A
onelegged sailor, swinging
himself
onward
by
lazy
jerks
of
his
crutches, growled
some
notes.
He
jerked
short
before the
convent
of
the sisters
of
charity
and
held
out
a
peaked
cap
for
alms
towards
the
very
reverend
John Conmee S. J. Father Conmee blessed
him
in
the
sun
for
his
purse held,
he
knew,
one
silver
crown. —Very well, indeed, father.
And
you, father? Father Conmee
was
wonderfully
well
indeed.
He
would
go
to
Buxton probably
for
the waters.
And
her boys,
were
they
getting
on
well
at
Belvedere?
Was
that
so? Father Conmee
was
very
glad
indeed
to
hear
that.
And
Mr Sheehy himself?
Still
in
London. The
house
was
still
sitting,
to
be
sure
it
was. Beautiful
weather
it
was, delightful indeed. Yes,
it
was
very
probable
that
Father Bernard Vaughan would
come
again
to
preach. O, yes:
a
very
great
success.
A
wonderful
man
really. Father Conmee
was
very
glad
to
see
the
wife
of
Mr David Sheehy M.P. Iooking
so
well
and
he
begged
to
be
remembered
to
Mr David Sheehy M.P. Yes,
he
would certainly call. —Good afternoon, Mrs Sheehy. Father Conmee doffed
his
silk
hat
and
smiled,
as
he
took leave,
at
the
jet
beads
of
her
mantilla
inkshining
in
the sun.
And
smiled
yet
again,
in
going.
He
had cleaned
his
teeth,
he
knew,
with
arecanut paste. Father Conmee walked and, walking, smiled
for
he
thought
on
Father Bernard Vaughan's
droll
eyes
and
cockney
voice. —Pilate! Wy don't
you
old
back
that
owlin mob?
A
zealous
man, however. Really
he
was.
And
really
did
great
good
in
his
way.
Beyond
a
doubt.
He
loved Ireland,
he
said,
and
he
loved the Irish.
Of
good
family
too
would
one
think
it? Welsh,
were
they
not? O,
lest
he
forget.
That
letter
to
father provincial. Father Conmee stopped
three
little
schoolboys
at
the
corner
of
Mountjoy square. Yes:
they
were
from
Belvedere. The
little
house. Aha.
And
were
they
good
boys
at
school? O.
That
was
very
good
now.
And
what
was
his
name?
Jack
Sohan.
And
his
name? Ger. Gallaher.
And
the
other
little
man?
His
name
was
Brunny Lynam. O,
that
was
a
very
nice
name
to
have. Father Conmee gave
a
letter
from
his
breast
to
Master
Brunny Lynam
and
pointed
to
the
red
pillarbox
at
the
corner
of
Fitzgibbon street. —But
mind
you
don't
post
yourself
into
the box,
little
man,
he
said. The boys sixeyed Father Conmee
and
laughed: —O, sir. —Well,
let
me
see
if
you
can
post
a
letter, Father Conmee said.
Master
Brunny Lynam ran
across
the
road
and
put
Father Conmee's
letter
to
father provincial
into
the
mouth
of
the
bright
red
letterbox. Father Conmee smiled
and
nodded
and
smiled
and
walked
along
Mountjoy
square
east. Mr Denis J Maginni,
professor
of
dancing &c,
in
silk
hat, slate frockcoat
with
silk
facings,
white
kerchief
tie,
tight
lavender
trousers,
canary
gloves
and
pointed patent boots, walking
with
grave
deportment
most
respectfully took the curbstone
as
he
passed
lady
Maxwell
at
the
corner
of
Dignam's court.
Was
that
not Mrs M'Guinness? Mrs M'Guinness, stately, silverhaired, bowed
to
Father Conmee
from
the
farther
footpath
along
which
she
sailed.
And
Father Conmee smiled
and
saluted.
How
did
she
do?
A
fine
carriage
she
had.
Like
Mary,
queen
of
Scots, something.
And
to
think
that
she
was
a
pawnbroker! Well, now!
Such
a...
what
should
he
say?...
such
a
queenly mien. Father Conmee walked
down
Great
Charles
street
and
glanced
at
the shutup
free
church
on
his
left. The
reverend
T. R. Greene B.A.
will
(D.V.) speak. The
incumbent
they
called him.
He
felt
it
incumbent
on
him
to
say
a
few
words. But
one
should
be
charitable.
Invincible
ignorance.
They
acted according
to
their
lights. Father Conmee turned the
corner
and
walked
along
the North Circular road.
It
was
a
wonder
that
there
was
not
a
tramline
in
such
an
important
thoroughfare. Surely, there
ought
to
be.
A
band
of
satchelled schoolboys crossed
from
Richmond street. All raised untidy caps. Father Conmee greeted
them
more
than
once
benignly. Christian
brother
boys. Father Conmee
smelt
incense
on
his
right
hand
as
he
walked. Saint Joseph's church, Portland row.
For
aged
and
virtuous
females. Father Conmee raised
his
hat
to
the Blessed Sacrament. Virtuous: but occasionally
they
were
also
badtempered.
Near
Aldborough
house
Father Conmee
thought
of
that
spendthrift nobleman.
And
now
it
was
an
office
or
something. Father Conmee began
to
walk
along
the North
Strand
road
and
was
saluted
by
Mr William Gallagher
who
stood
in
the doorway
of
his
shop. Father Conmee saluted Mr William Gallagher
and
perceived the odours
that
came
from
baconflitches
and
ample
cools
of
butter.
He
passed Grogan's the Tobacconist against
which
newsboards leaned
and
told
of
a
dreadful
catastrophe
in
New
York.
In
America
those
things
were
continually happening. Unfortunate
people
to
die
like
that, unprepared. Still, an
act
of
perfect contrition. Father Conmee went
by
Daniel Bergin's publichouse against the
window
of
which
two
unlabouring men lounged.
They
saluted
him
and
were
saluted. Father Conmee passed H. J. O'Neill's
funeral
establishment
where
Corny
Kelleher totted figures
in
the daybook
while
he
chewed
a
blade
of
hay.
A
constable
on
his
beat
saluted Father Conmee
and
Father Conmee saluted the constable.
In
Youkstetter's, the porkbutcher's, Father Conmee observed pig's puddings,
white
and
black
and
red,
lie
neatly curled
in
tubes. Moored under the trees
of
Charleville
Mall
Father Conmee
saw
a
turfbarge,
a
towhorse
with
pendent
head,
a
bargeman
with
a
hat
of
dirty
straw
seated amidships, smoking
and
staring
at
a
branch
of
poplar
above
him.
It
was
idyllic:
and
Father Conmee reflected
on
the
providence
of
the
Creator
who
had
made
turf
to
be
in
bogs whence men
might
dig
it
out
and
bring
it
to
town
and
hamlet
to
make
fires
in
the houses
of
poor
people.
On
Newcomen
bridge
the
very
reverend
John Conmee S.J.
of
saint Francis Xavier's church,
upper
Gardiner street, stepped
on
to
an
outward
bound tram.
Off
an inward bound
tram
stepped the
reverend
Nicholas Dudley C. C.
of
saint Agatha's church, north William street,
on
to
Newcomen bridge.
At
Newcomen
bridge
Father Conmee stepped
into
an
outward
bound
tram
for
he
disliked
to
traverse
on
foot
the dingy
way
past
Mud
Island. Father Conmee sat
in
a
corner
of
the tramcar,
a
blue ticket tucked
with
care
in
the
eye
of
one
plump
kid
glove,
while
four shillings,
a
sixpence
and
five
pennies chuted
from
his
other
plump glovepalm
into
his
purse. Passing the
ivy
church
he
reflected
that
the ticket
inspector
usually
made
his
visit
when
one
had carelessly thrown
away
the ticket. The
solemnity
of
the occupants
of
the
car
seemed
to
Father Conmee
excessive
for
a
journey
so
short
and
cheap. Father Conmee liked cheerful decorum.
It
was
a
peaceful day. The gentleman
with
the glasses
opposite
Father Conmee had finished explaining
and
looked down.
His
wife, Father Conmee supposed.
A
tiny
yawn
opened the
mouth
of
the
wife
of
the gentleman
with
the glasses.
She
raised her small gloved fist, yawned
ever
so
gently, tiptapping her small gloved
fist
on
her
opening
mouth
and
smiled tinily, sweetly. Father Conmee perceived her
perfume
in
the car.
He
perceived
also
that
the awkward
man
at
the
other
side
of
her
was
sitting
on
the
edge
of
the seat. Father Conmee
at
the altarrails placed the host
with
difficulty
in
the
mouth
of
the awkward
old
man
who
had the shaky head.
