Urbane,
to
comfort
them, the quaker librarian purred:
He
came
a
step
a
sinkapace forward
on
neatsleather creaking
and
a
step
backward
a
sinkapace
on
the
solemn
floor.
A
noiseless attendant
setting
open
the
door
but slightly
made
him
a
noiseless beck. —Directly, said he, creaking
to
go, albeit lingering. The beautiful ineffectual
dreamer
who
comes
to
grief
against
hard
facts.
One
always
feels
that
Goethe's judgments
are
so
true. True
in
the larger analysis. Twicreakingly
analysis
he
corantoed off. Bald,
most
zealous
by
the
door
he
gave
his
large
ear
all
to
the attendant's words: heard them:
and
was
gone.
Two
left. —Monsieur
de
la Palice, Stephen sneered,
was
alive
fifteen
minutes
before
his
death. Smile.
Smile
Cranly's smile. Glittereyed
his
rufous
skull
close
to
his
greencapped desklamp sought the face bearded
amid
darkgreener shadow, an ollav, holyeyed.
He
laughed low:
a
sizar's laugh
of
Trinity: unanswered.
He
holds my
follies
hostage. Mulligan has my telegram. Folly. Persist. —Our
young
Irish bards, John Eglinton censured,
have
yet
to
create
a
figure
which
the
world
will
set
beside
Saxon Shakespeare's
Hamlet
though I
admire
him,
as
old
Ben
did,
on
this
side
idolatry. —All
these
questions
are
purely academic, Russell oracled
out
of
his
shadow. I mean,
whether
Hamlet
is
Shakespeare
or
James I
or
Essex. Clergymen's discussions
of
the
historicity
of
Jesus.
Art
has
to
reveal
to
us
ideas, formless spiritual essences. The
supreme
question
about
a
work
of
art
is
out
of
how
deep
a
life
does
it
spring. The painting
of
Gustave Moreau
is
the painting
of
ideas. The deepest
poetry
of
Shelley, the words
of
Hamlet
bring
our
minds
into
contact
with
the
eternal
wisdom, Plato's
world
of
ideas. All the
rest
is
the
speculation
of
schoolboys
for
schoolboys. A. E. has been telling
some
yankee interviewer. Wall,
tarnation
strike me! —The schoolmen
were
schoolboys first, Stephen said superpolitely. Aristotle
was
once
Plato's schoolboy. —And has remained so,
one
should hope, John Eglinton sedately said.
One
can
see
him,
a
model
schoolboy
with
his
diploma
under
his
arm.
He
laughed
again
at
the
now
smiling bearded face. Formless spiritual. Father,
Word
and
Holy
Breath. Allfather, the
heavenly
man. Hiesos Kristos,
magician
of
the beautiful, the
Logos
who
suffers
in
us
at
every
moment.
This
verily
is
that. I
am
the
fire
upon
the altar. I
am
the
sacrificial
butter. Dunlop, Judge, the noblest
Roman
of
them
all, A.E., Arval, the
Name
Ineffable,
in
heaven
hight: K.H.,
their
master,
whose
identity
is
no
secret
to
adepts. Brothers
of
the
great
white
lodge
always
watching
to
see
if
they
can
help. The Christ
with
the bridesister,
moisture
of
light, born
of
an ensouled virgin,
repentant
sophia, departed
to
the
plane
of
buddhi. The
life
esoteric
is
not
for
ordinary
person. O.P.
must
work
off
bad
karma
first. Mrs
Cooper
Oakley
once
glimpsed
our
very
illustrious
sister
H.P.B.'s elemental. Mr
Best
entered, tall, young, mild, light.
He
bore
in
his
hand
with
grace
a
notebook, new, large, clean, bright. —That
model
schoolboy, Stephen said, would find Hamlet's musings
about
the afterlife
of
his
princely soul, the improbable, insignificant
and
undramatic monologue,
as
shallow
as
Plato's. John Eglinton, frowning, said, waxing wroth: —Upon my
word
it
makes my blood
boil
to
hear
anyone
compare
Aristotle
with
Plato. —Which
of
the two, Stephen asked, would
have
banished
me
from
his
commonwealth? Unsheathe your
dagger
definitions. Horseness
is
the whatness
of
allhorse. Streams
of
tendency
and
eons
they
worship. God:
noise
in
the street:
very
peripatetic. Space:
what
you
damn
well
have
to
see. Through spaces smaller
than
red
globules
of
man's blood
they
creepycrawl
after
Blake's
buttocks
into
eternity
of
which
this
vegetable
world
is
but
a
shadow.
Hold
to
the now, the here, through
which
all
future
plunges
to
the past. Mr
Best
came forward, amiable,
towards
his
colleague. —Haines
is
gone,
he
said. —Is he? —The peatsmoke
is
going
to
his
head, John Eglinton opined.
We
feel
in
England.
Penitent
thief. Gone. I smoked
his
baccy.
Green
twinkling stone. An
emerald
set
in
the ring
of
the sea. —People
do
not
know
how
dangerous
lovesongs
can
be, the auric
egg
of
Russell warned occultly. The movements
which
work
revolutions
in
the
world
are
born
out
of
the dreams
and
visions
in
a
peasant's
heart
on
the hillside.
For
them
the
earth
is
not an exploitable ground but the
living
mother. The rarefied air
of
the
academy
and
the
arena
produce the sixshilling novel, the musichall song. France produces the finest flower
of
corruption
in
Mallarme but the
desirable
life
is
revealed
only
to
the
poor
of
heart, the
life
of
Homer's Phaeacians.
From
these
words Mr
Best
turned an unoffending face
to
Stephen.
