IN THE HEART OF THE HIBERNIAN
METROPOLIS
BEFORE Nelson's pillar trams
slowed, shunted, changed trolley. started for Blackrock,
- Rathgar
and Terenure!
- Come on, Sandymount Green!
Right and left parallel
clanging ringing a double-decker and a single-deck moved from their railheads,
swerved to the down line, glided parallel.
- Start, Palmerston park!
THE WEARER OF THE CROWN
Under the porch of the
general post office showblacks called and
polished. Parked in North Prince's
street His Majesty's vermilion mailcars, bearing on
their sides the royal initials, E. R., received loudly flung sacks of letters,
postcards, lettercards, parcels, insured and paid, for local, provincial,
British and overseas delivery.
GENTLEMEN OF THE PRESS
Grossbooted
draymen rolled barrels dullthudding out of Prince's
stores and bumped them on the brewery float.
On the brewery float bumped dullthudding
barrels rolled by grossbooted draymen out of Prince's
stores.
- There it is, Red
Murray said. Alexander Keyes.
- Just cut it out, will
you? Mr Bloom said, and I'll take it round to the Telegraph office.
The door of Ruttledge's office creaked again. Davy Stephens, minute in a large capecoat, a small felt hat crowning his ringlets, passed
out with a roll of papers under his cape, a king's courier.
Red Murray's long
shears sliced out the advertisement from the newspaper in four clean
strokes. Scissors and
paste.
- I'll go through the
printing works, Mr Bloom said, taking the cut square.
- Of course, if he want a par, Red Murray said earnestly, a pen behind his ear,
we can do him one.
- Right, Mr Bloom said
with a nod. I'll rub that in.
WILLIAM BRAYDEN, ESQUIRE, OF
OAKLANDS, SANDYMOUNT
Red Murray touched Mr
Bloom's arm with the shears and whispered:
- Brayden.
Mr Bloom turned and saw
the liveried porter raise his lettered cap as a stately figure entered between
the newsboards of the Weekly Freeman and National
Press and the Freeman's Journal and National Press. Dullthudding Guinness's barrels.
It passed stately up the staircase steered by an umbrella, a solemn beardframed face.
The broadcloth back ascended each step: back. All his brains are in the nape of his neck,
Simon Dedalus says.
Welts of flesh behind on him. Fat folds of neck, fat, neck, fat, neck.
- Don't you think his
face is like Our Saviour? Red Murray whispered.
The door of Ruttledge's office whispered: ee:
cree. They always build one door opposite another
for the wind to. Way in. Way out.
Our Saviour: beardframed oval face.
Talking in the dusk Mary, Martha.
Steered by an umbrella sword to the footlights: Mario
the tenor.
- Or like Mario, Mr
Bloom said.
- Yes, Red Murray
agreed. But Mario was said to be the
picture of Our Saviour.
Jesus
Mario with rougy cheeks, doublet and spindle legs. Hand on his heart. In Martha.
Co-ome thou lost
one,
Co-ome
thou dear one.
THE CROZIER AND THE PEN
- His grace phoned down
twice this morning, Red Murray said gravely.
They watched the knees,
legs, boots vanish. Neck.
A telegram boy stepped
in nimbly, threw an envelope on the counter and stepped off posthaste
with a word.
- Freeman!
Mr Bloom said slowly:
- Well, he is one of
our saviours also.
A meek smile
accompanied him as he lifted the counterflap, as he
passed in through the sidedoor and along the warm
dark stairs and passage, along the now reverberating boards. But will he save the circulation? Thumping, thumping.
He pushed in the glass swingdoor and entered, stepping over strewn packing
paper. Through a lane of clanking drums
he made his way towards Nannetti's reading closet.
WITH UNFEIGNED REGRET IT IS WE
ANNOUNCE
THE DISSOLUTION OF A MOST
RESPECTED DUBLIN BURGESS
Hynes here too: account
of the funeral probably. Thumping thump. This morning the remains of the late Mr Patrick Dignam. Machines. Smash a man to atoms if they got him
caught. Rule the world today. His machineries are pegging away too. Like these, got out of hand: fermenting. Working away, tearing away. And that old grey rat
tearing to get in.
