—You, Cochrane,
what
city
sent
for
him? —Tarentum, sir. —Very good. Well? —There
was
a
battle, sir. —Very good. Where? The boy's
blank
face asked the
blank
window.
Fabled
by
the daughters
of
memory.
And
yet
it
was
in
some
way
if
not
as
memory
fabled
it.
A
phrase, then,
of
impatience,
thud
of
Blake's wings
of
excess. I
hear
the ruin
of
all space, shattered glass
and
toppling masonry,
and
time
one
livid
final
flame. What's
left
us
then? —I
forget
the place, sir. 279 B. C. —Asculum, Stephen said, glancing
at
the
name
and
date
in
the gorescarred book.
That
phrase the
world
had remembered.
A
dull
ease
of
the mind.
From
a
hill
above
a
corpsestrewn
plain
a
general
speaking
to
his
officers, leaned
upon
his
spear.
Any
general
to
any
officers.
They
lend
ear. —You, Armstrong, Stephen said.
What
was
the
end
of
Pyrrhus? —End
of
Pyrrhus, sir? —I know, sir.
Ask
me, sir, Comyn said. —Wait. You, Armstrong.
Do
you
know
anything
about
Pyrrhus?
A
bag
of
figrolls
lay
snugly
in
Armstrong's satchel.
He
curled
them
between
his
palms
at
whiles
and
swallowed
them
softly. Crumbs adhered
to
the
tissue
of
his
lips.
A
sweetened boy's breath. Welloff people,
proud
that
their
eldest
son
was
in
the navy. Vico road, Dalkey. —Pyrrhus, sir? Pyrrhus,
a
pier. All laughed. Mirthless high
malicious
laughter. Armstrong looked round
at
his
classmates,
silly
glee
in
profile.
In
a
moment
they
will
laugh
more
loudly,
aware
of
my
lack
of
rule
and
of
the fees
their
papas pay. —Tell
me
now, Stephen said, poking the boy's shoulder
with
the book,
what
is
a
pier. —A pier, sir, Armstrong said.
A
thing
out
in
the water.
A
kind
of
a
bridge. Kingstown pier, sir.
Some
laughed again: mirthless but
with
meaning.
Two
in
the
back
bench
whispered. Yes.
They
knew: had
never
learned
nor
ever
been innocent. All.
With
envy
he
watched
their
faces: Edith, Ethel, Gerty, Lily.
Their
likes:
their
breaths, too, sweetened
with
tea
and
jam,
their
bracelets tittering
in
the struggle. —Kingstown pier, Stephen said. Yes,
a
disappointed bridge. The words troubled
their
gaze. —How, sir? Comyn asked.
A
bridge
is
across
a
river.
For
Haines's chapbook. No-one here
to
hear.
Tonight
deftly
amid
wild
drink
and
talk,
to
pierce
the polished
mail
of
his
mind.
What
then?
A
jester
at
the court
of
his
master, indulged
and
disesteemed, winning
a
clement
master's praise.
Why
had
they
chosen all
that
part? Not
wholly
for
the
smooth
caress.
For
them
too
history
was
a
tale
like
any
other
too
often
heard,
their
land
a
pawnshop. Had Pyrrhus not fallen
by
a
beldam's
hand
in
Argos
or
Julius Caesar not been knifed
to
death.
They
are
not
to
be
thought
away.
Time
has branded
them
and
fettered
they
are
lodged
in
the
room
of
the
infinite
possibilities
they
have
ousted. But
can
those
have
been
possible
seeing
that
they
never
were?
Or
was
that
only
possible
which
came
to
pass? Weave, weaver
of
the wind. —Tell
us
a
story, sir. —O, do, sir.
A
ghoststory. —Where
do
you
begin
in
this? Stephen asked,
opening
another
book. —Go
on
then, Talbot. —And the story, sir? —After, Stephen said.
Go
on, Talbot.
A
swarthy
boy
opened
a
book
and
propped
it
nimbly under the
breastwork
of
his
satchel.
He
recited jerks
of
verse
with
odd
glances
at
the text:
It
must
be
a
movement
then, an
actuality
of
the
possible
as
possible. Aristotle's phrase formed
itself
within the gabbled verses
and
floated
out
into
the
studious
silence
of
the
library
of
Saint Genevieve
where
he
had read, sheltered
from
the
sin
of
Paris,
night
by
night.