His
free
hand
graciously wrote tiny signs
in
air.
He
repeated
to
John Eglinton's newgathered frown: —The absentminded beggar, Stephen ended. John Eglinton laughed. —Yes, I
suppose
it
would be,
he
said.
Excellent
people, no doubt, but distressingly shortsighted
in
some
matters.
Sumptuous
and
stagnant
exaggeration
of
murder. —A deathsman
of
the soul Robert Greene called him, Stephen said. Not
for
nothing
was
he
a
butcher's son, wielding the sledded poleaxe
and
spitting
in
his
palms.
Nine
lives
are
taken
off
for
his
father's one.
Our
Father
who
art
in
purgatory.
Khaki
Hamlets don't
hesitate
to
shoot. The bloodboltered
shambles
in
act
five
is
a
forecast
of
the concentration
camp
sung
by
Mr Swinburne. Cranly, I
his
mute orderly,
following
battles
from
afar.
Between
the Saxon
smile
and
yankee yawp. The
devil
and
the
deep
sea. My flesh hears him: creeping, hears. John Eglinton shifted
his
spare
body, leaning
back
to
judge. Lifted. —It
is
this
hour
of
a
day
in
mid June, Stephen said, begging
with
a
swift glance
their
hearing. The
flag
is
up
on
the
playhouse
by
the bankside. The
bear
Sackerson growls
in
the
pit
near
it, Paris garden. Canvasclimbers
who
sailed
with
Drake
chew
their
sausages
among
the groundlings. Local colour.
Work
in
all
you
know.
Make
them
accomplices. —Shakespeare has
left
the huguenot's
house
in
Silver
street
and
walks
by
the swanmews
along
the riverbank. But
he
does not stay
to
feed the pen chivying her
game
of
cygnets
towards
the rushes. The
swan
of
Avon has
other
thoughts.
Composition
of
place. Ignatius Loyola,
make
haste
to
help
me! bidding
him
list.
To
a
son
he
speaks, the
son
of
his
soul, the prince,
young
Hamlet
and
to
the
son
of
his
body, Hamnet Shakespeare,
who
has died
in
Stratford
that
his
namesake
may
live
for
ever.
Is
it
possible
that
that
player
Shakespeare,
a
ghost
by
absence,
and
in
the
vesture
of
buried Denmark,
a
ghost
by
death, speaking
his
own
words
to
his
own
son's
name
(had Hamnet Shakespeare lived
he
would
have
been prince Hamlet's twin),
is
it
possible, I
want
to
know,
or
probable
that
he
did
not
draw
or
foresee
the logical
conclusion
of
those
premises:
you
are
the dispossessed son: I
am
the murdered father: your mother
is
the
guilty
queen, Ann Shakespeare, born Hathaway? —But
this
prying
into
the
family
life
of
a
great
man, Russell began impatiently.
Art
thou
there, truepenny? Mr Best's face, appealed to, agreed.
How
now, sirrah,
that
pound
he
lent
you
when
you
were
hungry? Marry, I wanted it.
Take
thou
this
noble.
Go
to!
You
spent
most
of
it
in
Georgina Johnson's bed, clergyman's daughter. Agenbite
of
inwit.
Do
you
intend
to
pay
it
back? O, yes. When? Now? Well... No. When, then? I paid my way. I paid my way. Steady on. He's
from
beyant Boyne water. The northeast corner.
You
owe
it. Wait.
Five
months. Molecules all change. I
am
other
I now.
Other
I got pound. Buzz. Buzz. But I, entelechy,
form
of
forms,
am
I
by
memory
because
under everchanging forms. I
that
sinned
and
prayed
and
fasted.
A
child
Conmee saved
from
pandies. I, I
and
I. I. A.E.I.O.U. —Do
you
mean
to
fly
in
the face
of
the
tradition
of
three
centuries? John Eglinton's carping voice asked. Her
ghost
at
least
has been laid
for
ever.
She
died,
for
literature
at
least, before
she
was
born. —She died, Stephen retorted, sixtyseven years
after
she
was
born.
She
saw
him
into
and
out
of
the world.
She
took
his
first embraces.
She
bore
his
children
and
she
laid pennies
on
his
eyes
to
keep
his
eyelids closed
when
he
lay
on
his
deathbed. I wept alone. John Eglinton looked
in
the tangled glowworm
of
his
lamp. —The
world
believes
that
Shakespeare
made
a
mistake,
he
said,
and
got
out
of
it
as
quickly
and
as
best
he
could. —Bosh! Stephen said rudely.
A
man
of
genius
makes no mistakes.
His
errors
are
volitional
and
are
the portals
of
discovery. Portals
of
discovery opened
to
let
in
the quaker librarian, softcreakfooted, bald, eared
and
assiduous. —A shrew, John Eglinton said shrewdly,
is
not
a
useful
portal
of
discovery,
one
should imagine.
What
useful discovery
did
Socrates
learn
from
Xanthippe? —But Ann Hathaway? Mr Best's
quiet
voice said forgetfully. Yes,
we
seem
to
be
forgetting her
as
Shakespeare
himself
forgot her.
His
look
went
from
brooder's
beard
to
carper's skull,
to
remind,
to
chide
them
not unkindly,
then
to
the baldpink lollard costard,
guiltless
though maligned.
And
my turn? When? Come! —Ryefield, Mr
Best
said brightly, gladly,
raising
his
new
book, gladly, brightly.
He
murmured
then
with
blond
delight
for
all: Paris: the wellpleased pleaser.
A
tall
figure
in
bearded homespun
rose
from
shadow
and
unveiled its
cooperative
watch. Whither away? Exploitable ground. —Are
you
going? John Eglinton's
active
eyebrows asked.