HOW A GREAT DAILY ORGAN IS
TURNED OUT
Mr Bloom halted behind
the foreman's spare body, admiring a glossy crown.
Strange he never saw
his real country.
The machines clanked in
threefour time.
Thump, thump, thump. Now if he
got paralysed there and no-one knew how to stop them they'd clank on and on the
same, print it over and over and up and back.
Monkeydoodle the whole thing.
Want a cool head.
- Well, get it into the
evening edition, councillor, Hynes said.
Soon be called him my
lord mayor. Long John is backing him
they say.
The foreman, without
answering, scribbled press on a corner of the sheet and made a sign to a
typesetter. He handed the sheet silently
over the dirty glass screen.
- Right: thanks, Hynes
said moving off.
Mr Bloom stood in his
way.
- If you want to draw
the cashier is just going to lunch, he said, pointing backward with his thumb.
- Did you? Hynes asked.
- Mm, Mr Bloom
said. Look sharp and you'll catch him.
- Thanks, old man,
Hynes said. I'll tap him too.
He hurried on eagerly
towards the Freeman's Journal.
Three bob I leant him
in Meagher's.
Three weeks. Third
hint.
WE SEE THE CANVASSER AT WORK
Mr Bloom laid his
cutting on Mr Nannetti's desk.
- Excuse me,
councillor, he said. This ad, you
see. Keyes, you remember.
Mr Nannetti
considered the cutting a while and nodded.
- He wants it for July,
Mr Bloom said.
He doesn't hear
it. Nannan. Iron nerves.
The foreman moved his
pencil towards it.
- But wait, Mr Bloom
said. He wants it changed. Keyes, you see. He wants two keys at the top.
Hell of a racket they
make. Maybe he understands when I.
The foreman turned
round to hear patiently and, lifting an elbow, began to scratch slowly in the
armpit of his alpaca jacket.
Like that, Mr Bloom
said, crossing his forefingers at the top.
Let him take that in
first.
Mr Bloom, glancing
sideways up from the cross he had made, saw the foreman's sallow face, think he
has a touch of jaundice, and beyond the obedient reels feeding in huge webs of
paper. Clank it. Clank it.
Miles of it unreeled. What becomes of it after? O, wrap up meat, parcels: various uses,
thousand and one things.
Slipping his words
deftly into the pauses of the clanking he drew swiftly on the scarred-woodwork.
HOUSE OF KEY(E)S
- Like that, see. Two crossed keys here. A circle. Then here the name
Alexander Keyes, tea, wine and spirit merchant. So on.
Better not teach him
his own business.
- You know yourself,
councillor, just what he wants. Then
round the top in leaded: the house of keys.
You see? Do you think that's a
good idea?
The foreman moved his
scratching hand to his lower ribs and scratched there quietly.
- The idea, Mr Bloom
said, is the house of keys. You know,
councillor, the Manx parliament. Innuendo of home rule.
Tourists, you know, from the isle of Man. Catches the eye, you see. Can you do that?
I could ask him perhaps
about how to pronounce that 'voglio'. But then if he didn't know only make it
awkward for him. Better not.
- We can do that, the
foreman said. Have you the design?
- I can get it, Mr
Bloom said. It was in a Kilkenny
paper. He has a house there too. I'll just run out and ask him. Well, you can do that and just a little par
calling attention. You know the
usual. High class licensed premises. Longfelt want. So on.
The foreman thought for
an instant.
- We can do that, he
said. Let him give us a three months'
renewal.
A typesetter brought
him a limp galleypage. He began to check it silently. Mr Bloom stood by, hearing the loud throbs of
cranks, watching the silent typesetters at their cases.