From
the hoardings Mr Eugene Stratton grimaced
with
thick
niggerlips
at
Father Conmee.
At
the Howth
road
stop Father Conmee alighted,
was
saluted
by
the
conductor
and
saluted
in
his
turn. The Malahide
road
was
quiet.
It
pleased Father Conmee,
road
and
name. The joybells
were
ringing
in
gay
Malahide. Lord Talbot
de
Malahide,
immediate
hereditary
lord
admiral
of
Malahide
and
the seas adjoining.
Then
came the
call
to
arms
and
she
was
maid,
wife
and
widow
in
one
day.
Those
were
old
worldish days,
loyal
times
in
joyous
townlands,
old
times
in
the barony. Father Conmee
thought
of
that
tyrannous
incontinence, needed however
for
man's
race
on
earth,
and
of
the ways
of
God
which
were
not
our
ways.
Don
John Conmee walked
and
moved
in
times
of
yore.
He
was
humane
and
honoured there.
He
bore
in
mind
secrets confessed
and
he
smiled
at
smiling
noble
faces
in
a
beeswaxed drawingroom, ceiled
with
full
fruit
clusters.
And
the hands
of
a
bride
and
of
a
bridegroom,
noble
to
noble,
were
impalmed
by
Don
John Conmee.
It
was
a
charming day. Father Conmee,
reading
his
office, watched
a
flock
of
muttoning clouds
over
Rathcoffey.
His
thinsocked ankles
were
tickled
by
the
stubble
of
Clongowes field.
He
walked there,
reading
in
the evening,
and
heard the cries
of
the boys' lines
at
their
play,
young
cries
in
the
quiet
evening.
He
was
their
rector:
his
reign
was
mild. Father Conmee drew
off
his
gloves
and
took
his
rededged
breviary
out. An
ivory
bookmark told
him
the page. Nones.
He
should
have
read
that
before lunch. But
lady
Maxwell had come.
A
flushed
young
man
came
from
a
gap
of
a
hedge
and
after
him
came
a
young
woman
with
wild nodding daisies
in
her hand. The
young
man
raised
his
cap
abruptly: the
young
woman
abruptly bent
and
with
slow
care
detached
from
her
light
skirt
a
clinging twig.
Corny
Kelleher closed
his
long
daybook
and
glanced
with
his
drooping
eye
at
a
pine
coffinlid sentried
in
a
corner.
He
pulled
himself
erect, went
to
it
and, spinning
it
on
its axle, viewed its
shape
and
brass
furnishings. Chewing
his
blade
of
hay
he
laid the coffinlid
by
and
came
to
the doorway. There
he
tilted
his
hatbrim
to
give
shade
to
his
eyes
and
leaned against the doorcase, looking
idly
out. Father John Conmee stepped
into
the Dollymount
tram
on
Newcomen bridge.
Corny
Kelleher locked
his
largefooted boots
and
gazed,
his
hat
downtilted, chewing
his
blade
of
hay.
Constable
57C,
on
his
beat, stood
to
pass the
time
of
day. —That's
a
fine
day, Mr Kelleher. —Ay,
Corny
Kelleher said. —It's
very
close, the
constable
said.
Corny
Kelleher sped
a
silent
jet
of
hayjuice arching
from
his
mouth
while
a
generous
white
arm
from
a
window
in
Eccles
street
flung
forth
a
coin. —What's the
best
news?
he
asked. —I seen
that
particular
party
last
evening, the
constable
said
with
bated breath.
A
onelegged
sailor
crutched
himself
round MacConnell's corner, skirting Rabaiotti's icecream car,
and
jerked
himself
up
Eccles street.
Towards
Larry O'Rourke,
in
shirtsleeves
in
his
doorway,
he
growled unamiably:
He
swung
himself
violently forward past Katey
and
Boody Dedalus, halted
and
growled: J. J. O'Molloy's
white
careworn face
was
told
that
Mr Lambert
was
in
the warehouse
with
a
visitor.
A
stout
lady
stopped, took
a
copper
coin
from
her purse
and
dropped
it
into
the
cap
held
out
to
her. The
sailor
grumbled thanks, glanced sourly
at
the unheeding windows, sank
his
head
and
swung
himself
forward four strides.
He
halted
and
growled angrily:
Two
barefoot
urchins, sucking
long
liquorice laces, halted
near
him, gaping
at
his
stump
with
their
yellowslobbered mouths.
He
swung
himself
forward
in
vigorous
jerks, halted, lifted
his
head
towards
a
window
and
bayed deeply:
One
of
the urchins ran
to
it, picked
it
up
and
dropped
it
into
the minstrel's cap, saying: —There, sir. Katey
and
Boody Dedalus shoved
in
the
door
of
the closesteaming kitchen. —Did
you
put
in
the books? Boody asked. Maggy
at
the
range
rammed
down
a
greyish
mass
beneath bubbling
suds
twice
with
her potstick
and
wiped her brow. —They wouldn't
give
anything
on
them,
she
said. Father Conmee walked through Clongowes fields,
his
thinsocked ankles tickled
by
stubble. —Where
did
you
try? Boody asked. —M'Guinness's. Boody stamped her
foot
and
threw her
satchel
on
the table. —Bad cess
to
her
big
face!
she
cried. Katey went
to
the
range
and
peered
with
squinting eyes. —What's
in
the pot?
she
asked. —Shirts, Maggy said. Boody cried angrily: —Crickey,
is
there
nothing
for
us
to
eat? Katey, lifting the kettlelid
in
a
pad
of
her stained skirt, asked: —And what's
in
this?
A
heavy
fume
gushed
in
answer. —Peasoup, Maggy said. —Where
did
you
get
it? Katey asked. —Sister Mary Patrick, Maggy said. The lacquey
rang
his
bell. —Barang! Boody sat
down
at
the table
and
said hungrily: —Give
us
it
here. Maggy poured
yellow
thick
soup
from
the
kettle
into
a
bowl. Katey, sitting
opposite
Boody, said quietly,
as
her fingertip lifted
to
her
mouth
random
crumbs: —A
good
job
we
have
that
much. Where's Dilly? —Gone
to
meet father, Maggy said. Boody, breaking
big
chunks
of
bread
into
the
yellow
soup, added: —Our father
who
art
not
in
heaven. Maggy, pouring
yellow
soup
in
Katey's bowl, exclaimed: —Boody!
For
shame!
A
skiff,
a
crumpled throwaway, Elijah
is
coming, rode
lightly
down
the Liffey, under Loopline bridge,
shooting
the
rapids
where
water
chafed
around
the bridgepiers,
sailing
eastward
past hulls
and
anchorchains,
between
the Customhouse
old
dock
and
George's quay. The blond
girl
in
Thornton's bedded the
wicker
basket
with
rustling fibre. Blazes Boylan handed her the bottle swathed
in
pink
tissue
paper
and
a
small jar. —Put
these
in
first,
will
you?
he
said. —Yes, sir, the blond
girl
said.
And
the
fruit
on
top. —That'll do,
game
ball, Blazes Boylan said.
She
bestowed
fat
pears neatly,
head
by
tail,
and
among
them
ripe
shamefaced
peaches. Blazes Boylan walked here
and
there
in
new
tan
shoes
about
the fruitsmelling shop, lifting fruits,
young
juicy crinkled
and
plump
red
tomatoes, sniffing smells. H. E. L. Y.'S filed before him, tallwhitehatted, past Tangier lane, plodding
towards
their
goal.
He
turned suddenly
from
a
chip
of
strawberries, drew
a
gold
watch
from
his
fob
and
held
it
at
its chain's length. —Can
you
send
them
by
tram? Now?
A
darkbacked
figure
under Merchants' arch scanned books
on
the hawker's cart. —Certainly, sir.
Is
it
in
the city? —O, yes, Blazes Boylan said. Ten minutes. The blond
girl
handed
him
a
docket
and
pencil. —Will
you
write
the address, sir? Blazes Boylan
at
the
counter
wrote
and
pushed the docket
to
her. —Send
it
at
once,
will
you?
he
said. It's
for
an invalid. —Yes, sir. I will, sir. Blazes Boylan rattled
merry
money
in
his
trousers' pocket. —What's the damage?
he
asked. The blond girl's slim fingers reckoned the fruits. Blazes Boylan looked
into
the
cut
of
her blouse.
A
young
pullet.