Shall
we
see
you
at
Moore's tonight?
Piper
is
coming. —Piper! Mr
Best
piped.
Is
Piper
back? Peter
Piper
pecked
a
peck
of
pick
of
peck
of
pickled
pepper. —I don't
know
if
I can. Thursday.
We
have
our
meeting.
If
I
can
get
away
in
time. —They
say
we
are
to
have
a
literary
surprise, the quaker librarian said,
friendly
and
earnest. Mr Russell, rumour has it,
is
gathering
together
a
sheaf
of
our
younger poets' verses.
We
are
all looking forward anxiously. Anxiously
he
glanced
in
the
cone
of
lamplight
where
three
faces, lighted, shone.
See
this. Remember. Stephen looked
down
on
a
wide
headless
caubeen,
hung
on
his
ashplanthandle
over
his
knee. My
casque
and
sword.
Touch
lightly
with
two
index
fingers. Aristotle's experiment.
One
or
two?
Necessity
is
that
in
virtue
of
which
it
is
impossible
that
one
can
be
otherwise. Argal,
one
hat
is
one
hat. Listen. Nookshotten.
Now
your
best
French polish. —Thank
you
very
much, Mr Russell, Stephen said, rising.
If
you
will
be
so
kind
as
to
give
the
letter
to
Mr Norman... —O, yes.
If
he
considers
it
important
it
will
go
in.
We
have
so
much
correspondence. —I understand, Stephen said. Thanks.
God
ild you. The pigs' paper. Bullockbefriending. Stephen sat down. The quaker librarian came
from
the leavetakers. Blushing,
his
mask said: —Mr Dedalus, your views
are
most
illuminating.
He
creaked
to
and
fro, tiptoing
up
nearer
heaven
by
the
altitude
of
a
chopine, and, covered
by
the
noise
of
outgoing, said low: —Is
it
your view, then,
that
she
was
not
faithful
to
the poet? Alarmed face asks me.
Why
did
he
come? Courtesy
or
an inward light? —Where there
is
a
reconciliation, Stephen said, there
must
have
been first
a
sundering. —Yes. Christfox
in
leather
trews, hiding,
a
runaway
in
blighted treeforks,
from
hue
and
cry. Knowing no vixen, walking lonely
in
the chase. Women
he
won
to
him,
tender
people,
a
whore
of
Babylon, ladies
of
justices,
bully
tapsters' wives.
Fox
and
geese.
And
in
New
Place
a
slack
dishonoured
body
that
once
was
comely,
once
as
sweet,
as
fresh
as
cinnamon,
now
her leaves falling, all, bare, frighted
of
the
narrow
grave
and
unforgiven. —Yes.
So
you
think... The
door
closed
behind
the outgoer.
Rest
suddenly possessed the
discreet
vaulted cell,
rest
of
warm
and
brooding air.
A
vestal's lamp. Here
he
ponders things
that
were
not:
what
Caesar would
have
lived
to
do
had
he
believed the soothsayer:
what
might
have
been: possibilities
of
the
possible
as
possible: things not known:
what
name
Achilles bore
when
he
lived
among
women.
They
are
still.
Once
quick
in
the brains
of
men. Still: but an
itch
of
death
is
in
them,
to
tell
me
in
my
ear
a
maudlin
tale, urge
me
to
wreak
their
will. —Certainly, John Eglinton mused,
of
all
great
men
he
is
the
most
enigmatic.
We
know
nothing
but
that
he
lived
and
suffered. Not
even
so
much. Others
abide
our
question.
A
shadow
hangs
over
all the rest.
Quoth
littlejohn Eglinton: —I
was
prepared
for
paradoxes
from
what
Malachi Mulligan told
us
but I
may
as
well
warn
you
that
if
you
want
to
shake
my
belief
that
Shakespeare
is
Hamlet
you
have
a
stern
task before you.
Bear
with
me. —As we,
or
mother Dana, weave
and
unweave
our
bodies, Stephen said,
from
day
to
day,
their
molecules shuttled
to
and
fro,
so
does the
artist
weave
and
unweave
his
image.
And
as
the mole
on
my
right
breast
is
where
it
was
when
I
was
born, though all my
body
has been woven
of
new
stuff
time
after
time,
so
through the
ghost
of
the unquiet father the
image
of
the unliving
son
looks forth.
In
the
intense
instant
of
imagination,
when
the mind, Shelley says,
is
a
fading coal,
that
which
I
was
is
that
which
I
am
and
that
which
in
possibility
I
may
come
to
be.
So
in
the future, the
sister
of
the past, I
may
see
myself
as
I
sit
here
now
but
by
reflection
from
that
which
then
I
shall
be. Drummond
of
Hawthornden helped
you
at
that
stile. —Yes, Mr
Best
said youngly. I feel
Hamlet
quite
young. The
bitterness
might
be
from
the father but the passages
with
Ophelia
are
surely
from
the son. Has the
wrong
sow
by
the lug.
He
is
in
my father. I
am
in
his
son. —That mole
is
the
last
to
go, Stephen said, laughing. John Eglinton
made
a
nothing
pleasing mow. —If
that
were
the birthmark
of
genius,
he
said,
genius
would
be
a
drug
in
the market. The plays
of
Shakespeare's later years
which
Renan admired
so
much
breathe
another
spirit. —The spirit
of
reconciliation, the quaker librarian breathed. —There
can
be
no reconciliation, Stephen said,
if
there has not been
a
sundering. Said that. Head, redconecapped, buffeted, brineblinded. —A child,
a
girl, placed
in
his
arms, Marina. —The leaning
of
sophists
towards
the bypaths
of
apocrypha
is
a
constant quantity, John Eglinton detected. The highroads
are
dreary
but
they
lead
to
the town. —Mr Brandes accepts it, Stephen said,
as
the first
play
of
the closing period. —Does he?