Want to be sure of his
spelling. Proof fever. Martin Cunningham forgot to give us his spellingbee conumdrum this
morning. It is amusing to view the unpar one ar alleled
embarra two ars is it? Double ess
ment of a harassed pedlar
while gauging au the symmetry of a peeled pear under a cemetery wall. Silly, isn't it? Cemetery put in of course on account of the
symmetry.
I could have said when
he clapped on his topper. Thank
you. I ought to have said something
about an old hat or something. No, I
could have said. Looks
as good as new now. See his phiz then.
Sllt. The nethermost deck of the first machine
jogged forwards its flyboard with sllt
the first batch of quirefolded papers. Sllt. Almost
human the way it sllt to call attention. Doing its level best to
speak. That door too sllt creaking, asking to be shut. Everything speaks in its own way. Sllt.
NOTED CHURCHMAN AN OCCASIONAL
CONTRIBUTOR
The foreman handed back
the galleypage suddenly, saying:
- Wait. Where's the archbishop's letter? It's to be repeated in the Telegraph. Where's what's his name?
He looked about him
round his loud unanswering machines.
- Monks, sir? a voice asked from the castingbox.
- Ay. Where's Monks?
- Monks!
Mr Bloom took up his
cutting. Time to get
out.
- Then I'll get the
design, Mr Nannetti, he said, and you'll give it a
good place I know.
- Monks!
- Yes, sir.
Three
months' renewal. Want to get some
wind off my chest first. Try it
anyhow. Rub in August: good idea:
horseshow month. Ballsbridge. Tourists over for the show.
A DAYFATHER
He walked on through
the caseroom, passing an old man, bowed, spectacled, aproned. Old Monks, the dayfather.
Queer lot of stuff he must have put through his hands in his time:
obituary notices, pubs' ads, speeches, divorce suits, found drowned. Nearing the end of his
tether now. Sober serious man
with a bit in the savings-bank I'd say. Wife a good cook and washer.
Daughter working the machine in the parlour. Plain Jane, no damn
nonsense.
AND IT WAS THE FEAST OF THE
PASSOVER
He stayed in his walk
to watch a typesetter neatly distributing type.
Reads it backwards first. Quickly he does it. Must require some practice that. mangiD. kcirtaP. Poor papa with his hagadar book, reading backwards with his finger to me. Pessach. Next
year in
Mr Bloom passed on out
of the clanking noises through the gallery on to the landing. Now am I going to tram it out all the way and
then catch him out perhaps? Better phone
him up first. Number? Same as Citron's house. Twentyeight. Twentyeight
double four.
ONLY ONCE MORE THAT SOAP
He went down the house
staircase. Who the deuce scrawled all
over these walls with matches? Looks as
it they did it for a bet. Heavy greasy
smell there always is in those works.
Lukewarm glue in Thom's next door when I was there.
He took out his
handkerchief to dab his nose. Citronlemon? Ah, the soap I put there. Lose it out of that pocket. Putting back his handkerchief he took out the
soap and stowed it away, buttoned into the hip pocket of his trousers.
What perfume does you
wife use? I could go home still: tram:
something I forgot. Just to see before
dressing. No. Here.
No.
A sudden screech of
laughter came from the Evening Telegraph office. Know who that is. What's up?
Pop in a minute to phone. Ned
Lambert it is.
He entered softly.
ERIN, GREEN GEM OF THE
- The ghost walks,
professor MacHugh murmured softly, biscuitfully to the dusty windowpane.
Mr Dedalus,
staring from the empty fireplace at Ned Lambert's quizzing face, asked of it
sourly:
- Agonising Christ,
wouldn't it give you a heartburn on your arse?
Ned Lambert, seated at
the table, read on:
- Or again, note the
meanderings of some purling rill as it babbles on its way, fanned by gentlest
zephyrs tho' quarrelling with the stony obstacles, to
the tumbling waters of Neptune's blue domain, mid mossy banks, played on by the
glorious sunlight or 'neath the shadows cast o'er its
pensive bosom by the overarching leafage of the giants of the forest. What about that, Simon? he asked over the fringe of his newspaper. How's that for high?