By
his
elbow
a
delicate
Siamese conned
a
handbook
of
strategy. Fed
and
feeding
brains
about
me: under glowlamps, impaled,
with
faintly
beating feelers:
and
in
my mind's
darkness
a
sloth
of
the underworld, reluctant,
shy
of
brightness, shifting her
dragon
scaly folds.
Thought
is
the
thought
of
thought.
Tranquil
brightness. The soul
is
in
a
manner
all
that
is: the soul
is
the
form
of
forms.
Tranquility
sudden, vast, candescent:
form
of
forms. Talbot repeated: —Turn over, Stephen said quietly. I don't
see
anything. —What, sir? Talbot asked simply, bending forward.
His
hand
turned the
page
over.
He
leaned
back
and
went
on
again, having
just
remembered.
Of
him
that
walked the waves. Here
also
over
these
craven
hearts
his
shadow
lies
and
on
the scoffer's
heart
and
lips
and
on
mine.
It
lies
upon
their
eager
faces
who
offered
him
a
coin
of
the tribute.
To
Caesar
what
is
Caesar's,
to
God
what
is
God's.
A
long
look
from
dark eyes,
a
riddling sentence
to
be
woven
and
woven
on
the church's looms. Ay. Talbot slid
his
closed
book
into
his
satchel. —Have I heard all? Stephen asked. —Yes, sir.
Hockey
at
ten, sir. —Half day, sir. Thursday. —Who
can
answer
a
riddle? Stephen asked.
They
bundled
their
books away, pencils clacking, pages rustling. Crowding
together
they
strapped
and
buckled
their
satchels, all gabbling gaily: —A riddle, sir?
Ask
me, sir. —O,
ask
me, sir. —A
hard
one, sir. —This
is
the riddle, Stephen said:
What
is
that? —What, sir? —Again, sir.
We
didn't hear.
Their
eyes grew bigger
as
the lines
were
repeated.
After
a
silence Cochrane said: —What
is
it, sir?
We
give
it
up. Stephen,
his
throat
itching, answered: —The
fox
burying
his
grandmother
under
a
hollybush.
He
stood
up
and
gave
a
shout
of
nervous
laughter
to
which
their
cries echoed dismay.
A
stick
struck the
door
and
a
voice
in
the
corridor
called: —Hockey!
They
broke
asunder, sidling
out
of
their
benches, leaping them.
Quickly
they
were
gone
and
from
the lumberroom came the rattle
of
sticks
and
clamour
of
their
boots
and
tongues. Sargent
who
alone had lingered came forward slowly, showing an
open
copybook.
His
thick
hair
and
scraggy
neck
gave witness
of
unreadiness
and
through
his
misty
glasses
weak
eyes looked
up
pleading.
On
his
cheek,
dull
and
bloodless,
a
soft
stain
of
ink
lay, dateshaped,
recent
and
damp
as
a
snail's bed. —Mr Deasy told
me
to
write
them
out
all again,
he
said,
and
show
them
to
you, sir. Stephen touched the edges
of
the book. Futility. —Do
you
understand
how
to
do
them
now?
he
asked. —Numbers
eleven
to
fifteen, Sargent answered. Mr Deasy said I
was
to
copy
them
off
the board, sir. —Can
you
do
them
yourself? Stephen asked. —No, sir.
Ugly
and
futile:
lean
neck
and
thick
hair
and
a
stain
of
ink,
a
snail's bed.
Yet
someone had loved him, borne
him
in
her arms
and
in
her heart. But
for
her the
race
of
the
world
would
have
trampled
him
underfoot,
a
squashed boneless snail.
She
had loved
his
weak
watery
blood drained
from
her own.
Was
that
then
real? The
only
true
thing
in
life?
His
mother's prostrate
body
the
fiery
Columbanus
in
holy
zeal
bestrode.
She
was
no more: the trembling
skeleton
of
a
twig
burnt
in
the fire, an
odour
of
rosewood
and
wetted ashes.
She
had saved
him
from
being trampled
underfoot
and
had gone, scarcely having been.
A
poor
soul gone
to
heaven:
and
on
a
heath
beneath winking stars
a
fox,
red
reek
of
rapine
in
his
fur,
with
merciless
bright
eyes scraped
in
the earth, listened, scraped
up
the earth, listened, scraped
and
scraped. Sitting
at
his
side
Stephen solved
out
the problem.
He
proves
by
algebra
that
Shakespeare's
ghost
is
Hamlet's grandfather. Sargent peered
askance
through
his
slanted glasses. Hockeysticks rattled
in
the lumberroom: the
hollow
knock
of
a
ball
and
calls
from
the field.