What
does Mr Sidney Lee,
or
Mr Simon Lazarus
as
some
aver
his
name
is,
say
of
it? —Will
he
not
see
reborn
in
her,
with
the
memory
of
his
own
youth
added,
another
image?
Do
you
know
what
you
are
talking about? Love, yes.
Word
known
to
all men. Amor vero aliquid alicui bonum vult unde
et
ea
quae concupiscimus ... —His
own
image
to
a
man
with
that
queer
thing
genius
is
the standard
of
all experience,
material
and
moral.
Such
an
appeal
will
touch
him. The images
of
other
males
of
his
blood
will
repel
him.
He
will
see
in
them
grotesque
attempts
of
nature
to
foretell
or
to
repeat himself. The
benign
forehead
of
the quaker librarian enkindled rosily
with
hope. Felicitously
he
ceased
and
held
a
meek
head
among
them, auk's egg,
prize
of
their
fray.
He
thous
and
thees her
with
grave
husbandwords. Dost love, Miriam? Dost
love
thy man?
They
list.
And
in
the porches
of
their
ears I pour. —The soul has been before stricken mortally,
a
poison
poured
in
the
porch
of
a
sleeping ear. But
those
who
are
done
to
death
in
sleep
cannot
know
the
manner
of
their
quell
unless
their
Creator
endow
their
souls
with
that
knowledge
in
the
life
to
come. The poisoning
and
the
beast
with
two
backs
that
urged
it
King
Hamlet's
ghost
could
not
know
of
were
he
not endowed
with
knowledge
by
his
creator.
That
is
why
the
speech
(his
lean
unlovely English)
is
always
turned elsewhere, backward. Ravisher
and
ravished,
what
he
would but would not,
go
with
him
from
Lucrece's bluecircled
ivory
globes
to
Imogen's breast, bare,
with
its mole cinquespotted.
He
goes back,
weary
of
the
creation
he
has piled
up
to
hide
him
from
himself, an
old
dog
licking an
old
sore. But,
because
loss
is
his
gain,
he
passes
on
towards
eternity
in
undiminished personality, untaught
by
the
wisdom
he
has written
or
by
the laws
he
has revealed.
His
beaver
is
up.
He
is
a
ghost,
a
shadow
now, the wind
by
Elsinore's rocks
or
what
you
will, the sea's voice,
a
voice heard
only
in
the
heart
of
him
who
is
the
substance
of
his
shadow, the
son
consubstantial
with
the father. —Amen!
was
responded
from
the doorway. Hast
thou
found me, O
mine
enemy?
A
ribald
face,
sullen
as
a
dean's, Buck Mulligan came forward,
then
blithe
in
motley,
towards
the
greeting
of
their
smiles. My telegram. —You
were
speaking
of
the gaseous vertebrate,
if
I mistake not?
he
asked
of
Stephen. Primrosevested
he
greeted
gaily
with
his
doffed Panama
as
with
a
bauble. Brood
of
mockers: Photius, pseudomalachi, Johann Most.
He
Who
Himself
begot middler the
Holy
Ghost
and
Himself
sent Himself, Agenbuyer,
between
Himself
and
others, Who,
put
upon
by
His
fiends, stripped
and
whipped,
was
nailed
like
bat
to
barndoor, starved
on
crosstree,
Who
let
Him
bury, stood up, harrowed hell, fared
into
heaven
and
there
these
nineteen
hundred
years sitteth
on
the
right
hand
of
His
Own
Self
but
yet
shall
come
in
the
latter
day
to
doom the
quick
and
dead
when
all the
quick
shall
be
dead
already. Glo—o—ri—a
in
ex—cel—sis De—o.
He
lifts
his
hands. Veils fall. O, flowers! Bells
with
bells
with
bells aquiring. —Yes, indeed, the quaker librarian said.
A
most
instructive discussion. Mr Mulligan, I'll
be
bound, has
his
theory
too
of
the
play
and
of
Shakespeare. All sides
of
life
should
be
represented.
He
smiled
on
all sides equally. Buck Mulligan thought, puzzled: —Shakespeare?
he
said. I
seem
to
know
the name.
A
flying
sunny
smile
rayed
in
his
loose
features. —To
be
sure,
he
said, remembering brightly. The chap
that
writes
like
Synge. Mr
Best
turned
to
him. —I came through the museum, Buck Mulligan said.
Was
he
here? —The bard's fellowcountrymen, John Eglinton answered,
are
rather
tired
perhaps
of
our
brilliancies
of
theorising. I
hear
that
an
actress
played
Hamlet
for
the fourhundredandeighth
time
last
night
in
Dublin. Vining held
that
the prince
was
a
woman. Has no-one
made
him
out
to
be
an Irishman?
Judge
Barton, I believe,
is
searching
for
some
clues.
He
swears (His
Highness
not
His
Lordship)
by
saint Patrick. —For Willie Hughes,
is
it
not? the quaker librarian asked.
Or
Hughie Wills? Mr William Himself. W. H.:
who
am
I? —I mean,
for
Willie Hughes, Mr
Best
said, amending
his
gloss easily.
Of
course
it's all paradox, don't
you
know, Hughes
and
hews
and
hues, the colour, but it's
so
typical
the
way
he
works
it
out. It's the
very
essence
of
Wilde, don't
you
know. The
light
touch.
His
glance touched
their
faces
lightly
as
he
smiled,
a
blond ephebe.
Tame
essence
of
Wilde. You're darned witty.