- Changing his drink,
Mr Dedalus said.
Ned Lambert, laughing,
struck the newspaper on his knees, repeating:
- The pensive bosom
and the overarsing leafage. O boys!
O boys!
- And Xenophone looked upon Marathon, Mr Dedalus
said, looking again on the fireplace and to the window, and Marathon looked on
the sea.
- That will do,
professor MacHugh cried from the window. I don't want to hear any more of the stuff.
He ate off the crescent
of water biscuit he had been nibbling and, hungered, made ready to nibble the
biscuit in his other hand.
High falutin stuff.
Bladderbags. Ned Lambert is
taking a day off I see. Rather upsets a man's day a funeral
does. He has influence they say. Old Chatterton, the
vice-chancellor, is his granduncle or his greatgranduncle. Close on ninety they say. Subleader for his death written this long time perhaps. Living to spite them. Might go first himself. Johnny, make room for your uncle. The right honourable Hedges Eyre Chatterton. Daresay
he writes him an odd shaky cheque or two on gale days. Windfall when he kicks out. Alleluia.
- Just another spasm,
Ned Lambert said.
- What is it? Mr Bloom
asked.
- A recently discovered
fragment of Cicero's, professor MacHugh answered with
pomp of tone. Our
lovely land.
SHORT BUT TO THE POINT
- Whose land? Mr Bloom
said simply.
- Most pertinent
question, the professor said between his chews.
With an accent on the whose.
- Dan Dawson's land, Mr
Dedalus said.
- Is it his speech last
night? Mr Bloom asked.
Ned Lambert nodded.
- But listen to this,
he said.
The doorknob hit Mr
Bloom in the small of the back as the door was pushed in.
- Excuse me, J.J. O'Molloy said, entering.
Mr Bloom moved nimbly
aside.
- I beg yours, he said.
- Good day, Jack.
- Come in. Come in.
- Good day.
- How are you, Dedalus?
- Well. And yourself?
J.J. O'Molloy shook his head.
SAD
Cleverest fellow at the
junior bar he used to be. Decline poor
chap. That hectic flush spells finis for
a man. Touch and go with him. What's in the wind, I wonder. Money worry.
- Or again if we but
climb the serried mountain peaks.
- You're looking extra.
- Is the editor to be
seen? J.J. O'Molloy asked, looking towards the inner
door.
- Very much so,
professor MacHugh said. To be seen and heard. He's in his sanctum with Lenehan.
J.J. O'Molloy strolled to the sloping desk and began to turn
back the pink pages of the file.
Practice
dwindling. A mighthavebeen.
Losing heart.
Gambling.
Debts of honour. Reaping the whirlwind. Used to get good retainers
from D. and T. Fitzgerald. Their wigs to show their grey matter. Brains on their sleeve like
the statue in Glasnevin. Believe he does some literary work for the Express
with Gabriel Conroy. Wellread fellow. Myles Crawford began on the Independent. Funny the way those newspaper men veer about
when they get wind of a new opening. Weathercocks. Hot and cold in the same breath. Wouldn't know which to
believe. One story good till you
hear the next. Go for one another baldheaded in the papers and then all blows over. Hailfellow well met
the next moment.
- Ah, listen to this
for God's sake, Ned Lambert pleaded. Or
again if we but climb the serried mountain peaks ...
- Bombast! the professor broke in testily. Enough of the inflated windbag!
- Peaks, Ned
Lambert went on, towering high on high, to bathe our souls, as it were ...
- Bathe his lips, Mr Dedalus said.
Blessed and eternal God!
Yes? Is he taking anything for
it?
- As 'twere, in the peerless panorama of Ireland's portfolio,
unmatched, despite their wellpraised prototypes in
other vaunted prize regions, for very beauty, of bosky grove and undulating
plain and luscious pastureland of vernal green, steeped in the transcendent
translucent glow of our mild mysterious Irish twilight ...