Across
the
page
the symbols moved
in
grave
morrice,
in
the
mummery
of
their
letters, wearing
quaint
caps
of
squares
and
cubes.
Give
hands, traverse,
bow
to
partner: so: imps
of
fancy
of
the Moors. Gone
too
from
the world, Averroes
and
Moses Maimonides, dark men
in
mien
and
movement, flashing
in
their
mocking mirrors the
obscure
soul
of
the world,
a
darkness
shining
in
brightness
which
brightness
could
not comprehend. —Do
you
understand
now?
Can
you
work
the
second
for
yourself? —Yes, sir.
Like
him
was
I,
these
sloping shoulders,
this
gracelessness. My
childhood
bends
beside
me.
Too
far
for
me
to
lay
a
hand
there
once
or
lightly.
Mine
is
far
and
his
secret
as
our
eyes. Secrets, silent,
stony
sit
in
the dark palaces
of
both
our
hearts: secrets
weary
of
their
tyranny: tyrants,
willing
to
be
dethroned. The
sum
was
done. —It
is
very
simple, Stephen said
as
he
stood up. —Yes, sir. Thanks, Sargent answered.
He
dried the
page
with
a
sheet
of
thin
blottingpaper
and
carried
his
copybook
back
to
his
bench. —You had
better
get
your
stick
and
go
out
to
the others, Stephen said
as
he
followed
towards
the
door
the boy's graceless form. —Yes, sir.
In
the
corridor
his
name
was
heard, called
from
the playfield. —Sargent! —Run on, Stephen said. Mr Deasy
is
calling you.
He
stood
in
the
porch
and
watched the laggard hurry
towards
the scrappy
field
where
sharp voices
were
in
strife.
They
were
sorted
in
teams
and
Mr Deasy came
away
stepping
over
wisps
of
grass
with
gaitered feet.
When
he
had reached the schoolhouse voices
again
contending called
to
him.
He
turned
his
angry
white
moustache. —What
is
it
now?
he
cried continually without listening. —Cochrane
and
Halliday
are
on
the
same
side, sir, Stephen said. —Will
you
wait
in
my
study
for
a
moment, Mr Deasy said,
till
I
restore
order here.
And
as
he
stepped fussily
back
across
the
field
his
old
man's voice cried sternly: —What
is
the matter?
What
is
it
now?
Their
sharp voices cried
about
him
on
all sides:
their
many
forms closed round him, the
garish
sunshine
bleaching the
honey
of
his
illdyed head. Stale smoky air
hung
in
the
study
with
the
smell
of
drab
abraded
leather
of
its chairs.
As
on
the first
day
he
bargained
with
me
here.
As
it
was
in
the beginning,
is
now.
On
the sideboard the
tray
of
Stuart coins, base
treasure
of
a
bog:
and
ever
shall
be.
And
snug
in
their
spooncase
of
purple plush, faded, the
twelve
apostles having preached
to
all the gentiles:
world
without end.
A
hasty
step
over
the
stone
porch
and
in
the corridor. Blowing
out
his
rare
moustache Mr Deasy halted
at
the table. —First,
our
little
financial settlement,
he
said.
He
brought
out
of
his
coat
a
pocketbook bound
by
a
leather
thong.
It
slapped
open
and
he
took
from
it
two
notes,
one
of
joined halves,
and
laid
them
carefully
on
the table. —Two,
he
said, strapping
and
stowing
his
pocketbook away.
And
now
his
strongroom
for
the gold. Stephen's embarrassed
hand
moved
over
the shells heaped
in
the cold
stone
mortar: whelks
and
money
cowries
and
leopard
shells:
and
this, whorled
as
an emir's turban,
and
this, the
scallop
of
saint James. An
old
pilgrim's hoard,
dead
treasure,
hollow
shells.
A
sovereign
fell,
bright
and
new,
on
the
soft
pile
of
the tablecloth. —Three, Mr Deasy said, turning
his
little
savingsbox
about
in
his
hand.
These
are
handy things
to
have. See.
This
is
for
sovereigns.
This
is
for
shillings. Sixpences, halfcrowns.
And
here crowns. See.
He
shot
from
it
two
crowns
and
two
shillings. —Three twelve,
he
said. I
think
you'll find that's right. —Thank you, sir, Stephen said,
gathering
the
money
together
with
shy
haste
and
putting
it
all
in
a
pocket
of
his
trousers. —No
thanks
at
all, Mr Deasy said.