Three
drams
of
usquebaugh
you
drank
with
Dan Deasy's ducats.
How
much
did
I spend? O,
a
few
shillings.
For
a
plump
of
pressmen. Humour
wet
and
dry. Wit.
You
would
give
your
five
wits
for
youth's
proud
livery
he
pranks in. Lineaments
of
gratified desire. There
be
many
mo.
Take
her
for
me.
In
pairing time. Jove,
a
cool ruttime
send
them. Yea, turtledove her. Eve.
Naked
wheatbellied sin.
A
snake coils her,
fang
in's kiss. —Do
you
think
it
is
only
a
paradox? the quaker librarian
was
asking. The mocker
is
never
taken seriously
when
he
is
most
serious.
They
talked seriously
of
mocker's seriousness. Buck Mulligan's
again
heavy face eyed Stephen awhile. Then,
his
head
wagging,
he
came near, drew
a
folded
telegram
from
his
pocket.
His
mobile lips read, smiling
with
new
delight. —Telegram!
he
said.
Wonderful
inspiration! Telegram!
A
papal
bull!
He
sat
on
a
corner
of
the unlit desk,
reading
aloud joyfully: Joyfully
he
thrust
message
and
envelope
into
a
pocket
but keened
in
a
querulous
brogue: —It's
what
I'm telling you, mister honey, it's queer
and
sick
we
were, Haines
and
myself, the
time
himself
brought
it
in. 'Twas
murmur
we
did
for
a
gallus
potion
would
rouse
a
friar, I'm thinking,
and
he
limp
with
leching.
And
we
one
hour
and
two
hours
and
three
hours
in
Connery's sitting
civil
waiting
for
pints apiece.
He
wailed: —And
we
to
be
there, mavrone,
and
you
to
be
unbeknownst sending
us
your conglomerations the
way
we
to
have
our
tongues
out
a
yard
long
like
the drouthy clerics
do
be
fainting
for
a
pussful. Stephen laughed. Quickly, warningfully Buck Mulligan bent down. —The tramper Synge
is
looking
for
you,
he
said,
to
murder
you.
He
heard
you
pissed
on
his
halldoor
in
Glasthule. He's
out
in
pampooties
to
murder
you. —Me! Stephen exclaimed.
That
was
your
contribution
to
literature. Buck Mulligan gleefully bent back, laughing
to
the dark eavesdropping ceiling. —Murder you!
he
laughed. —Mr Lyster, an attendant said
from
the
door
ajar. —Certainly, certainly, certainly.
Is
the gentleman?...
He
took the
eager
card, glanced, not saw, laid
down
unglanced, looked, asked, creaked, asked: —Is he?... O, there!
Brisk
in
a
galliard
he
was
off, out.
In
the daylit
corridor
he
talked
with
voluble
pains
of
zeal,
in
duty
bound,
most
fair,
most
kind,
most
honest
broadbrim.
A
patient
silhouette
waited, listening. Voluble, dutiful,
he
led the
way
to
all the provincial papers,
a
bowing dark
figure
following
his
hasty
heels. The
door
closed. —The sheeny! Buck Mulligan cried.
He
jumped
up
and
snatched the card. —What's
his
name? Ikey Moses? Bloom.
He
rattled on: Suddenly
he
turned
to
Stephen: —We
want
to
hear
more, John Eglinton decided
with
Mr Best's approval.
We
begin
to
be
interested
in
Mrs S.
Till
now
we
had
thought
of
her,
if
at
all,
as
a
patient
Griselda,
a
Penelope stayathome. —The
height
of
fine
society.
And
sir William Davenant
of
oxford's mother
with
her
cup
of
canary
for
any
cockcanary. Buck Mulligan,
his
pious
eyes upturned, prayed: —Blessed Margaret Mary Anycock! —And
Harry
of
six
wives' daughter.
And
other
lady
friends
from
neighbour seats
as
Lawn
Tennyson, gentleman poet, sings. But all
those
twenty
years
what
do
you
suppose
poor
Penelope
in
Stratford
was
doing
behind
the
diamond
panes?
Do
and
do.
Thing
done.
In
a
rosery
of
Fetter
lane
of
Gerard, herbalist,
he
walks, greyedauburn. An azured harebell
like
her veins. Lids
of
Juno's eyes, violets.
He
walks.
One
life
is
all.
One
body. Do. But do. Afar,
in
a
reek
of
lust
and
squalor, hands
are
laid
on
whiteness. Buck Mulligan rapped John Eglinton's
desk
sharply. —Whom
do
you
suspect?
he
challenged. —Say
that
he
is
the spurned
lover
in
the sonnets.
Once
spurned
twice
spurned. But the court wanton spurned
him
for
a
lord,
his
dearmylove.
Love
that
dare
not
speak
its name. —As an Englishman,
you
mean, John
sturdy
Eglinton
put
in,
he
loved
a
lord.
Old
wall
where
sudden
lizards flash.
At
Charenton I watched them. —It seems so, Stephen said,
when
he
wants
to
do
for
him,
and
for
all
other
and
singular
uneared wombs, the
holy
office
an ostler does
for
the stallion. Maybe,
like
Socrates,
he
had
a
midwife
to
mother
as
he
had
a
shrew
to
wife. But she, the giglot wanton,
did
not
break
a
bedvow.
Two
deeds
are
rank
in
that
ghost's mind:
a
broken
vow
and
the dullbrained
yokel
on
whom
her favour has declined, deceased husband's brother.
Sweet
Ann, I
take
it,
was
hot
in
the blood.
Once
a
wooer,
twice
a
wooer. Stephen turned boldly
in
his
chair. O, yes,
mention
there is.