HIS NATIVE DORIC
- The moon, professor MacHugh said. He
forgot Hamlet.
- That mantles the
vista far and wide and waits till the glowing orb of the moon shines forth to
irradiate her silver effulgence.
- O! Mr Dedalus cried, giving vent to a hopeless groan, shite and onions!
That'll do, Ned. Life is too short.
He took off his silk
hat and, blowing out impatiently his bushy moustache, welshcombed
his hair with raking fingers.
Ned Lambert tossed the
newspaper aside, chuckling with delight.
An instant after a hoarse bark of laughter burst over professor MacHugh's unshaven blackspectacled
face.
- Doughy Daw! he cried.
WHAT WETHERUP SAID
All very fine to jeer
at it now in cold print but it goes down like hot cake that stuff. He was in the bakery line too wasn't he? Why they call him Doughy Daw. Feathered his nest well
anyhow. Daughter engaged to that
chap in the inland revenue office with the motor. Hooked that nicely. Entertainments open house. Big blow out. Wetherup always
said that. Get a grip of them by the
stomach.
The inner door was
opened violently and a scarlet beaked face, crested by a comb of feathery hair,
thrust itself in. The bold blue eyes
stared about them and the harsh voice asked:
- What is it?
- And here comes the
sham squire himself, professor MacHugh said grandly.
- Getououthat,
you bloody old pedagogue! the editor said in
recognition.
- Come, Ned, Mr Dedalus said, putting on his hat. I must get a drink after that.
- Drink! the editor cried. No
drinks served before mass.
- Quite right too, Mr Dedalus said, going out. Come on, Ned.
Ned Lambert sidled down
from the table. The editor's blue eyes
roved towards Mr Bloom's face, shadowed by a smile.
- Will you join us,
Myles? Ned Lambert asked.
MEMORABLE BATTLES RECALLED
- North Cork militia! the editor cried, striding to the mantelpiece. We won every time! North Cork and Spanish officers!
- Where was that,
Myles? Ned Lambert asked with a reflective glance at his toecaps.
- In Ohio! the editor shouted.
- So it was, begad, Ned Lambert agreed.
Passing out, he
whispered to J.J. O'Molloy:
- Incipient jigs. Sad case.
- Ohio! the editor crowed in high treble from his uplifted scarlet
face. My Ohio!
- A Perfect cretic! the professor said. Long, short and long.
O, HARP EOLIAN
He took a reel of dental
floss from his waistcoat pocket and, breaking off a piece, twanged it smartly
between two and two of his resonant unwashed teeth.
- Bingbang,
bangbang.
Mr Bloom, seeing the
coast clear, made for the inner door.
- Just a moment, Mr
Crawford, he said. I just want to phone
about an ad.
He went in.
- What about that
leader this evening? professor MacHugh
asked, coming to the editor and laying a firm hand on his shoulder.
- That'll be all right,
Myles Crawford said more calmly. Never you fret. Hello,
Jack. That's all right.
- Good day, Myles, J.J.
O'Molloy said, letting the pages he held slip limply
back on the file. Is that Canada swindle
case on today?
The telephone whirred
inside.
- Twenty eight ... No,
twenty ... Double four ... Yes.
SPOT THE WINNER
Lenehan
came out of the inner office with Sports tissues.
- Who wants a dead cert
for the Gold cup? he asked. Sceptre with O. Madden up.
He tossed the tissues
on to the table.
Screams of newsboys
barefoot in the hall rushed near and the door was flung open.
- Hush, Lenehan said. I hear
footsteps.
Professor MacHugh strode across the room and seized the cringing
urchin by the collar as the others scampered out of the hall and down the
steps. The tissues rustled up in the
draught, floated softly in the air blue scrawls and under the table came to
earth.
- It wasn't me,
sir. It was the big fellow shoved me,
sir.
- Throw him out and
shut the door, the editor said. There's
a hurricane blowing.
