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“等一等，我来告诉你，“他说，“寻欢作乐够了，我们还吃了一顿夜宵。当我们走出来时，己经是第二天的凌晨几点啦。回家的路上翻过羽床山， 好个出色的冬夜啊，布卢姆和克里斯·卡利南坐在马车的一边，我和他太太坐另一边。我们唱起来了，无伴奏的男声合唱，二重唱。看啊，清晨的微曦。 她那肚带下面灌满了德拉亨特的红葡萄酒。那该死的车子每颠簸一次，她都撞在我身上。那真开心到家啦!她那一对儿可真棒，上主保佑她。像这样的。“
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克南先生从日晷台走向詹姆斯门，异常得意自己从普尔布鲁克·罗伯逊那儿揽到的订货，沿着詹姆斯大街高视阔步地走过莎克尔顿面粉公司营业处。 总算把他说服了。您好吗，克里敏斯先生?好极啦，先生。我还担心您到平利科那另一家公司去了呢。生意怎么样?对付着糊口罢咧。这天气多好哇。可不是嘛。 对农村是再好不过嘞。那些庄稼汉总是发牢骚。给我来一点点您上好的杜松子酒吧， 克里敏斯先生。一小杯杜松子酒吗，先生?是的，先生。“斯洛克姆将军“号爆炸事件太可怕啦。可怕呀，可怕呀!死伤一千人。一派惨绝人寰的景象。一些汉子把妇女和娃娃都踩在脚底下。简直是禽兽。关于肇事原因，他们是怎么说来着?说是自动爆炸。暴露出来的情况真令人震惊。水上竟然没有一只救生艇，水龙带统统破裂了。我简直不明白，那些检验员怎么竟允许像那样一艘船……喏，您说得有道理，克里敏斯先生。您晓得个中底细吗?行了贿呗。是真的吗?毫无疑问。嗯，瞧瞧吧。还说美国是个自由的国度哩。我本来以为糟糕的只是咱们这里呢。
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装帧好像太讲究了，这是什么书啊?《摩西经书》第八、第九卷。大卫王的御玺。书页上还沾着拇指痕迹，准是一遍又一遍地被读过的。 在我之前是谁打这儿经过的?怎样能使皲裂的手变得柔软。用白葡萄酒酿造醋的秘方。 怎样赢得女性的爱情。这对我合适。双手合十，将下列咒语念诵三遍：
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克莱尔屋外面，布莱泽斯·博伊兰截住杰克·穆尼的内弟[ 178] ——这个筋骨隆起的人正醉醺醺地走向自由区。
吉米·亨利不耐烦他说，给他们那该死的爱尔兰语 闹腾得地狱都为基督教徒裂开了口。 他倒是想知道，市政典礼官究竟哪儿去啦， 怎么不来维持一下市政委员会会场上的秩序。而执权杖的老巴洛因哮喘发作病倒了。 桌上没有权杖，秩序一片混乱，连法定人数都不足。哈钦森市长在兰迪德诺呢， 由小个子洛坎·舍罗克作他的临时代理。该死的爱尔兰语，咱们祖先的语言。
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“关于地狱的幻影，“他说，“使他的思路紊乱了。他永远也捕捉不到古希腊的格调。所有那些诗人当中斯温伯恩的格调——苍白的死亡和殷红的诞。 这是他的悲剧。他永远也当不成诗人。 创造的欢乐……“
“无止无休的惩罚，“海恩斯马马虎虎地点了点头说，“我晓得了。今儿早晨我跟他争辩过信仰问题。我看出他有点心事。挺有趣儿的是，因为关于这个问题， 维也纳的波科尔尼 教授提出了个饶有趣味的论点。“
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当他路过布卢姆 先生的牙科诊所窗前时，他那晃晃荡荡的风衣粗暴地蹭着一根正斜敲着探路的细手杖，继续朝前冲去，撞上了一个赢弱的身躯。 盲青年将带着病容的脸掉向他那扬长而去的背影。
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这支车队从凤凰公园南大门出来，一路受到卑恭屈膝的警察的敬礼。跨过国王桥 ，沿着北岸码头走去。总督经过这座大都会时，到处都受到极其热烈的欢迎。在血泊桥 畔，托马斯·克南先生从河对岸徒劳地遥遥向他致敬。达德利爵爷的总督府车队打王后桥与惠特沃思桥 之间穿行时，从法学学士、文学硕士达特利·怀特先生身边走过。此公却没向他致敬，只是伫立在阿伦街西角M. E. 怀特太太那爿当铺外面的阿伦码头上，用食指抚摩着鼻子。为了及早抵达菲布斯巴勒街，他拿不定主意究竟是该换三次电车呢，还是雇一辆马车；要么就步行，穿过史密斯菲尔德、宪法山和布洛德斯通终点站。在高等法院的门廊里，里奇·古尔丁正夹着古尔丁一科利斯一沃德律师事务所的帐目公文包，见到他有些吃惊。跨过里奇蒙桥之后，在爱国保险公司代理人吕便·杰·多德律师事务所门口台阶上，一位上了年纪的妇女正要走进去，却又改变了主意。她沿着王记商号的橱窗折回来，对国王陛下的代表投以轻信的微笑。伍德码头堤岸的水闸就在汤姆·德万事务所的下边，波德尔河从这里耷拉着一条效忠的污水舌头。在奥蒙德饭店的半截儿窗帘上端，褐色挨着金色；肯尼迪小姐的头挨着杜丝小姐的头，正一道儿在注视井欣赏着。在奥蒙德码头上，刚好从公共厕所走向副长官办事处的西蒙·迪达勒斯先生，就在街心止步，脱帽深打一躬。总督阁下谦和地向迪达勒斯先生还了礼。文学硕士休·C。洛夫神父从卡希尔印刷厂的拐角处施了一礼，总督却不曾理会。洛夫念念不忘的是：有俸圣职推举权从前都掌握在宽厚的代理国王的诸侯手中。在格拉但桥上，利内翰和麦科伊正在一边相互告别，一边望着马车经过。格蒂·麦克道维尔 替她那缠绵病榻的父亲取来凯茨比公司关于软木亚麻油毡的函件，正走过罗杰·格林律师事务所和多拉德印刷厂的大红厂房。从那气派，她晓得那就是总督夫妇了，却看不到夫人究竟怎样打扮，因为一辆电车和斯普林家具店的一辆大型黄色家具搬运车给总督大人让道，刚好停在她跟前。伦迪·福特烟草店再过去，从卡瓦纳酒吧那被遮住的门口，约翰·怀斯·诺兰朝着国王陛下的代表、爱尔兰总督阁下淡然一笑，但是无人目睹到其神情之冷漠。