In
the years
when
he
was
living
richly
in
royal London
to
pay
a
debt
she
had
to
borrow
forty
shillings
from
her father's shepherd.
Explain
you
then.
Explain
the swansong
too
wherein
he
has commended her
to
posterity.
He
faced
their
silence. Woa! —Pretty countryfolk had
few
chattels then, John Eglinton observed,
as
they
have
still
if
our
peasant
plays
are
true
to
type. —He
was
a
rich
country
gentleman, Stephen said,
with
a
coat
of
arms
and
landed
estate
at
Stratford
and
a
house
in
Ireland yard,
a
capitalist
shareholder,
a
bill
promoter,
a
tithefarmer.
Why
did
he
not
leave
her
his
best
bed
if
he
wished her
to
snore
away
the
rest
of
her nights
in
peace? —It
is
clear
that
there
were
two
beds,
a
best
and
a
secondbest, Mr Secondbest
Best
said finely. —Antiquity mentions
famous
beds,
Second
Eglinton puckered, bedsmiling.
Let
me
think. —Antiquity mentions
that
Stagyrite schoolurchin
and
bald
heathen
sage, Stephen said,
who
when
dying
in
exile
frees
and
endows
his
slaves, pays
tribute
to
his
elders, wills
to
be
laid
in
earth
near
the
bones
of
his
dead
wife
and
bids
his
friends
be
kind
to
an
old
mistress
(don't
forget
Nell Gwynn Herpyllis)
and
let
her
live
in
his
villa. —Do
you
mean
he
died so? Mr
Best
asked
with
slight concern. I mean... —He died
dead
drunk, Buck Mulligan capped.
A
quart
of
ale
is
a
dish
for
a
king. O, I
must
tell
you
what
Dowden said! —What? asked Besteglinton. William Shakespeare
and
company, limited. The people's William.
For
terms apply: E. Dowden, Highfield house... Catamite. —The sense
of
beauty
leads
us
astray, said beautifulinsadness
Best
to
ugling Eglinton.
Steadfast
John replied severe: —The doctor
can
tell
us
what
those
words mean.
You
cannot
eat
your
cake
and
have
it. Sayest
thou
so?
Will
they
wrest
from
us,
from
me, the
palm
of
beauty? —Prove
that
he
was
a
jew, John Eglinton dared,'expectantly. Your
dean
of
studies holds
he
was
a
holy
Roman. —He
was
made
in
Germany, Stephen replied,
as
the champion French polisher
of
Italian scandals. —A myriadminded man, Mr
Best
reminded. Coleridge called
him
myriadminded. —Saint Thomas, Stephen began... There
he
keened
a
wailing rune. All smiled
their
smiles. —Saint Thomas, Stephen smiling said,
whose
gorbellied
works
I
enjoy
reading
in
the original,
writing
of
incest
from
a
standpoint
different
from
that
of
the
new
Viennese
school
Mr Magee
spoke
of, likens
it
in
his
wise
and
curious
way
to
an
avarice
of
the emotions.
He
means
that
the
love
so
given
to
one
near
in
blood
is
covetously withheld
from
some
stranger
who,
it
may
be, hungers
for
it. Jews,
whom
christians
tax
with
avarice,
are
of
all races the
most
given
to
intermarriage. Accusations
are
made
in
anger. The christian laws
which
built
up
the hoards
of
the jews (for whom,
as
for
the lollards,
storm
was
shelter) bound
their
affections
too
with
hoops
of
steel.
Whether
these
be
sins
or
virtues
old
Nobodaddy
will
tell
us
at
doomsday leet. But
a
man
who
holds
so
tightly
to
what
he
calls
his
rights
over
what
he
calls
his
debts
will
hold
tightly
also
to
what
he
calls
his
rights
over
her
whom
he
calls
his
wife. No sir
smile
neighbour
shall
covet
his
ox
or
his
wife
or
his
manservant
or
his
maidservant
or
his
jackass. —Or
his
jennyass, Buck Mulligan antiphoned. —Gentle
Will
is
being roughly handled,
gentle
Mr
Best
said gently. —Which will? gagged
sweetly
Buck Mulligan.
We
are
getting mixed. —The
will
to
live, John Eglinton philosophised,
for
poor
Ann, Will's widow,
is
the
will
to
die. Lean,
he
lay
back. Shy,
deny
thy kindred, the unco guid. Shy, supping
with
the godless,
he
sneaks the cup.
A
sire
in
Ultonian Antrim bade
it
him. Visits
him
here
on
quarter
days. Mr Magee, sir, there's
a
gentleman
to
see
you. Me? Says he's your father, sir.
Give
me
my Wordsworth.
Enter
Magee Mor Matthew,
a
rugged
rough rugheaded kern,
in
strossers
with
a
buttoned codpiece,
his
nether
stocks bemired
with
clauber
of
ten forests,
a
wand
of
wilding
in
his
hand. Your own?
He
knows your
old
fellow. The widower. Hurrying
to
her
squalid
deathlair
from
gay
Paris
on
the quayside I touched
his
hand. The voice,
new
warmth, speaking. Dr
Bob
Kenny
is
attending her. The eyes
that
wish
me
well. But
do
not
know
me.
What
the
hell
are
you
driving at? I know.
Shut
up.
Blast
you. I
have
reasons.
Are
you
condemned
to
do
this? —They
are
sundered
by
a
bodily
shame
so
steadfast
that
the criminal
annals
of
the world, stained
with
all
other
incests
and
bestialities,
hardly
record
its breach. Sons
with
mothers, sires
with
daughters, lesbic sisters, loves
that
dare
not
speak
their
name, nephews
with
grandmothers, jailbirds
with
keyholes, queens
with
prize
bulls. The
son
unborn
mars beauty: born,
he
brings pain, divides affection, increases care.