He
took
a
red
carnation
from
the
tall
stemglass. —This
for
me?
he
asked gallantly. The blond
girl
glanced sideways
at
him, got
up
regardless,
with
his
tie
a
bit
crooked, blushing. —Yes, sir,
she
said. Bending archly
she
reckoned
again
fat
pears
and
blushing peaches. Blazes Boylan looked
in
her
blouse
with
more
favour, the
stalk
of
the
red
flower
between
his
smiling teeth. —May I
say
a
word
to
your telephone, missy?
he
asked roguishly.
He
gazed
over
Stephen's shoulder
at
Goldsmith's knobby poll.
Two
carfuls
of
tourists passed slowly,
their
women sitting fore, gripping the handrests. Palefaces. Men's arms frankly round
their
stunted forms.
They
looked
from
Trinity
to
the blind columned
porch
of
the
bank
of
Ireland
where
pigeons roocoocooed.
By
the
stern
stone
hand
of
Grattan, bidding halt, an Inchicore
tram
unloaded straggling
Highland
soldiers
of
a
band.
His
heavy
hand
took Stephen's firmly.
Human
eyes.
They
gazed curiously an
instant
and
turned
quickly
towards
a
Dalkey tram. Almidano Artifoni, holding
up
a
baton
of
rolled
music
as
a
signal, trotted
on
stout
trousers
after
the Dalkey tram.
In
vain
he
trotted, signalling
in
vain
among
the rout
of
barekneed gillies smuggling implements
of
music
through
Trinity
gates.
Too
much
mystery
business
in
it.
Is
he
in
love
with
that
one, Marion?
Change
it
and
get
another
by
Mary Cecil Haye. The
disk
shot
down
the groove, wobbled
a
while, ceased
and
ogled them: six.
Miss
Dunne clicked
on
the keyboard: —16 June 1904.
Five
tallwhitehatted sandwichmen
between
Monypeny's
corner
and
the
slab
where
Wolfe Tone's
statue
was
not, eeled
themselves
turning H. E. L. Y.'S
and
plodded
back
as
they
had come.
Then
she
stared
at
the
large
poster
of
Marie Kendall, charming soubrette, and, listlessly lolling, scribbled
on
the jotter sixteens
and
capital
esses.
Mustard
hair
and
dauby cheeks. She's not nicelooking,
is
she? The
way
she's holding
up
her
bit
of
a
skirt.
Wonder
will
that
fellow
be
at
the
band
tonight.
If
I
could
get
that
dressmaker
to
make
a
concertina
skirt
like
Susy Nagle's.
They
kick
out
grand. Shannon
and
all the boatclub swells
never
took
his
eyes
off
her.
Hope
to
goodness
he
won't
keep
me
here
till
seven. The telephone
rang
rudely
by
her ear. —Hello. Yes, sir. No, sir. Yes, sir. I'll ring
them
up
after
five.
Only
those
two, sir,
for
Belfast
and
Liverpool. All right, sir.
Then
I
can
go
after
six
if
you're not back.
A
quarter
after. Yes, sir. Twentyseven
and
six. I'll
tell
him. Yes: one, seven, six.
She
scribbled
three
figures
on
an envelope. —Mr Boylan! Hello!
That
gentleman
from
SPORT
was
in
looking
for
you. Mr Lenehan, yes.
He
said he'll
be
in
the Ormond
at
four. No, sir. Yes, sir. I'll ring
them
up
after
five.
Two
pink
faces turned
in
the flare
of
the tiny torch. —Who's that? Ned Lambert asked.
Is
that
Crotty? —Ringabella
and
Crosshaven,
a
voice replied groping
for
foothold. —Hello, Jack,
is
that
yourself? Ned Lambert said,
raising
in
salute
his
pliant
lath
among
the flickering arches.
Come
on.
Mind
your steps there. The vesta
in
the clergyman's uplifted
hand
consumed
itself
in
a
long
soft
flame
and
was
let
fall.
At
their
feet its
red
speck
died:
and
mouldy air closed round them. —How interesting!
a
refined
accent
said
in
the gloom. —Yes, sir, Ned Lambert said heartily.
We
are
standing
in
the
historic
council
chamber
of
saint Mary's
abbey
where
silken
Thomas proclaimed
himself
a
rebel
in
1534.
This
is
the
most
historic
spot
in
all Dublin. O'Madden Burke
is
going
to
write
something
about
it
one
of
these
days. The
old
bank
of
Ireland
was
over
the
way
till
the
time
of
the union
and
the
original
jews'
temple
was
here
too
before
they
built
their
synagogue
over
in
Adelaide road.
You
were
never
here before, Jack,
were
you? —No, Ned. —He rode
down
through
Dame
walk, the refined
accent
said,
if
my
memory
serves me. The
mansion
of
the Kildares
was
in
Thomas court. —That's right, Ned Lambert said. That's
quite
right, sir. —If
you
will
be
so
kind
then, the clergyman said, the
next
time
to
allow
me
perhaps... —Certainly, Ned Lambert said.
Bring
the
camera
whenever
you
like. I'll
get
those
bags cleared
away
from
the windows.
You
can
take
it
from
here
or
from
here.
In
the
still
faint
light
he
moved about, tapping
with
his
lath
the piled seedbags
and
points
of
vantage
on
the floor.
From
a
long
face
a
beard
and
gaze
hung
on
a
chessboard. —I'm
deeply
obliged, Mr Lambert, the clergyman said. I won't
trespass
on
your valuable time... —You're welcome, sir, Ned Lambert said.
Drop
in
whenever
you
like.
Next
week, say.
Can
you
see? —Yes, yes.
Good
afternoon, Mr Lambert.
Very
pleased
to
have
met you. —Pleasure
is
mine, sir, Ned Lambert answered.
He
followed
his
guest
to
the outlet
and
then
whirled
his
lath
away
among
the pillars.
With
J. J. O'Molloy
he
came
forth
slowly
into
Mary's
abbey
where
draymen
were
loading floats
with
sacks
of
carob
and
palmnut meal, O'Connor, Wexford.
He
stood
to
read the
card
in
his
hand. —The
reverend
Hugh C. Love, Rathcoffey.
Present
address: Saint Michael's, Sallins.
Nice
young
chap
he
is. He's
writing
a
book
about
the Fitzgeralds
he
told me. He's
well
up
in
history, faith. The
young
woman
with
slow
care
detached
from
her
light
skirt
a
clinging twig. —I
thought
you
were
at
a
new
gunpowder plot, J. J. O'Molloy said. Ned Lambert
cracked
his
fingers
in
the air. The horses
he
passed started nervously under
their
slack
harness.
He
slapped
a
piebald
haunch
quivering
near
him
and
cried: —Woa, sonny!
He
turned
to
J. J. O'Molloy
and
asked: —Well, Jack.
What
is
it? What's the trouble?
Wait
awhile.
Hold
hard.
With
gaping
mouth
and
head
far
back
he
stood
still
and,
after
an instant, sneezed loudly. —Chow!
he
said.
Blast
you! —The dust
from
those
sacks, J. J. O'Molloy said politely. —No, Ned Lambert gasped, I caught a... cold
night
before...
blast
your soul...
night
before last...
and
there
was
a
hell
of
a
lot
of
draught...
He
held
his
handkerchief
ready
for
the coming... —I was... Glasnevin
this
morning...
poor
little...
what
do
you
call
him... Chow!... Mother
of
Moses! Tom Rochford took the
top
disk
from
the
pile
he
clasped against
his
claret
waistcoat. —See?
he
said.
Say
it's
turn
six.
In
here, see.
Turn
Now
On.
He
slid
it
into
the
left
slot
for
them.
It
shot
down
the groove, wobbled
a
while, ceased, ogling them: six. Lawyers
of
the past, haughty, pleading, beheld pass
from
the consolidated taxing
office
to
Nisi
Prius
court Richie Goulding carrying the costbag
of
Goulding, Collis
and
Ward
and
heard rustling
from
the
admiralty
division
of
king's
bench
to
the court
of
appeal
an
elderly
female
with
false
teeth smiling incredulously
and
a
black
silk
skirt
of
great
amplitude. —See?
he
said.
See
now
the
last
one
I
put
in
is
over
here: Turns Over. The impact. Leverage, see?
He
showed
them
the rising
column
of
disks
on
the right. —Smart idea, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling.
So
a
fellow
coming
in
late
can
see
what
turn
is
on
and
what
turns
are
over. —See? Tom Rochford said.
He
slid
in
a
disk
for
himself:
and
watched
it
shoot, wobble, ogle, stop: four.