Lenehan
began to paw the tissues up from the floor, grunting as he stooped twice.
- Waiting for the
racing special, sir, the newsboy said. It was Pat Farrel
shoved me, sir.
He pointed to two faces
peering in round the doorframe.
- Him, sir.
- Out of this with you,
professor MacHugh said gruffly.
He hustled the boy out
and banged the door to.
J.J. O'Molloy turned the files crackingly
over, murmuring, seeking:
- Continued on page
six, column four.
- Yes ... Evening
Telegraph here, Mr Bloom phoned from the inner office. Is the boss? ... Yes, Telegraph ... To
where? ... Aha! Which auction rooms? ...
Aha! I see ... Right. I'll catch him.
A COLLISION ENSUES
The bell whirred again
as he rang off. He came in quickly and
bumped against Lenehan who was struggling up with the
second tissue.
- Pardon, monsieur,
Lenehan said, clutching him for an instant and making
a grimace.
- My fault, Mr Bloom
said, suffering his grip. Are you
hurt? I'm in a hurry.
- Knee, Lenehan said.
He made a comic face
and whined, rubbing his knee.
- The accumulation of
the 'anno Domini'.
- Sorry, Mr Bloom said.
He went to the door
and, holding it ajar, paused. J.J. O'Molloy slapped the heavy pages over. The noise of two shrill voices, a mouthorgan,
echoed in the bare hallway from the newsboys squatted on the doorsteps:
We are the boys of Wexford
Who fought with heart and hand.
EXIT BLOOM
- I'm just running
round to Bachelor's walk, Mr Bloom said, about this ad of Keyes's. Want to fix it up. They tell me he's round there in Dillon's.
He looked indecisively
for a moment at their faces. The editor
who, leaning against the mantelshelf, had propped his head on his hand suddenly
stretched forth an arm amply.
- Begone!
he said. The
world is before you.
- Back in no time, Mr
Bloom said, hurrying out.
J.J. O'Molloy took the tissues from Lenehan's
hand and read them, blowing them apart gently, without comment.
- He'll get that
advertisement, the professor said, staring through his blackrimmed
spectacles over the crossblind. Look at the young scamps after him.
- Show! Where? Lenehan
cried, running to the window.
A STREET CORTÈGE
Both smiled over the crossblind at the file of capering newsboys in Mr Bloom's
wake, the last zigzagging white on the breeze a mocking kite, a tail of white bowknots.
- Look at the young
guttersnipe behind him hue and cry, Lenehan said, and
you'll kick. O, my rib risible! Taking off his flat spaugs and the walk.
Small nines.
Steal upon larks.
He began to mazurka in
swift caricature across the floor on sliding feet past the fireplace to J.J. O'Molloy who placed the tissues in his receiving hands.
- What's that? Myles
Crawford said with a start. Where are
the other two gone?
- Who? the professor said, turning.
They're gone round to the Oval for a drink. Paddy Hooper is there with Jack Hall. Came over last night.
- Come on then, Myles
Crawford said. Where's my hat?
He walked jerkily into
the office behind, parting the vent of his jacket, jingling his keys in his
back pocket. They jingled then in the
air and against the wood as he locked his desk drawer.
- He's pretty well on,
professor MacHugh said in a low voice.
- Seems to be, J.J. O'Molloy said, taking out a cigarette case in murmuring
meditation, but it is not always as it seems.
Who has the most matches?
THE CALUMET OF PEACE
He offered a cigarette
to the professor and took one himself. Lenehan promptly struck a match for them and lit their
cigarettes in turn. J.J. O'Molloy opened his case again and offered it.
- Thanky
vous Lenehan said,
helping himself.
The editor came from
the inner office, a straw hat awry on his brow.
He declaimed in song, pointing sternly at professor MacHugh:
'Twas rank and
fame that tempted thee,
'Twas empire charmed thy heart.
The professor grinned,
locking his long lips.