He
is
a
new
male:
his
growth
is
his
father's decline,
his
youth
his
father's envy,
his
friend
his
father's enemy.
In
rue
Monsieur-le-Prince I
thought
it. —What
links
them
in
nature? An
instant
of
blind rut.
Am
I
a
father?
If
I were?
Shrunken
uncertain hand. Eglintoneyes,
quick
with
pleasure, looked
up
shybrightly.
Gladly
glancing,
a
merry
puritan, through the twisted eglantine. Flatter. Rarely. But flatter. —Himself
his
own
father, Sonmulligan told himself. Wait. I
am
big
with
child. I
have
an
unborn
child
in
my brain. Pallas Athena!
A
play! The play's the thing!
Let
me
parturiate!
He
clasped
his
paunchbrow
with
both birthaiding hands. —The
plot
thickens, John Eglinton said. The quaker librarian, quaking, tiptoed in, quake,
his
mask, quake,
with
haste, quake, quack.
Door
closed. Cell. Day.
They
list. Three. They. I
you
he
they. Come, mess. STEPHEN:
He
had
three
brothers, Gilbert, Edmund, Richard. Gilbert
in
his
old
age
told
some
cavaliers
he
got
a
pass
for
nowt
from
Maister Gatherer
one
time
mass
he
did
and
he
seen
his
brud Maister Wull the playwriter
up
in
Lunnon
in
a
wrastling
play
wud
a
man
on's back. The
playhouse
sausage
filled Gilbert's soul.
He
is
nowhere: but an Edmund
and
a
Richard
are
recorded
in
the
works
of
sweet
William. MAGEEGLINJOHN: Names! What's
in
a
name? BEST: I
hope
Edmund
is
going
to
catch
it. I don't
want
Richard, my
name
... Both satisfied. I too. Don't
tell
them
he
was
nine
years
old
when
it
was
quenched.
And
from
her arms.
Wait
to
be
wooed
and
won. Ay, meacock.
Who
will
woo
you? —What
is
that, Mr Dedalus? the quaker librarian asked.
Was
it
a
celestial
phenomenon? —A star
by
night, Stephen said.
A
pillar
of
the
cloud
by
day.
What
more's
to
speak? Stephen looked
on
his
hat,
his
stick,
his
boots. —You
make
good
use
of
the name, John Eglinton allowed. Your
own
name
is
strange
enough. I
suppose
it
explains your fantastical humour. Me, Magee
and
Mulligan. Mr
Best
eagerquietly lifted
his
book
to
say: —That's
very
interesting
because
that
brother
motive, don't
you
know,
we
find
also
in
the
old
Irish myths.
Just
what
you
say. The
three
brothers Shakespeare.
In
Grimm too, don't
you
know, the fairytales. The
third
brother
that
always
marries the sleeping
beauty
and
wins the
best
prize.
Best
of
Best
brothers. Good, better, best. The quaker librarian springhalted near. —I should
like
to
know,
he
said,
which
brother
you... I
understand
you
to
suggest
there
was
misconduct
with
one
of
the brothers... But
perhaps
I
am
anticipating?
He
caught
himself
in
the act: looked
at
all: refrained. An attendant
from
the doorway called: —Mr Lyster! Father Dineen wants... —O, Father Dineen! Directly. Swiftly rectly creaking rectly rectly
he
was
rectly gone. John Eglinton touched the foil. —Come,
he
said.
Let
us
hear
what
you
have
to
say
of
Richard
and
Edmund.
You
kept
them
for
the last, didn't you? —In asking
you
to
remember
those
two
noble
kinsmen nuncle Richie
and
nuncle Edmund, Stephen answered, I feel I
am
asking
too
much
perhaps.
A
brother
is
as
easily forgotten
as
an umbrella. Lapwing.
Where
is
your brother? Apothecaries' hall. My whetstone. Him,
then
Cranly, Mulligan:
now
these. Speech, speech. But act.
Act
speech.
They
mock
to
try
you. Act.
Be
acted on. Lapwing. I
am
tired
of
my voice, the voice
of
Esau. My
kingdom
for
a
drink. On.
He
laughed
to
free
his
mind
from
his
mind's bondage.
Judge
Eglinton summed up. —The
truth
is
midway,
he
affirmed.
He
is
the
ghost
and
the prince.
He
is
all
in
all. —Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuck Mulligan clucked lewdly. O
word
of
fear! Dark
dome
received, reverbed. Suddenly happied
he
jumped
up
and
reached
in
a
stride
John Eglinton's desk. —May I?
he
said. The Lord has spoken
to
Malachi.
He
began
to
scribble
on
a
slip
of
paper.
Take
some
slips
from
the
counter
going out. —Those
who
are
married, Mr Best, douce herald, said, all save one,
shall
live. The
rest
shall
keep
as
they
are.
He
laughed, unmarried,
at
Eglinton Johannes,
of
arts
a
bachelor. —You
are
a
delusion, said roundly John Eglinton
to
Stephen.
You
have
brought
us
all
this
way
to
show
us
a
French triangle.
Do
you
believe
your
own
theory? —No, Stephen said promptly. —Are
you
going
to
write
it? Mr
Best
asked.
You
ought
to
make
it
a
dialogue, don't
you
know,
like
the Platonic dialogues Wilde wrote. John Eclecticon doubly smiled. Fraidrine.
Two
pieces
of
silver
he
lent me.
