Soiled handkerchief: medicinebottle. Pastile that was
fell. What is she?...
-- There must be a new moon out, she said. He's always bad then. Do you
know what he did last night?
Her hand ceased to rummage. Her eyes fixed themselves on him wide in
alarm, yet smiling.
-- What? Mr Bloom asked.
Let her speak. Look straight in her eyes. I believe you. Trust me.
-- Woke me up in the night, she said. Dream he had, a nightmare.
Indiges.
-- Said the ace of spades was walking up the stairs.
-- The ace of spades! Mr Bloom said.
She took a folded postcard from her handbag.
-- Read that, she said. He got it this morning.
-- What is it? Mr Bloom asked, taking the card. U.P.?
-- U.P.: up, she said. Someone taking a rise out of him. It's a great
shame for them whoever he is.
-- Indeed it is, Mr Bloom said.
She took back the card, sighing.
-- And now he's going round to Mr Menton's office. He's going to take
an action for ten thousand pounds, he says.
She folded the card into her untidy bag and snapped the catch.
Same blue serge dress she had two years ago, the nap bleaching. Seen
its best days. Wispish hair over her ears. And that dowdy toque, three old
grapes to take the harm out of it. Shabby genteel. She used to be a tasty
dresser. Lines round her mouth. Only a year or so older than Molly.
See the eye that woman gave her, passing. Cruel. The unfair sex.
He looked still at her, holding back behind his look his discontent.
Pungent mockturtle oxtail mulligatawny. I'm hungry too. Flakes of pastry on
the gusset of her dress: daub of sugary flour stuck to her cheek. Rhubarb
tart with liberal fillings, rich fruit interior. Josie Powell that was. In
Luke Doyle's long ago, Dolphin's Barn, the charades. U.P.: up.
Change the subject.
-- Do you ever see anything of Mrs Beaufoy, Mr Bloom asked.
-- Mina Purefoy? she said.
Philip Beaufoy I was thinking. Playgoers' club. Matcham often thinks of
the masterstroke. Did I pull the chain? Yes. The last act.
-- Yes.
-- I just called to ask on the way in is she over it. She's in the
lying-in hospital in Holles street. Dr Horne got her in. She's three days
bad now.
-- O, Mr Bloom said. I'm sorry to hear that.
-- Yes, Mrs Breen said. And a houseful of kids at home. It's a very
stiff birth, the nurse told me.
-- O, Mr Bloom said.
His heavy pitying gaze absorbed her news. His tongue clacked in
compassion. Dth! Dth!
-- I'm sorry to hear that, he said. Poor thing! Three days! That's