Turn
Now
On. —I'll
see
him
now
in
the Ormond, Lenehan said,
and
sound
him.
One
good
turn
deserves another. —Do, Tom Rochford said.
Tell
him
I'm Boylan
with
impatience. —Goodnight, M'Coy said abruptly.
When
you
two
begin
Nosey Flynn stooped
towards
the lever, snuffling
at
it. —But
how
does
it
work
here, Tommy?
he
asked. —Tooraloo, Lenehan said.
See
you
later.
He
followed M'Coy
out
across
the tiny
square
of
Crampton court. —He's
a
hero,
he
said simply. —I know, M'Coy said. The drain,
you
mean. —Drain? Lenehan said.
It
was
down
a
manhole.
They
passed Dan Lowry's musichall
where
Marie Kendall, charming soubrette, smiled
on
them
from
a
poster
a
dauby smile. Going
down
the
path
of
Sycamore
street
beside
the
Empire
musichall Lenehan showed M'Coy
how
the
whole
thing
was.
One
of
those
manholes
like
a
bloody
gaspipe
and
there
was
the
poor
devil
stuck
down
in
it, half choked
with
sewer gas.
Down
went Tom Rochford anyhow, booky's
vest
and
all,
with
the rope round him.
And
be
damned but
he
got the rope round the
poor
devil
and
the
two
were
hauled up. —The
act
of
a
hero,
he
said.
At
the
Dolphin
they
halted
to
allow
the
ambulance
car
to
gallop past
them
for
Jervis street. —This way,
he
said, walking
to
the right. I
want
to
pop
into
Lynam's
to
see
Sceptre's starting price. What's the
time
by
your
gold
watch
and
chain? M'Coy peered
into
Marcus Tertius Moses'
sombre
office,
then
at
O'Neill's clock. —After three,
he
said. Who's riding her? —O. Madden, Lenehan said.
And
a
game
filly
she
is.
While
he
waited
in
Temple
bar
M'Coy dodged
a
banana
peel
with
gentle
pushes
of
his
toe
from
the
path
to
the gutter.
Fellow
might
damn
easy
get
a
nasty
fall
there coming
along
tight
in
the dark. The gates
of
the
drive
opened
wide
to
give
egress
to
the viceregal cavalcade. —Even money, Lenehan said returning. I knocked against
Bantam
Lyons
in
there going
to
back
a
bloody
horse
someone gave
him
that
hasn't an earthly. Through here.
They
went
up
the steps
and
under Merchants' arch.
A
darkbacked
figure
scanned books
on
the hawker's cart. —There
he
is, Lenehan said. —Wonder
what
he's buying, M'Coy said, glancing behind. —He's
dead
nuts
on
sales, M'Coy said. I
was
with
him
one
day
and
he
bought
a
book
from
an
old
one
in
Liffey
street
for
two
bob. There
were
fine
plates
in
it
worth
double
the money, the stars
and
the moon
and
comets
with
long
tails.
Astronomy
it
was
about. Lenehan laughed. —I'll
tell
you
a
damn
good
one
about
comets' tails,
he
said.
Come
over
in
the sun.
They
crossed
to
the
metal
bridge
and
went
along
Wellington
quay
by
the riverwall.
Master
Patrick Aloysius Dignam came
out
of
Mangan's,
late
Fehrenbach's, carrying
a
pound
and
a
half
of
porksteaks. —There
was
a
long
spread
out
at
Glencree reformatory, Lenehan said eagerly. The annual dinner,
you
know. Boiled
shirt
affair. The lord
mayor
was
there, Val Dillon
it
was,
and
sir Charles Cameron
and
Dan Dawson
spoke
and
there
was
music. Bartell d'Arcy sang
and
Benjamin Dollard... —I know, M'Coy
broke
in. My missus sang there once. —Did she? Lenehan said.
He
checked
his
tale
a
moment
but
broke
out
in
a
wheezy laugh. —But
wait
till
I
tell
you,
he
said. Delahunt
of
Camden
street
had the catering
and
yours
truly
was
chief
bottlewasher.
Bloom
and
the
wife
were
there. Lashings
of
stuff
we
put
up: port wine
and
sherry
and
curacao
to
which
we
did
ample
justice.
Fast
and
furious
it
was.
After
liquids came solids. Cold joints
galore
and
mince pies... —I know, M'Coy said. The
year
the missus
was
there... Lenehan linked
his
arm
warmly.
He
held
his
caved hands
a
cubit
from
him, frowning: —I
was
tucking the
rug
under her
and
settling her
boa
all the time.
Know
what
I mean?
His
hands moulded
ample
curves
of
air.
He
shut
his
eyes
tight
in
delight,
his
body
shrinking,
and
blew
a
sweet
chirp
from
his
lips. Lenehan stopped
and
leaned
on
the riverwall, panting
with
soft
laughter. —I'm weak,
he
gasped. M'Coy's
white
face smiled
about
it
at
instants
and
grew grave. Lenehan walked
on
again.
He
lifted
his
yachtingcap
and
scratched
his
hindhead rapidly.
He
glanced sideways
in
the
sunlight
at
M'Coy. —He's
a
cultured allroundman,
Bloom
is,
he
said seriously. He's not
one
of
your
common
or
garden...
you
know... There's
a
touch
of
the
artist
about
old
Bloom. —That I had,
he
said, pushing
it
by. The shopman
let
two
volumes
fall
on
the counter. —Them
are
two
good
ones,
he
said. Onions
of
his
breath
came
across
the
counter
out
of
his
ruined mouth.
He
bent
to
make
a
bundle
of
the
other
books, hugged
them
against
his
unbuttoned waistcoat
and
bore
them
off
behind
the dingy curtain.
On
O'Connell
bridge
many
persons observed the
grave
deportment
and
gay
apparel
of
Mr Denis J Maginni,
professor
of
dancing &c.
He
opened it.
Thought
so.
A
woman's voice
behind
the dingy curtain. Listen: the man. No:
she
wouldn't
like
that
much. Got her
it
once.
He
read
where
his
finger
opened. Yes. This. Here. Try. Yes.
Take
this. The end. Young! Young! An
elderly
female, no
more
young,
left
the building
of
the courts
of
chancery, king's bench,
exchequer
and
common
pleas, having heard
in
the lord chancellor's court the
case
in
lunacy
of
Potterton,
in
the
admiralty
division
the summons, exparte motion,
of
the owners
of
the
Lady
Cairns
versus
the owners
of
the barque Mona,
in
the court
of
appeal
reservation
of
judgment
in
the
case
of
Harvey
versus
the
Ocean
Accident
and
Guarantee Corporation. Phlegmy coughs shook the air
of
the bookshop, bulging
out
the dingy curtains. The shopman's uncombed grey
head
came
out
and
his
unshaven reddened face, coughing.
He
raked
his
throat
rudely, puked
phlegm
on
the floor.
He
put
his
boot
on
what
he
had spat, wiping
his
sole
along
it,
and
bent, showing
a
rawskinned crown, scantily haired. Mr
Bloom
beheld it. Mastering
his
troubled breath,
he
said: —I'll
take
this
one. The shopman lifted eyes bleared
with
old
rheum. The lacquey
by
the
door
of
Dillon's auctionrooms shook
his
handbell
twice
again
and
viewed
himself
in
the chalked
mirror
of
the cabinet.
Dilly
Dedalus, loitering
by
the curbstone, heard the beats
of
the bell, the cries
of
the auctioneer within. Four
and
nine.
Those
lovely
curtains.
Five
shillings. Cosy curtains. Selling
new
at
two
guineas.
Any
advance
on
five
shillings? Going
for
five
shillings. The lacquey lifted
his
handbell
and
shook it: —Barang!
Bang
of
the lastlap bell spurred the halfmile wheelmen
to
their
sprint. J. A. Jackson, W. E. Wylie, A. Munro
and
H. T. Gahan,
their
stretched necks wagging, negotiated the curve
by
the
College
library. Mr Dedalus, tugging
a
long
moustache, came round
from
Williams's row.
He
halted
near
his
daughter. —It's
time
for
you,
she
said. —Stand
up
straight
for
the
love
of
the lord Jesus, Mr Dedalus said.
Are
you
trying
to
imitate
your
uncle
John, the cornetplayer,
head
upon
shoulder? Melancholy God!
Dilly
shrugged her shoulders. Mr Dedalus placed
his
hands
on
them
and
held
them
back. —Stand
up
straight, girl,
he
said. You'll
get
curvature
of
the spine.
Do
you
know
what
you
look
like?