维多利亚大十字勋章佩带者、达德利伯爵威廉·亨勃尔大人一路走过米基·安德森店里那众多嘀嘀嗒嗒响个不停的钟表，以及亨利- 詹姆斯那些衣着时髦、脸蛋儿鲜艳的蜡制模特儿——绅士亨利与最潇洒的詹姆斯。 汤姆·罗赤福特和大鼻子弗林面对着戴姆大门，观看车队渐渐走近。汤姆·罗赤福特发现达德利夫人两眼盯着他，就连忙把插在紫红色背心兜里的两个大拇指伸出来，摘下便帽给她深打一躬。专演风骚角色的妩媚女演员——杰出的玛丽·肯德尔，脸颊上浓妆艳抹，撩起裙子，从海报上朝着达德利伯爵威廉·亨勃尔，也朝着H·G·赫塞尔廷中校，还朝着侍从副官、尊贵的杰拉尔德·沃德嫣然笑着。神色愉快的勃克·穆利根和表情严肃的海恩斯，隔着那些全神贯注的顾客们的肩膀，从都柏林面包公司的窗口定睛俯视着。簇拥在窗口的形影遮住了约翰·霍华德·巴涅尔的视线。而他正专心致志地注视着棋盘。在弗恩斯街上，迪丽·迪达勒斯从她那本夏登纳尔的《法语初级读本》抬起眼睛使劲往四下里望，一把把撑开来的遮阳伞以及在眩目的阳光下一些旋转着的车轱辘辐条映入眼帘。约翰·亨利·门侧堵在商业大厦门口，瞪着一双用酒浸大了般的牡蛎眼睛，肥肥的左手搽着一块厚实的双盖金表，他并不看表，对它也无所察觉，在比利王的坐骑 抬起前蹄抓挠虚空的地方，布林太太一把拽回她丈夫——他差点儿匆匆地冲到骑马侍从的马蹄底下。她对着他的耳朵大声把这消息嚷给他听。他明白了，于是就把那两本大书挪到左胸前，向第二辆马车致敬。这出乎侍从副官尊贵的杰拉尔德·沃德的意外，就赶忙欣然还礼。在庞森比书店的拐角处，精疲力竭的白色大肚酒瓶H站住了，四个戴高帽子的白色大肚酒瓶——E. L. Y’S ，也在他身后停下脚步。骑在马上的侍从们拥着车辆，神气十足地打他们跟前奔驰而去。在皮戈特公司乐器栈房对面，舞蹈等课程的教师丹尼斯·杰·马金尼先生被总督赶在前头。后者却不曾理会他那花里胡哨的服装和端庄的步履。沿着学院院长住宅的围墙，布莱泽斯·博伊兰洋洋得意地踩着乐曲《我的意中人是位约克郡姑娘》迭句的节拍走来。——他脚登棕黄色皮鞋，短袜跟上还绣着天蓝色的花纹。先导马缀着天蓝色额饰，一副趾高气扬的样子；布莱泽斯·博伊兰则向它们夸示自己这条天蓝色领带、这顶放荡地歪戴着的宽檐草帽和身上穿的这套靛青色哔叽衣服。他双手揣在上衣兜里，忘记行礼了，却向三位淑女大胆献出赞美的目光和他唇间所衔的那朵红花。当车队驶经纳索街的时候，总督大人提醒他那位正在点头还礼的伴侣去留意学院校园中正在演奏着的音乐节目。不见形影的高原小伙子们正肆无忌惮地 用嘟嘟嘟的铜号声和咚咚咚的鼓声为车队行列送行：
围墙里面，四分之一英里平路障碍赛 的参加者M. C.格林、H. 施里夫特、T. M. 帕蒂、C. 斯凯夫J．B杰夫斯、G. N. 莫菲、F. 斯蒂文森、C. 阿德利和w. C. 哈葛德开始了角逐。正跨着大步从芬恩饭店前经过的卡什尔·傅伊尔·奥康内尔·菲茨莫里斯·蒂斯代尔·法雷尔隔着单片眼镜射出来的凶恶目光，越过那些马车，凝视着奥匈帝国副领事馆窗内M. E. 所罗门斯[ 219] 先生那颗脑袋。在莱因斯特街深处，三一学院的后门旁边，保王派霍恩布洛尔手扶嗬嗬帽 。当那些皮毛光润的马从梅里恩广场上奔驰而过的时候，等在那儿的少年帕特里克·阿洛伊修斯·迪格纳穆瞧见人们都向那位头戴大礼帽的绅士致敬，就也用自己那只被猪排包装纸弄得满是油腻的手，举起黑色新便帽。他的领子也翘了起来。为默塞尔医院募款的迈勒斯义卖会 快要开始了，总督率领着随从们驰向下蒙特街，前往主持开幕式。他在布洛德本特那家店铺对面，从一个年轻盲人身边走过。在下蒙特街，一个身穿棕色胶布雨衣的行人 ，边啃着没有抹黄油的面包，边从总督的车马前面迅速地穿过马路，没磕也没碰着。在皇家运河桥头，广告牌上的尤金·斯特拉顿先生咧着厚厚嘴唇，对一切前来彭布罗克区的人都笑脸相迎。在哈丁顿路口，两个浑身是沙子的女人停下脚步，手执雨伞和里面滚动着十一只蛤蜊的提包；她们倒要瞧瞧没挂金链条的市长 大人和市长夫人是个啥样。在诺森伯兰和兰斯多恩两条路上，总督大人郑重其事地对那些向他致敬的人们一一回礼；其中包括稀稀拉拉的男性行人，站在一栋房子的花园门前的两个小学童——据说一八四九年已故女工 偕丈夫前来访问爱尔兰首府时，这座房子承蒙她深表赞赏。还有被一扇正在关闭着的门所吞没的、穿着厚实长裤的阿尔米达诺·阿尔蒂弗尼的敬礼。
THE SUPERIOR, THE VERY REVEREND JOHN CONMEE S. J, RESET HIS smooth watch in his interior pocket as he came down the presbytery steps. Five to three. Just nice time to walk to Artane. What was that boy's name again? Dignam, yes. Vere dignum et justum est. Brother Swan was the person to see. Mr Cunningham's letter. Yes. Oblige him, if possible. Good practical catholic: useful at mission time.
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 aims towards the very reverend John Conmee S. J. Father Conmee blessed him in the sun for his purse held, he knew, one silver crown.