You
have
earned it. Stephen's hand,
free
again, went
back
to
the
hollow
shells. Symbols
too
of
beauty
and
of
power.
A
lump
in
my pocket: symbols soiled
by
greed
and
misery. —Don't carry
it
like
that, Mr Deasy said. You'll
pull
it
out
somewhere
and
lose
it.
You
just
buy
one
of
these
machines. You'll find
them
very
handy.
Answer
something. —Mine would
be
often
empty, Stephen said. The
same
room
and
hour, the
same
wisdom:
and
I the same.
Three
times now.
Three
nooses round
me
here. Well? I
can
break
them
in
this
instant
if
I will. —Iago, Stephen murmured.
He
lifted
his
gaze
from
the idle shells
to
the
old
man's stare. —He knew
what
money
was, Mr Deasy said.
He
made
money.
A
poet, yes, but an Englishman too.
Do
you
know
what
is
the
pride
of
the English?
Do
you
know
what
is
the proudest
word
you
will
ever
hear
from
an Englishman's mouth? The seas' ruler.
His
seacold eyes looked
on
the empty bay:
it
seems
history
is
to
blame:
on
me
and
on
my words, unhating. —That
on
his
empire, Stephen said, the
sun
never
sets. —Ba! Mr Deasy cried. That's not English.
A
French
Celt
said that.
He
tapped
his
savingsbox against
his
thumbnail.
Good
man,
good
man. Mulligan,
nine
pounds,
three
pairs
of
socks,
one
pair brogues, ties. Curran, ten guineas. McCann,
one
guinea. Fred Ryan,
two
shillings. Temple,
two
lunches. Russell,
one
guinea, Cousins, ten shillings,
Bob
Reynolds, half
a
guinea, Koehler,
three
guineas, Mrs MacKernan,
five
weeks' board. The lump I
have
is
useless. —For the moment, no, Stephen answered. Mr Deasy laughed
with
rich
delight, putting
back
his
savingsbox. —I knew
you
couldn't,
he
said joyously. But
one
day
you
must
feel it.
We
are
a
generous
people
but
we
must
also
be
just. —I
fear
those
big
words, Stephen said,
which
make
us
so
unhappy. Mr Deasy stared sternly
for
some
moments
over
the mantelpiece
at
the shapely bulk
of
a
man
in
tartan
filibegs: Albert Edward, prince
of
Wales. —You
think
me
an
old
fogey
and
an
old
tory,
his
thoughtful
voice said. I
saw
three
generations
since
O'Connell's time. I
remember
the
famine
in
'46.
Do
you
know
that
the
orange
lodges agitated
for
repeal
of
the union
twenty
years before O'Connell
did
or
before the prelates
of
your
communion
denounced
him
as
a
demagogue?
You
fenians
forget
some
things. Glorious,
pious
and
immortal
memory. The
lodge
of
Diamond
in
Armagh the
splendid
behung
with
corpses
of
papishes. Hoarse, masked
and
armed, the planters' covenant. The
black
north
and
true blue bible. Croppies
lie
down. Stephen sketched
a
brief
gesture. —I
have
rebel blood
in
me
too, Mr Deasy said.
On
the
spindle
side. But I
am
descended
from
sir John Blackwood
who
voted
for
the union.
We
are
all Irish, all kings' sons. —Alas, Stephen said.
A
gruff
squire
on
horseback
with
shiny topboots.
Soft
day, sir John!
Soft
day, your honour!... Day!... Day!...
Two
topboots
jog
dangling
on
to
Dublin. Lal the ral the ra. Lal the ral the raddy. —That reminds me, Mr Deasy said.
You
can
do
me
a
favour, Mr Dedalus,
with
some
of
your
literary
friends. I
have
a
letter
here
for
the press.
Sit
down
a
moment. I
have
just
to
copy
the end.
He
went
to
the
desk
near
the window, pulled
in
his
chair
twice
and
read
off
some
words
from
the
sheet
on
the
drum
of
his
typewriter.
He
peered
from
under
his
shaggy
brows
at
the
manuscript
by
his
elbow and, muttering, began
to
prod the stiff buttons
of
the keyboard slowly, sometimes blowing
as
he
screwed
up
the
drum
to
erase
an error. —Full stop, Mr Deasy bade
his
keys. But
prompt
ventilation
of
this
allimportant question...