He
let
his
head
sink suddenly
down
and
forward, hunching
his
shoulders
and
dropping
his
underjaw. —Give
it
up, father,
Dilly
said. All the
people
are
looking
at
you. Mr Dedalus drew
himself
upright
and
tugged
again
at
his
moustache. —Did
you
get
any
money?
Dilly
asked. —Where would I
get
money? Mr Dedalus said. There
is
no-one
in
Dublin would
lend
me
fourpence. —You got some,
Dilly
said, looking
in
his
eyes. —How
do
you
know
that? Mr Dedalus asked,
his
tongue
in
his
cheek. Mr Kernan, pleased
with
the order
he
had booked, walked boldly
along
James's street. —I
know
you
did,
Dilly
answered.
Were
you
in
the Scotch
house
now? —I
was
not, then, Mr Dedalus said, smiling.
Was
it
the
little
nuns taught
you
to
be
so
saucy? Here.
He
handed her
a
shilling. —See
if
you
can
do
anything
with
that,
he
said. —I
suppose
you
got five,
Dilly
said.
Give
me
more
than
that. —Wait awhile, Mr Dedalus said threateningly. You're
like
the
rest
of
them,
are
you? An
insolent
pack
of
little
bitches
since
your
poor
mother died. But
wait
awhile. You'll all
get
a
short
shrift
and
a
long
day
from
me.
Low
blackguardism! I'm going
to
get
rid
of
you. Wouldn't
care
if
I
was
stretched
out
stiff. He's dead. The
man
upstairs
is
dead.
He
left
her
and
walked on.
Dilly
followed
quickly
and
pulled
his
coat. —Well,
what
is
it?
he
said, stopping. The lacquey
rang
his
bell
behind
their
backs. —Barang! —Curse your
bloody
blatant
soul, Mr Dedalus cried, turning
on
him. The lacquey,
aware
of
comment, shook the lolling
clapper
of
his
bell but feebly: —Bang! Mr Dedalus stared
at
him. —Watch him,
he
said. It's instructive. I
wonder
will
he
allow
us
to
talk. —You got
more
than
that, father,
Dilly
said. —I'm going
to
show
you
a
little
trick, Mr Dedalus said. I'll
leave
you
all
where
Jesus
left
the jews. Look, there's all I have. I got
two
shillings
from
Jack
Power
and
I spent twopence
for
a
shave
for
the funeral.
He
drew
forth
a
handful
of
copper
coins, nervously. —Can't
you
look
for
some
money
somewhere?
Dilly
said. Mr Dedalus
thought
and
nodded. —I will,
he
said gravely. I looked all
along
the gutter
in
O'Connell street. I'll
try
this
one
now. —You're
very
funny,
Dilly
said, grinning. —Here, Mr Dedalus said, handing her
two
pennies.
Get
a
glass
of
milk
for
yourself
and
a
bun
or
a
something. I'll
be
home
shortly.
He
put
the
other
coins
in
his
pocket
and
started
to
walk on. The viceregal
cavalcade
passed, greeted
by
obsequious
policemen,
out
of
Parkgate. —I'm
sure
you
have
another
shilling,
Dilly
said. The lacquey banged loudly. Mr Dedalus
amid
the
din
walked off, murmuring
to
himself
with
a
pursing mincing
mouth
gently: —The
little
nuns!
Nice
little
things! O,
sure
they
wouldn't
do
anything! O,
sure
they
wouldn't really!
Is
it
little
sister
Monica!
From
the sundial
towards
James's gate walked Mr Kernan, pleased
with
the order
he
had booked
for
Pulbrook Robertson, boldly
along
James's street, past Shackleton's offices. Got round
him
all right.
How
do
you
do, Mr Crimmins? First rate, sir. I
was
afraid
you
might
be
up
in
your
other
establishment
in
Pimlico.
How
are
things going?
Just
keeping alive.
Lovely
weather
we're having. Yes, indeed.
Good
for
the country.
Those
farmers
are
always
grumbling. I'll
just
take
a
thimbleful
of
your
best
gin, Mr Crimmins.
A
small gin, sir. Yes, sir.
Terrible
affair
that
General
Slocum explosion. Terrible, terrible!
A
thousand
casualties.
And
heartrending scenes. Men trampling
down
women
and
children.
Most
brutal
thing.
What
do
they
say
was
the cause?
Spontaneous
combustion.
Most
scandalous
revelation. Not
a
single lifeboat would
float
and
the firehose all burst.
What
I can't
understand
is
how
the inspectors
ever
allowed
a
boat
like
that... Now, you're talking straight, Mr Crimmins.
You
know
why?
Palm
oil.
Is
that
a
fact? Without
a
doubt.
Well
now,
look
at
that.
And
America
they
say
is
the
land
of
the free. I
thought
we
were
bad
here. Graft, my
dear
sir. Well,
of
course,
where
there's
money
going there's
always
someone
to
pick
it
up.
Saw
him
looking
at
my frockcoat. Dress does it.
Nothing
like
a
dressy appearance.
Bowls
them
over. —Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said.
How
are
things? —Hello, Bob,
old
man, Mr Dedalus answered, stopping. Mr Kernan halted
and
preened
himself
before the sloping
mirror
of
Peter Kennedy, hairdresser. Stylish coat,
beyond
a
doubt. Scott
of
Dawson street.
Well
worth
the half
sovereign
I gave Neary
for
it.
Never
built under
three
guineas. Fits
me
down
to
the ground.
Some
Kildare
street
club toff had
it
probably. John Mulligan, the manager
of
the Hibernian bank, gave
me
a
very
sharp
eye
yesterday
on
Carlisle
bridge
as
if
he
remembered me. Aham!
Must
dress the
character
for
those
fellows. Knight
of
the road. Gentleman.
And
now, Mr Crimmins,
may
we
have
the honour
of
your custom again, sir. The
cup
that
cheers but not inebriates,
as
the
old
saying
has it. North
wall
and
sir John Rogerson's quay,
with
hulls
and
anchorchains,
sailing
westward, sailed
by
a
skiff,
a
crumpled throwaway, rocked
on
the ferrywash, Elijah
is
coming. Mr Kernan glanced
in
farewell
at
his
image. High colour,
of
course.
Grizzled
moustache. Returned Indian officer. Bravely
he
bore
his
stumpy
body
forward
on
spatted feet, squaring
his
shoulders.
Is
that
Ned Lambert's
brother
over
the way, Sam? What? Yes. He's
as
like
it
as
damn
it. No. The windscreen
of
that
motorcar
in
the
sun
there.
Just
a
flash
like
that.
Damn
like
him. Aham!
Hot
spirit
of
juniper
juice warmed
his
vitals
and
his
breath.
Good
drop
of
gin,
that
was.
His
frocktails winked
in
bright
sunshine
to
his
fat
strut.
Down
there
Emmet
was
hanged, drawn
and
quartered. Greasy
black
rope. Dogs licking the blood
off
the
street
when
the lord lieutenant's
wife
drove
by
in
her noddy.
Bad
times
those
were. Well, well.
Over
and
done with.
Great
topers too. Fourbottle men.
Let
me
see.
Is
he
buried
in
saint Michan's?
Or
no, there
was
a
midnight
burial
in
Glasnevin.
Corpse
brought
in
through
a
secret
door
in
the wall. Dignam
is
there now. Went
out
in
a
puff. Well, well.
Better
turn
down
here.
Make
a
detour. Mr Kernan turned
and
walked
down
the slope
of
Watling
street
by
the
corner
of
Guinness's visitors' waitingroom. Outside the Dublin Distillers Company's stores an outside
car
without
fare
or
jarvey stood, the reins knotted
to
the wheel.
Damn
dangerous
thing.
Some
Tipperary bosthoon endangering the lives
of
the citizens. Runaway horse. Denis Breen
with
his
tomes,
weary
of
having waited an
hour
in
John Henry Menton's office, led
his
wife
over
O'Connell bridge, bound
for
the
office
of
Messrs Collis
and
Ward. Mr Kernan approached
Island
street. Times
of
the troubles.
Must
ask
Ned Lambert
to
lend
me
those
reminiscences
of
sir Jonah Barrington.
When
you
look
back
on
it
all
now
in
a
kind
of
retrospective arrangement. Gaming
at
Daly's. No cardsharping then.
One
of
those
fellows got
his
hand
nailed
to
the table
by
a
dagger. Somewhere here lord Edward Fitzgerald escaped
from
major
Sirr. Stables
behind
Moira house.
Damn
good
gin
that
was.
Fine
dashing
young
nobleman.
Good
stock,
of
course.