- Eh? You bloody old
He took a cigarette
from the open case. Lenehan,
lighting it for him with quick grace, said:
- Silence for my brandnew riddle!
- Imperium
romanum, J.J. O'Molloy
said gently. It sounds nobler than
British or Brixton. The word reminds one
somehow of fat in the fire.
Myles Crawford blew his
first puff violently towards the ceiling.
- That's it, he
said. We are the fat. You and I are the fat in the fire. We haven't got the chance of a snowball in
hell.
THE GRANDEUR THAT WAS ROME
- Wait a moment,
professor MacHugh said, raising two quiet claws. We mustn't be led away by words, by sounds of
words. We think of Rome, imperial,
imperious, imperative.
He extended
elocutionary arms from frayed stained shirtcuffs,
pausing:
- What was their
civilisation? Vast, I allow: but
vile. Cloacae: sewers. The Jews in the wilderness and on the
mountaintop said: It is meet to be here. Let us build an altar to Jehovah. The Romans, like the Englishman who
follows in his footsteps, brought to every new shore on which he set his foot
(on our shore he never set it) only his cloacal
obsession. He gazed about him in his
toga and he said: It is meet to be here.
Let us construct a water-closet.
- Which they
accordingly did do, Lenehan said. Our old ancient ancestors, as we read in the
first chapter of Guinness's, were partial to the running stream.
- They were nature's
gentlemen, J.J. O'Molloy murmured. But we have also Roman law.
- And Pontius Pilate is
its prophet, professor MacHugh responded.
- Do you know that
story about chief Baron Palles? J.J. O'Malloy asked. It
was at the royal university dinner.
Everything was going swimmingly ...
- First my riddle, Lenehan said. Are
you ready?
Mr O'Madden
Burke, tall in copious grey of Donegal tweed, came in from the hallway. Stephen Dedalus
behind him, uncovered as he entered.
- Entrez
mes enfants! Lenehan cried.
- I escort a suppliant,
Mr O'Madden Burke said melodiously. Youth led by Experience visits Notoriety.
- How do you do? the editor said, holding out a hand. Come in.
Your governor is just gone.
? ? ?
Lenehan
said to all:
- Silence! What opera resembles a railway line? Reflect, ponder, excogitate, reply.
Stephen handed over the
typed sheets, pointing to the title and signature.
- Who? the editor asked.
Bit
torn off.
- Mr Garrett Deasy, Stephen said.
- That old pelters, the editor said.
Who tore it? Was he short taken?
On swift sail flaming
From storm and south
He comes, pale vampire,
Mouth to my mouth.
- Good day, Stephen,
the professor said, coming to peer over their shoulders. Foot and mouth? Are you turned ...?
Bullockbefriending bard.
- Good day, sir,
Stephen answered, blushing. The letter
is not mine. Mr Garrett Deasy asked me to ...
SHINDY IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT
- O, I know him, Myles
Crawford said, and knew his wife too.
The bloodiest old tartar God ever made.
By Jesus, she had the foot and mouth disease and no mistake! The night she threw the
soup in the waiter's face in the Star and Garter. Oho!
A woman brought sin
into the world. For
Helen, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten years the Greeks. O'Rourke, prince of Breffni.
- Is he a widower?
Stephen asked.
- Ay, a grass one,
Myles Crawford said, his eye running down the typescript. Emperor's horses.
Habsburg. An Irishman saved his life on
the ramparts of Vienna. Don't you
forget! Maximilian
Karl O'Donnell, graf von Tirconnel
in
- The moot point is did
he forget it? J.J. O'Molloy said quietly, turning a
horseshoe paperweight. Saving princes is
a thank you job.
Professor MacHugh turned on him.
- And if not? he said.
- I'll tell you how it
was, Myles Crawford began. A Hungarian
it was one day ...
LOST CAUSES, NOBLE MARQUESS
MENTIONED
- We were always loyal
to lost causes, the professor said.