Where
Cranly led
me
to
get
rich
quick,
hunting
his
winners
among
the mudsplashed brakes,
amid
the bawls
of
bookies
on
their
pitches
and
reek
of
the canteen,
over
the
motley
slush.
Fair
Rebel!
Fair
Rebel!
Even
money
the favourite: ten
to
one
the field. Dicers
and
thimbleriggers
we
hurried
by
after
the hoofs, the vying caps
and
jackets
and
past the meatfaced woman,
a
butcher's dame, nuzzling thirstily her
clove
of
orange. Shouts
rang
shrill
from
the boys' playfield
and
a
whirring whistle. Again:
a
goal. I
am
among
them,
among
their
battling bodies
in
a
medley, the
joust
of
life.
You
mean
that
knockkneed mother's darling
who
seems
to
be
slightly crawsick? Jousts.
Time
shocked rebounds, shock
by
shock. Jousts, slush
and
uproar
of
battles, the frozen deathspew
of
the slain,
a
shout
of
spearspikes baited
with
men's bloodied guts. —Now then, Mr Deasy said, rising.
He
came
to
the table, pinning
together
his
sheets. Stephen stood up. —I
have
put
the
matter
into
a
nutshell, Mr Deasy said. It's
about
the
foot
and
mouth
disease.
Just
look
through it. There
can
be
no
two
opinions
on
the matter. —I don't mince words,
do
I? Mr Deasy asked
as
Stephen read on.
Foot
and
mouth
disease. Known
as
Koch's preparation.
Serum
and
virus. Percentage
of
salted horses. Rinderpest. Emperor's horses
at
Murzsteg,
lower
Austria.
Veterinary
surgeons. Mr Henry Blackwood Price.
Courteous
offer
a
fair
trial. Dictates
of
common
sense. Allimportant question.
In
every
sense
of
the
word
take
the
bull
by
the horns. Thanking
you
for
the
hospitality
of
your columns. —I
want
that
to
be
printed
and
read, Mr Deasy said.
You
will
see
at
the
next
outbreak
they
will
put
an
embargo
on
Irish cattle.
And
it
can
be
cured.
It
is
cured. My cousin, Blackwood Price, writes
to
me
it
is
regularly treated
and
cured
in
Austria
by
cattledoctors there.
They
offer
to
come
over
here. I
am
trying
to
work
up
influence
with
the department.
Now
I'm going
to
try
publicity. I
am
surrounded
by
difficulties, by... intrigues by... backstairs
influence
by...
He
raised
his
forefinger
and
beat
the air oldly before
his
voice spoke. —Mark my words, Mr Dedalus,
he
said. England
is
in
the hands
of
the jews.
In
all the highest places: her finance, her press.
And
they
are
the signs
of
a
nation's decay. Wherever
they
gather
they
eat
up
the nation's
vital
strength. I
have
seen
it
coming
these
years.
As
sure
as
we
are
standing here the jew merchants
are
already
at
their
work
of
destruction.
Old
England
is
dying.
He
stepped swiftly off,
his
eyes coming
to
blue
life
as
they
passed
a
broad
sunbeam.
He
faced
about
and
back
again. —Dying,
he
said again,
if
not
dead
by
now.
His
eyes
open
wide
in
vision
stared sternly
across
the
sunbeam
in
which
he
halted. —A merchant, Stephen said,
is
one
who
buys
cheap
and
sells dear, jew
or
gentile,
is
he
not? —They sinned against the light, Mr Deasy said gravely.
And
you
can
see
the
darkness
in
their
eyes.
And
that
is
why
they
are
wanderers
on
the
earth
to
this
day.
On
the steps
of
the Paris stock
exchange
the goldskinned men quoting prices
on
their
gemmed fingers. Gabble
of
geese.
They
swarmed loud,
uncouth
about
the temple,
their
heads thickplotting under maladroit
silk
hats. Not theirs:
these
clothes,
this
speech,
these
gestures.
Their
full
slow
eyes belied the words, the gestures
eager
and
unoffending, but knew the rancours massed
about
them
and
knew
their
zeal
was
vain.
Vain
patience
to
heap
and
hoard.
Time
surely would
scatter
all.
A
hoard
heaped
by
the roadside: plundered
and
passing on.
Their
eyes knew
their
years
of
wandering and, patient, knew the dishonours
of
their
flesh. —Who has not? Stephen said. —What
do
you
mean? Mr Deasy asked.
He
came forward
a
pace
and
stood
by
the table.
His
underjaw
fell
sideways
open
uncertainly.