That
ruffian,
that
sham squire,
with
his
violet
gloves gave
him
away.
Course
they
were
on
the
wrong
side.
They
rose
in
dark
and
evil
days.
Fine
poem
that
is: Ingram.
They
were
gentlemen.
Ben
Dollard does sing
that
ballad
touchingly. Masterly rendition.
A
cavalcade
in
easy
trot
along
Pembroke
quay
passed, outriders leaping, leaping
in
their,
in
their
saddles. Frockcoats. Cream sunshades. Mr Kernan hurried forward, blowing pursily.
His
Excellency!
Too
bad!
Just
missed
that
by
a
hair.
Damn
it!
What
a
pity! Stephen Dedalus watched through the webbed
window
the lapidary's fingers
prove
a
timedulled chain. Dust webbed the
window
and
the showtrays. Dust darkened the toiling fingers
with
their
vulture
nails. Dust slept
on
dull
coils
of
bronze
and
silver, lozenges
of
cinnabar,
on
rubies,
leprous
and
winedark stones. Born all
in
the dark wormy earth, cold specks
of
fire, evil, lights shining
in
the darkness.
Where
fallen archangels flung the stars
of
their
brows. Muddy swinesnouts, hands,
root
and
root, gripe
and
wrest
them.
She
dances
in
a
foul
gloom
where
gum
bums
with
garlic.
A
sailorman, rustbearded, sips
from
a
beaker
rum
and
eyes her.
A
long
and
seafed
silent
rut.
She
dances, capers, wagging her sowish haunches
and
her hips,
on
her gross
belly
flapping
a
ruby
egg.
Old
Russell
with
a
smeared shammy
rag
burnished
again
his
gem, turned
it
and
held
it
at
the
point
of
his
Moses' beard.
Grandfather
ape
gloating
on
a
stolen hoard.
And
you
who
wrest
old
images
from
the
burial
earth? The brainsick words
of
sophists: Antisthenes.
A
lore
of
drugs. Orient
and
immortal
wheat
standing
from
everlasting
to
everlasting.
Two
old
women
fresh
from
their
whiff
of
the briny trudged through Irishtown
along
London
bridge
road,
one
with
a
sanded tired umbrella,
one
with
a
midwife's
bag
in
which
eleven
cockles rolled. The whirr
of
flapping
leathern
bands
and
hum
of
dynamos
from
the powerhouse urged Stephen
to
be
on. Beingless beings. Stop! Throb
always
without
you
and
the throb
always
within. Your
heart
you
sing of. I
between
them. Where?
Between
two
roaring worlds
where
they
swirl, I.
Shatter
them,
one
and
both. But
stun
myself
too
in
the blow.
Shatter
me
you
who
can.
Bawd
and
butcher
were
the words. I say! Not
yet
awhile.
A
look
around. Yes,
quite
true.
Very
large
and
wonderful
and
keeps
famous
time.
You
say
right, sir.
A
Monday morning, 'twas so, indeed. Stephen went
down
Bedford row, the
handle
of
the
ash
clacking against
his
shoulderblade.
In
Clohissey's
window
a
faded 1860
print
of
Heenan boxing Sayers held
his
eye. Staring backers
with
square
hats stood round the roped prizering. The heavyweights
in
tight
loincloths proposed gently
each
to
other
his
bulbous
fists.
And
they
are
throbbing: heroes' hearts.
He
turned
and
halted
by
the slanted bookcart. —Twopence each, the
huckster
said. Four
for
sixpence. Father Conmee, having read
his
little
hours, walked through the
hamlet
of
Donnycarney, murmuring vespers. Binding
too
good
probably.
What
is
this? Eighth
and
ninth
book
of
Moses.
Secret
of
all secrets. Seal
of
King
David. Thumbed pages: read
and
read.
Who
has passed here before me?
How
to
soften chapped hands.
Recipe
for
white
wine vinegar.
How
to
win
a
woman's love.
For
me
this.
Say
the
following
talisman
three
times
with
hands folded:
Who
wrote this? Charms
and
invocations
of
the
most
blessed
abbot
Peter Salanka
to
all true believers divulged.
As
good
as
any
other
abbot's charms,
as
mumbling Joachim's. Down, baldynoddle,
or
we'll
wool
your wool. —What
are
you
doing here, Stephen? Dilly's high shoulders
and
shabby
dress.
Shut
the
book
quick. Don't
let
see. —What
are
you
doing? Stephen said. —What
have
you
there? Stephen asked. —I bought
it
from
the
other
cart
for
a
penny,
Dilly
said, laughing nervously.
Is
it
any
good? My eyes
they
say
she
has.
Do
others
see
me
so? Quick,
far
and
daring.
Shadow
of
my mind.
He
took the coverless
book
from
her hand. Chardenal's French primer. —What
did
you
buy
that
for?
he
asked.
To
learn
French?
She
nodded, reddening
and
closing
tight
her lips.
Show
no surprise.
Quite
natural. —Here, Stephen said. It's all right.
Mind
Maggy doesn't pawn
it
on
you. I
suppose
all my books
are
gone. —Some,
Dilly
said.
We
had to.
She
is
drowning. Agenbite. Save her. Agenbite. All against us.
She
will
drown
me
with
her, eyes
and
hair.
Lank
coils
of
seaweed
hair
around
me, my heart, my soul.
Salt
green
death. We. Agenbite
of
inwit. Inwit's agenbite. Misery! Misery! —Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said.
How
are
things? —Hello, Bob,
old
man, Mr Dedalus answered, stopping.
They
clasped hands loudly outside Reddy
and
Daughter's. Father Cowley brushed
his
moustache
often
downward
with
a
scooping hand. —What's the
best
news? Mr Dedalus said. —Why
then
not much, Father Cowley said. I'm barricaded up, Simon,
with
two
men prowling
around
the
house
trying
to
effect
an entrance. —Jolly, Mr Dedalus said.
Who
is
it? —O, Father Cowley said.
A
certain
gombeen
man
of
our
acquaintance. —With
a
broken
back,
is
it? Mr Dedalus asked. —The same, Simon, Father Cowley answered. Reuben
of
that
ilk. I'm
just
waiting
for
Ben
Dollard. He's going
to
say
a
word
to
long
John
to
get
him
to
take
those
two
men off. All I
want
is
a
little
time.
He
looked
with
vague
hope
up
and
down
the quay,
a
big
apple
bulging
in
his
neck. —I know, Mr Dedalus said, nodding.
Poor
old
bockedy Ben! He's
always
doing
a
good
turn
for
someone.
Hold
hard!
He
put
on
his
glasses
and
gazed
towards
the
metal
bridge
an instant. —There
he
is,
by
God,
he
said,
arse
and
pockets.
Ben
Dollard's
loose
blue cutaway
and
square
hat
above
large
slops crossed the
quay
in
full
gait
from
the
metal
bridge.
He
came
towards
them
at
an amble, scratching actively
behind
his
coattails.
As
he
came
near
Mr Dedalus greeted: —Hold
that
fellow
with
the
bad
trousers. —Hold
him
now,
Ben
Dollard said. Mr Dedalus eyed
with
cold wandering
scorn
various
points
of
Ben
Dollard's figure. Then, turning
to
Father Cowley
with
a
nod,
he
muttered sneeringly: —That's
a
pretty garment, isn't it,
for
a
summer's day? —Why,
God
eternally
curse
your soul,
Ben
Dollard growled furiously, I threw
out
more
clothes
in
my
time
than
you
ever
saw.
He
stood
beside
them
beaming,
on
them
first
and
on
his
roomy
clothes
from
points
of
which
Mr Dedalus flicked fluff, saying: —They
were
made
for
a
man
in
his
health, Ben, anyhow. —Bad
luck
to
the jewman
that
made
them,
Ben
Dollard said.
Thanks
be
to
God
he's not paid yet. Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, murmuring, glassyeyed, strode past the Kildare
street
club.
Ben
Dollard frowned and, making suddenly
a
chanter's mouth, gave
forth
a
deep
note. —Aw!
he
said. —That's the style, Mr Dedalus said, nodding
to
its drone. —What
about
that?
Ben
Dollard said. Not
too
dusty? What?
He
turned
to
both. —That'll do, Father Cowley said, nodding also. The
reverend
Hugh C.
Love
walked
from
the
old
chapterhouse
of
saint Mary's
abbey
past James
and
Charles Kennedy's, rectifiers, attended
by
Geraldines
tall
and
personable,
towards
the Tholsel
beyond
the
ford
of
hurdles.