Success for us is the death of the intellect and of the
imagination. We were never loyal to the
successful. We serve them. I teach the blatant Latin language. I speak the tongue of a race the acme of
whose mentality is the maxim: time is money.
Material domination. Dominus! Lord!
Where is the spirituality? Lord
Jesus! Lord Salisbury. A sofa in a westend club.
But the Greek!
KYRIE ELEISON!
A smile of light
brightened his darkrimmed eyes, lengthened his long
lips.
- The Greek! he said again. Kyrios! Shining
word! The vowels of the Semite and the
Saxon know not. Kyrie! The radiance of the
intellect. I ought to profess
Greek, the language of the mind. Kyrie eleison! The closetmaker
and the cloacamaker will never be lords of our
spirit. We are liege subjects of the
catholic chivalry of
He strode away from the towards the window.
- They went forth to
battle, Mr O'Madden Burke said greyly, but they
always fell.
- Boohoo! Lenehan wept with a little noise. Owing to a brick received in the latter half
of the matinée. Poor, poor, poor Pyrrhus!
He whispered then near
Stephen's ear:
LENEHAN'S LIMERICK
There's a ponderous pundit MacHugh
Who wears goggles of ebony hue.
As he mostly sees double
To wear them why trouble?
I can't see the Joe Miller. Can you?
In mourning for Sallust, Mulligan says.
Whose mother is beastly dead.
Myles Crawford crammed
the sheets into a sidepocket.
- That'll be all right,
he said. I'll read the rest after. That'll be all right.
Lenehan
extended his hands in protest.
- But my riddle! he said. What opera
is like a railway line?
- Opera? Mr O'Madden Burke's sphinx face reriddled.
Lenehan
announced gladly:
- The Rose of Castille. See
the wheeze? Rows of
cast steel. Gee!
He poked Mr O'Madden Burke mildly in the spleen. Mr O'Madden Burke
fell back with grace on his umbrella, feigning a gasp.
- Help! he sighed. I feel a
strong weakness.
Lenehan,
rising to tiptoe, fanned his face rapidly with the rustling tissues.
The professor,
returning by way of the files, swept his hand across Stephen's and Mr O'Madden Burke's loose ties.
- Paris, past and
present, he said. You look like
communards.
- Like fellows who had
blown up the bastille, J.J. O'Molloy
said in quiet mockery. Or was it you
shot the lord lieutenant of Finland between you? You look as though you had done the
deed. General Bobrikoff.
OMNIUM GATHERUM
- We were only thinking
about it, Stephen said.
- All the talents,
Myles Crawford said. Law, the classics ...
- The turf, Lenehan put in.
- Literature, the
press.
- 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 little idle schemer.
- Foot and mouth
disease! the editor cried in scornful invective. Great nationalist meeting
in Borris-in-Ossory. All balls!
Bulldozing the public! Give them
something with a bite in it. Put us all
into it, damn its soul. Father Son and Holy Ghost and Jakes 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 part, 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. Time 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 a 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 ... Yes
...
- F to P is the route
Skin-the-goat drove the car for an alibi.
Inchicore, Roundtown. Windy Arbour,
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 Dudly 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 tue pace
.....................
che parlar
ti piace
....
mentrechè 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 or 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 you Cork legs are
running away with you. Why not bring in
Henry Gratton 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
- Gratton
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 one 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 though
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 really think 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, has 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 upon the black rim, 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 hand
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
- 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 of 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.
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.
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
of 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 every 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 boozing 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
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
- 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
Dubliners.
- Two
- 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
Their names are Anne
Kearns and Florence MacCabe. Anne Kearns has the lumbago for which she
rubs on
- 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 him.
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 a
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 ...
K. M. R. I. A.
- 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 out 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 bread
was wrapped in, they go nearer to the railings.
- Something for you,
the professor explained to Myles Crawford.
Two old
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
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
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
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 haec otia fecit.
- No, Stephen said, I
call it A Pisgah Sight of Palestine or the Parable of the Plums.
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 towards 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.