Tide
you
over. Economics. —For
a
guinea, Stephen said,
you
can
publish
this
interview. Buck Mulligan stood
up
from
his
laughing scribbling, laughing:
and
then
gravely said, honeying malice:
He
broke
away. —Come, Kinch. Come, wandering Aengus
of
the birds. Come, Kinch.
You
have
eaten all
we
left. Ay. I
will
serve
you
your orts
and
offals. Stephen rose.
Life
is
many
days.
This
will
end. Buck Mulligan flaunted
his
slip
and
panama. —Monsieur Moore,
he
said, lecturer
on
French letters
to
the
youth
of
Ireland. I'll
be
there. Come, Kinch, the bards
must
drink.
Can
you
walk straight? Laughing, he... Swill
till
eleven. Irish nights entertainment. Lubber... Stephen followed
a
lubber...
One
day
in
the
national
library
we
had
a
discussion. Shakes. After.
His
lub back: I followed. I
gall
his
kibe. Stephen, greeting,
then
all amort, followed
a
lubber
jester,
a
wellkempt head, newbarbered,
out
of
the vaulted
cell
into
a
shattering daylight
of
no thought.
What
have
I learned?
Of
them?
Of
me? Walk
like
Haines now. The constant readers' room.
In
the readers'
book
Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell parafes
his
polysyllables. Item:
was
Hamlet
mad? The quaker's
pate
godlily
with
a
priesteen
in
booktalk. —O
please
do, sir... I
shall
be
most
pleased... Amused Buck Mulligan mused
in
pleasant
murmur
with
himself, selfnodding: —A pleased bottom. The turnstile.
Is
that?... Blueribboned hat...
Idly
writing... What? Looked?... The curving balustrade: smoothsliding Mincius.
Puck
Mulligan, panamahelmeted, went
step
by
step, iambing, trolling:
He
spluttered
to
the air: —O, the chinless Chinaman!
Chin
Chon Eg Lin Ton.
We
went
over
to
their
playbox, Haines
and
I, the plumbers' hall.
Our
players
are
creating
a
new
art
for
Europe
like
the Greeks
or
M. Maeterlinck.
Abbey
Theatre! I
smell
the
pubic
sweat
of
monks.
He
spat
blank. Afterwit.
Go
back. The
dour
recluse
still
there (he has
his
cake)
and
the douce youngling,
minion
of
pleasure, Phedo's toyable
fair
hair. Eh... I
just
eh... wanted... I forgot... he... —Longworth
and
M'Curdy Atkinson
were
there...
Puck
Mulligan footed featly, trilling:
Jest
on.
Know
thyself. Halted,
below
me,
a
quizzer looks
at
me. I halt. —Mournful mummer, Buck Mulligan moaned. Synge has
left
off
wearing
black
to
be
like
nature.
Only
crows, priests
and
English
coal
are
black.
A
laugh tripped
over
his
lips. —Longworth
is
awfully sick,
he
said,
after
what
you
wrote
about
that
old
hake
Gregory. O
you
inquisitional
drunken
jewjesuit!
She
gets
you
a
job
on
the paper
and
then
you
go
and
slate her drivel
to
Jaysus. Couldn't
you
do
the Yeats touch?
He
went
on
and
down, mopping, chanting
with
waving graceful arms: —The
most
beautiful
book
that
has
come
out
of
our
country
in
my time.
One
thinks
of
Homer.
He
stopped
at
the stairfoot. —I
have
conceived
a
play
for
the mummers,
he
said solemnly. The pillared Moorish hall, shadows entwined. Gone the
nine
men's morrice
with
caps
of
indices.
He
turned
a
happy
patch's smirk
to
Stephen, saying: —The disguise, I fear,
is
thin. But listen. —Characters:
He
laughed, lolling
a
to
and
fro head, walking on, followed
by
Stephen:
and
mirthfully
he
told the shadows, souls
of
men: —O, the
night
in
the Camden
hall
when
the daughters
of
Erin had
to
lift
their
skirts
to
step
over
you
as
you
lay
in
your mulberrycoloured, multicoloured,
multitudinous
vomit! —The
most
innocent
son
of
Erin, Stephen said,
for
whom
they
ever
lifted them.
About
to
pass through the doorway, feeling
one
behind,
he
stood aside. Part. The
moment
is
now.
Where
then?
If
Socrates
leave
his
house
today,
if
Judas
go
forth
tonight. Why?
That
lies
in
space
which
I
in
time
must
come
to, ineluctably. My will:
his
will
that
fronts me. Seas between.
A
man
passed
out
between
them, bowing, greeting. —Good
day
again, Buck Mulligan said. The portico. Here I watched the birds
for
augury. Aengus
of
the birds.
They
go,
they
come.
Last
night
I flew. Easily flew. Men wondered.
Street
of
harlots after.
A
creamfruit
melon
he
held
to
me. In.
You
will
see. —The wandering jew, Buck Mulligan whispered
with
clown's awe.
Did
you
see
his
eye?
He
looked
upon
you
to
lust
after
you. I
fear
thee,
ancient
mariner. O, Kinch,
thou
art
in
peril.
Get
thee
a
breechpad.
Manner
of
Oxenford. Day. Wheelbarrow
sun
over
arch
of
bridge.
A
dark
back
went before them,
step
of
a
pard, down,
out
by
the gateway, under
portcullis
barbs.
They
followed.
Offend
me
still.
Speak
on.
Kind
air defined the coigns
of
houses
in
Kildare street. No birds.
Frail
from
the housetops
two
plumes
of
smoke
ascended, pluming,
and
in
a
flaw
of
softness
softly
were
blown.
Cease
to
strive.
Peace
of
the druid priests
of
Cymbeline: hierophantic:
from
wide
earth
an altar.