Ben
Dollard
with
a
heavy list
towards
the shopfronts led
them
forward,
his
joyful fingers
in
the air. —Come
along
with
me
to
the subsheriff's office,
he
said. I
want
to
show
you
the
new
beauty
Rock has
for
a
bailiff. He's
a
cross
between
Lobengula
and
Lynchehaun. He's
well
worth
seeing,
mind
you.
Come
along. I
saw
John Henry Menton casually
in
the
Bodega
just
now
and
it
will
cost
me
a
fall
if
I don't...
Wait
awhile... We're
on
the
right
lay, Bob,
believe
you
me. —For
a
few
days
tell
him, Father Cowley said anxiously.
Ben
Dollard halted
and
stared,
his
loud
orifice
open,
a
dangling
button
of
his
coat wagging brightbacked
from
its thread
as
he
wiped
away
the heavy shraums
that
clogged
his
eyes
to
hear
aright. —What
few
days?
he
boomed. Hasn't your landlord distrained
for
rent? —He has, Father Cowley said. —Then
our
friend's
writ
is
not
worth
the paper it's printed on,
Ben
Dollard said. The landlord has the
prior
claim. I gave
him
all the particulars. 29 Windsor avenue.
Love
is
the name? —That's right, Father Cowley said. The
reverend
Mr Love. He's
a
minister
in
the
country
somewhere. But
are
you
sure
of
that? —You
can
tell
Barabbas
from
me,
Ben
Dollard said,
that
he
can
put
that
writ
where
Jacko
put
the nuts.
He
led Father Cowley boldly forward, linked
to
his
bulk. —Filberts I
believe
they
were, Mr Dedalus said,
as
he
dropped
his
glasses
on
his
coatfront,
following
them. —The
youngster
will
be
all right,
Martin
Cunningham said,
as
they
passed
out
of
the Castleyard gate. The policeman touched
his
forehead. —God
bless
you,
Martin
Cunningham said, cheerily.
He
signed
to
the waiting jarvey
who
chucked
at
the reins
and
set
on
towards
Lord Edward street.
Bronze
by
gold,
Miss
Kennedy's
head
by
Miss
Douce's head, appeared
above
the crossblind
of
the Ormond hotel. —Yes,
Martin
Cunningham said, fingering
his
beard. I wrote
to
Father Conmee
and
laid the
whole
case
before him. —You
could
try
our
friend, Mr Power suggested backward. —Boyd?
Martin
Cunningham said shortly.
Touch
me
not. John Wyse Nolan, lagging behind,
reading
the list, came
after
them
quickly
down
Cork hill.
On
the steps
of
the
City
hall
Councillor Nannetti, descending, hailed
Alderman
Cowley
and
Councillor Abraham Lyon ascending. The castle
car
wheeled empty
into
upper
Exchange
street. —Quite right,
Martin
Cunningham said, taking the list.
And
put
down
the
five
shillings too. —Without
a
second
word
either, Mr Power said. —Strange but true,
Martin
Cunningham added. John Wyse Nolan opened
wide
eyes. —I'll
say
there
is
much
kindness
in
the jew,
he
quoted, elegantly.
They
went
down
Parliament
street. —There's Jimmy Henry, Mr Power said,
just
heading
for
Kavanagh's. —Righto,
Martin
Cunningham said. Here goes. John Wyse Nolan
fell
back
with
Mr Power,
while
Martin
Cunningham took the elbow
of
a
dapper
little
man
in
a
shower
of
hail
suit,
who
walked uncertainly,
with
hasty
steps past Micky Anderson's watches. —The
assistant
town
clerk's corns
are
giving
him
some
trouble, John Wyse Nolan told Mr Power.
They
followed round the
corner
towards
James Kavanagh's winerooms. The empty castle
car
fronted
them
at
rest
in
Essex gate.
Martin
Cunningham, speaking always, showed
often
the list
at
which
Jimmy Henry
did
not glance. —And
long
John Fanning
is
here too, John Wyse Nolan said,
as
large
as
life. The
tall
form
of
long
John Fanning filled the doorway
where
he
stood. —Good day, Mr Subsheriff,
Martin
Cunningham said,
as
all halted
and
greeted.
Long
John Fanning
made
no
way
for
them.
He
removed
his
large
Henry
Clay
decisively
and
his
large
fierce
eyes scowled intelligently
over
all
their
faces. —Are the
conscript
fathers pursuing
their
peaceful deliberations?
he
said
with
rich
acrid
utterance
to
the
assistant
town
clerk.
Long
John Fanning blew
a
plume
of
smoke
from
his
lips.
Martin
Cunningham
spoke
by
turns, twirling the peak
of
his
beard,
to
the
assistant
town
clerk
and
the subsheriff,
while
John Wyse Nolan held
his
peace. —What Dignam
was
that?
long
John Fanning asked. Jimmy Henry
made
a
grimace
and
lifted
his
left
foot. —O, my corns!
he
said plaintively.
Come
upstairs
for
goodness' sake
till
I
sit
down
somewhere. Uff! Ooo! Mind! Testily
he
made
room
for
himself
beside
long
John Fanning's flank
and
passed
in
and
up
the stairs. —Come
on
up,
Martin
Cunningham said
to
the subsheriff. I don't
think
you
knew
him
or
perhaps
you
did, though.
With
John Wyse Nolan Mr Power followed
them
in. —Decent
little
soul
he
was, Mr Power said
to
the
stalwart
back
of
long
John Fanning ascending
towards
long
John Fanning
in
the mirror. —Rather lowsized. Dignam
of
Menton's
office
that
was,
Martin
Cunningham said.
Long
John Fanning
could
not
remember
him.
Clatter
of
horsehoofs sounded
from
the air. —What's that?
Martin
Cunningham said. All turned
where
they
stood. John Wyse Nolan came
down
again.
From
the cool
shadow
of
the doorway
he
saw
the horses pass
Parliament
street,
harness
and
glossy pasterns
in
sunlight
shimmering.
Gaily
they
went past before
his
cool
unfriendly
eyes, not quickly.
In
saddles
of
the leaders, leaping leaders, rode outriders. —What
was
it?
Martin
Cunningham asked,
as
they
went
on
up
the staircase. —The lord lieutenantgeneral
and
general
governor
of
Ireland, John Wyse Nolan answered
from
the stairfoot.
As
they
trod
across
the
thick
carpet Buck Mulligan whispered
behind
his
Panama
to
Haines: —Parnell's brother. There
in
the corner.
They
chose
a
small table
near
the window,
opposite
a
longfaced
man
whose
beard
and
gaze
hung
intently
down
on
a
chessboard. —Is
that
he? Haines asked, twisting round
in
his
seat. —Yes, Mulligan said. That's John Howard,
his
brother,
our
city
marshal. John Howard Parnell translated
a
white
bishop
quietly
and
his
grey
claw
went
up
again
to
his
forehead
whereat
it
rested. An
instant
after, under its screen,
his
eyes looked quickly, ghostbright,
at
his
foe
and
fell
once
more
upon
a
working corner.
When
she
had gone
he
said, laughing: Haines opened
his
newbought book. —I'm sorry,
he
said. Shakespeare
is
the
happy
huntingground
of
all minds
that
have
lost
their
balance. The onelegged
sailor
growled
at
the
area
of
14 Nelson street: Buck Mulligan's
primrose
waistcoat shook
gaily
to
his
laughter. —You should
see
him,
he
said,
when
his
body
loses its balance. Wandering Aengus I
call
him. Buck Mulligan bent
across
the table gravely. —They
drove
his
wits astray,
he
said,
by
visions
of
hell.
He
will
never
capture the
Attic
note. The
note
of
Swinburne,
of
all poets, the
white
death
and
the
ruddy
birth.
That
is
his
tragedy.
He
can
never
be
a
poet. The
joy
of
creation... —Eternal punishment, Haines said, nodding curtly. I see. I tackled
him
this
morning
on
belief. There
was
something
on
his
mind, I saw. It's
rather
interesting
because
professor
Pokorny
of
Vienna makes an interesting
point
out
of
that. Buck Mulligan's watchful eyes
saw
the waitress come.
He
helped her
to
unload her tray. —He
can
find no
trace
of
hell
in
ancient
Irish myth, Haines said,
amid
the cheerful cups. The
moral
idea
seems lacking, the sense
of
destiny,
of
retribution.
Rather
strange
he
should
have
just
that
fixed idea. Does
he
write
anything
for
your movement?
He
sank
two
lumps
of
sugar deftly longwise through the whipped cream. Buck Mulligan
slit
a
steaming
scone
in
two
and
plastered
butter
over
its smoking pith.