Is
this
old
wisdom?
He
waits
to
hear
from
me. —History, Stephen said,
is
a
nightmare
from
which
I
am
trying
to
awake.
From
the playfield the boys raised
a
shout.
A
whirring whistle: goal.
What
if
that
nightmare
gave
you
a
back
kick? —The ways
of
the
Creator
are
not
our
ways, Mr Deasy said. All
human
history
moves
towards
one
great
goal, the
manifestation
of
God. Stephen jerked
his
thumb
towards
the window, saying: —That
is
God. Hooray! Ay! Whrrwhee! —What? Mr Deasy asked. —A shout
in
the street, Stephen answered, shrugging
his
shoulders. Mr Deasy looked
down
and
held
for
awhile
the wings
of
his
nose
tweaked
between
his
fingers. Looking
up
again
he
set
them
free. —I
am
happier
than
you
are,
he
said.
We
have
committed
many
errors
and
many
sins.
A
woman
brought
sin
into
the world.
For
a
woman
who
was
no
better
than
she
should be, Helen, the runaway
wife
of
Menelaus, ten years the Greeks
made
war
on
Troy.
A
faithless
wife
first brought the strangers
to
our
shore
here, MacMurrough's
wife
and
her leman, O'Rourke, prince
of
Breffni.
A
woman
too
brought Parnell low.
Many
errors,
many
failures but not the
one
sin. I
am
a
struggler
now
at
the
end
of
my days. But I
will
fight
for
the
right
till
the end. Stephen raised the sheets
in
his
hand. —Well, sir,
he
began... —I foresee, Mr Deasy said,
that
you
will
not
remain
here
very
long
at
this
work.
You
were
not born
to
be
a
teacher, I think.
Perhaps
I
am
wrong. —A learner rather, Stephen said.
And
here
what
will
you
learn
more? Mr Deasy shook
his
head. —Who knows?
he
said.
To
learn
one
must
be
humble. But
life
is
the
great
teacher. Stephen rustled the sheets again. —As regards these,
he
began. —Yes, Mr Deasy said.
You
have
two
copies there.
If
you
can
have
them
published
at
once. —I
will
try, Stephen said,
and
let
you
know
tomorrow. I
know
two
editors slightly. —That
will
do, Mr Deasy said briskly. I wrote
last
night
to
Mr Field, M.P. There
is
a
meeting
of
the cattletraders'
association
today
at
the
City
Arms hotel. I asked
him
to
lay
my
letter
before the meeting.
You
see
if
you
can
get
it
into
your
two
papers.
What
are
they? —That
will
do, Mr Deasy said. There
is
no
time
to
lose.
Now
I
have
to
answer
that
letter
from
my cousin. —Good morning, sir, Stephen said, putting the sheets
in
his
pocket.
Thank
you. —Not
at
all, Mr Deasy said
as
he
searched the papers
on
his
desk. I
like
to
break
a
lance
with
you,
old
as
I am. —Good morning, sir, Stephen said again, bowing
to
his
bent back.
He
went
out
by
the
open
porch
and
down
the
gravel
path
under the trees, hearing the cries
of
voices
and
crack
of
sticks
from
the playfield. The lions couchant
on
the pillars
as
he
passed
out
through the gate:
toothless
terrors.
Still
I
will
help
him
in
his
fight. Mulligan
will
dub
me
a
new
name: the bullockbefriending bard. —Mr Dedalus! Running
after
me. No
more
letters, I hope. —Just
one
moment. —Yes, sir, Stephen said, turning
back
at
the gate. Mr Deasy halted, breathing
hard
and
swallowing
his
breath. —I
just
wanted
to
say,
he
said. Ireland,
they
say, has the honour
of
being the
only
country
which
never
persecuted the jews.
Do
you
know
that? No.
And
do
you
know
why?
He
frowned sternly
on
the
bright
air. —Why, sir? Stephen asked,
beginning
to
smile. —Because
she
never
let
them
in, Mr Deasy said solemnly.
A
coughball
of
laughter
leaped
from
his
throat
dragging
after
it
a
rattling
chain
of
phlegm.
He
turned
back
quickly, coughing, laughing,
his
lifted arms waving
to
the air. —She
never
let
them
in,
he
cried
again
through
his
laughter
as
he
stamped
on
gaitered feet
over
the
gravel
of
the path. That's why.
On
his
wise
shoulders through the checkerwork
of
leaves the
sun
flung spangles, dancing coins.