He
bit
off
a
soft
piece
hungrily. —Ten years,
he
said, chewing
and
laughing.
He
is
going
to
write
something
in
ten years. —Seems
a
long
way
off, Haines said, thoughtfully lifting
his
spoon. Still, I shouldn't
wonder
if
he
did
after
all.
He
tasted
a
spoonful
from
the creamy
cone
of
his
cup. —This
is
real
Irish cream I
take
it,
he
said
with
forbearance. I don't
want
to
be
imposed on. Almidano Artifoni walked past Holles street, past Sewell's yard.
Behind
him
Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell,
with
stickumbrelladustcoat dangling, shunned the
lamp
before Mr
Law
Smith's
house
and, crossing, walked
along
Merrion square. Distantly
behind
him
a
blind stripling tapped
his
way
by
the
wall
of
College
park. Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell walked
as
far
as
Mr Lewis Werner's cheerful windows,
then
turned
and
strode
back
along
Merrion square,
his
stickumbrelladustcoat dangling.
At
the
corner
of
Wilde's
house
he
halted, frowned
at
Elijah's
name
announced
on
the
Metropolitan
hall, frowned
at
the
distant
pleasance
of
duke's lawn.
His
eyeglass flashed frowning
in
the sun.
With
ratsteeth bared
he
muttered:
He
strode
on
for
Clare street, grinding
his
fierce
word.
As
he
strode past Mr Bloom's
dental
windows the
sway
of
his
dustcoat brushed rudely
from
its
angle
a
slender
tapping
cane
and
swept onwards, having buffeted
a
thewless body. The blind stripling turned
his
sickly face
after
the striding form. —God's
curse
on
you,
he
said sourly,
whoever
you
are! You're blinder
nor
I am,
you
bitch's bastard!
Opposite
Ruggy O'Donohoe's
Master
Patrick Aloysius Dignam, pawing the
pound
and
a
half
of
Mangan's,
late
Fehrenbach's, porksteaks
he
had been sent for, went
along
warm
Wicklow
street
dawdling.
It
was
too
blooming
dull
sitting
in
the parlour
with
Mrs Stoer
and
Mrs Quigley
and
Mrs MacDowell
and
the blind
down
and
they
all
at
their
sniffles
and
sipping sups
of
the
superior
tawny
sherry
uncle
Barney brought
from
Tunney's.
And
they
eating crumbs
of
the
cottage
fruitcake, jawing the
whole
blooming
time
and
sighing.
After
Wicklow
lane
the
window
of
Madame Doyle, courtdress milliner, stopped him.
He
stood looking
in
at
the
two
puckers stripped
to
their
pelts
and
putting
up
their
props.
From
the sidemirrors
two
mourning
Masters Dignam gaped silently. Myler Keogh, Dublin's pet lamb,
will
meet sergeantmajor Bennett, the Portobello bruiser,
for
a
purse
of
fifty
sovereigns. Gob, that'd
be
a
good
pucking match
to
see. Myler Keogh, that's the chap sparring
out
to
him
with
the
green
sash.
Two
bar
entrance, soldiers half price. I
could
easy
do
a
bunk
on
ma.
Master
Dignam
on
his
left
turned
as
he
turned. That's
me
in
mourning.
When
is
it?
May
the twentysecond. Sure, the blooming
thing
is
all over.
He
turned
to
the
right
and
on
his
right
Master
Dignam turned,
his
cap
awry,
his
collar sticking up. Buttoning
it
down,
his
chin
lifted,
he
saw
the
image
of
Marie Kendall, charming soubrette,
beside
the
two
puckers.
One
of
them
mots
that
do
be
in
the packets
of
fags Stoer smokes
that
his
old
fellow
welted
hell
out
of
him
for
one
time
he
found out.
Master
Dignam got
his
collar
down
and
dawdled on. The
best
pucker going
for
strength
was
Fitzsimons.
One
puck
in
the wind
from
that
fellow
would
knock
you
into
the
middle
of
next
week, man. But the
best
pucker
for
science
was
Jem Corbet before Fitzsimons knocked the stuffings
out
of
him, dodging
and
all.
In
Grafton
street
Master
Dignam
saw
a
red
flower
in
a
toff's
mouth
and
a
swell
pair
of
kicks
on
him
and
he
listening
to
what
the
drunk
was
telling
him
and
grinning all the time. No Sandymount tram.
Master
Dignam walked
along
Nassau street, shifted the porksteaks
to
his
other
hand.
His
collar sprang
up
again
and
he
tugged
it
down. The blooming stud
was
too
small
for
the buttonhole
of
the shirt, blooming
end
to
it.
He
met schoolboys
with
satchels. I'm not going
tomorrow
either, stay
away
till
Monday.
He
met
other
schoolboys.
Do
they
notice I'm
in
mourning?
Uncle
Barney said he'd
get
it
into
the paper tonight.
Then
they'll all
see
it
in
the paper
and
read my
name
printed
and
pa's name.
His
face got all grey
instead
of
being
red
like
it
was
and
there
was
a
fly
walking
over
it
up
to
his
eye. The scrunch
that
was
when
they
were
screwing the screws
into
the coffin:
and
the bumps
when
they
were
bringing
it
downstairs. Pa
was
inside
it
and
ma crying
in
the parlour
and
uncle
Barney telling the men
how
to
get
it
round the bend.
A
big
coffin
it
was,
and
high
and
heavylooking.
How
was
that? The
last
night
pa
was
boosed
he
was
standing
on
the landing there bawling
out
for
his
boots
to
go
out
to
Tunney's
for
to
boose
more
and
he
looked
butty
and
short
in
his
shirt.
Never
see
him
again. Death,
that
is. Pa
is
dead. My father
is
dead.
He
told
me
to
be
a
good
son
to
ma. I couldn't
hear
the
other
things
he
said but I
saw
his
tongue
and
his
teeth trying
to
say
it
better.
Poor
pa.
That
was
Mr Dignam, my father. I
hope
he's
in
purgatory
now
because
he
went
to
confession
to
Father Conroy
on
Saturday night. William Humble,
earl
of
Dudley,
and
lady
Dudley, accompanied
by
lieutenantcolonel Heseltine,
drove
out
after
luncheon
from
the viceregal lodge.
In
the
following
carriage
were
the
honourable
Mrs Paget,
Miss
de
Courcy
and
the
honourable
Gerald
Ward
A.D.C.
in
attendance.
Thither
of
the
wall
the quartermile
flat
handicappers, M. C. Green, H. Shrift, T. M. Patey, C. Scaife, J. B. Jeffs, G. N. Morphy, F. Stevenson, C. Adderly
and
W. C. Huggard, started
in
pursuit. Striding past Finn's
hotel
Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell stared through
a
fierce
eyeglass
across
the carriages
at
the
head
of
Mr M. E. Solomons
in
the
window
of
the Austro-Hungarian viceconsulate.
Deep
in
Leinster
street
by
Trinity's
postern
a
loyal
king's man, Hornblower, touched
his
tallyho cap.
As
the glossy horses pranced
by
Merrion
square
Master
Patrick Aloysius Dignam, waiting,
saw
salutes being
given
to
the gent
with
the topper
and
raised
also
his
new
black
cap
with
fingers greased
by
porksteak paper.
His
collar
too
sprang up. The viceroy,
on
his
way
to
inaugurate
the Mirus
bazaar
in
aid
of
funds
for
Mercer's hospital,
drove
with
his
following
towards
Lower
Mount
street.
He
passed
a
blind stripling
opposite
Broadbent's.
In
Lower
Mount
street
a
pedestrian
in
a
brown macintosh, eating
dry
bread, passed swiftly
and
unscathed
across
the viceroy's path.
At
the Royal
Canal
bridge,
from
his
hoarding, Mr Eugene Stratton,
his
blub lips agrin, bade all comers
welcome
to
Pembroke township.
At
Haddington
road
corner
two
sanded women halted themselves, an
umbrella
and
a
bag
in
which
eleven
cockles rolled
to
view
with
wonder
the lord
mayor
and
lady
mayoress without
his
golden
chain.
On
Northumberland
and
Lansdowne roads
His
Excellency
acknowledged punctually salutes
from
rare
male
walkers, the salute
of
two
small schoolboys
at
the
garden
gate
of
the
house
said
to
have
been admired
by
the
late
queen
when
visiting the Irish
capital
with
her husband, the prince consort,
in
1849
and
the salute
of
Almidano Artifoni's
sturdy
trousers
swallowed
by
a
closing door.