Father Conmee crossed to Mountjoy square. He thought, but not for long, of soldiers and sailors, whose legs had been shot off by cannonballs, ending their days in some pauper ward, and of cardinal Wolsey's words: If I had served my God as I have served my king He would not have abandoned me in my old days. He walked by the treeshade of sunnywinking leaves and towards him came the wife of Mr David Sheehy M. P.
-- 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. looking 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, 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 smiled. 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. Green 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 smelled 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 pork-butcher's, Father Conmee observed pig's puddings, white and black and red, lying neatly curled in tubes.
Moored under the trees of Charleville Mall Father Conmee saw a turf barge, 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 where 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.
At Annesley bridge the tram halted and, when it was about to go, an old woman rose suddenly from her place to alight. The conductor pulled the bellstrap to stay the car for her. She passed out with her basket and a market net: and Father Conmee saw the conductor help her and net and basket down: and Father Conmee thought that, as she had nearly passed the end of the penny fare, she was one of those good souls who had always to be told twice bless you, my child, that they have been absolved, pray for me. But they had so many worries in life, so many cares, poor creatures.
From the hoardings Mr Eugene Stratton grinned with thick niggerlips at Father Conmee.
Father Conmee thought of the souls of black and brown and yellow men and of his sermon of saint Peter Claver S. J. and the African mission and of the propagation of the faith and of the millions of black and brown and yellow souls that had not received the baptism of water when their last hour came like a thief in the night. That book by the Belgian jesuit, Le Nombre des élus, seemed to Father Conmee a reasonable plea. Those were millions of human souls created by God in His Own likeness to whom the faith had not (D. V.) been brought. But they were God's souls created by God. It seemed to Father Conmee a pity that they should all be lost, a waste, if one might say.
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 oldworldish days, loyal times in joyous townlands, old times in the barony.
Father Conmee, walking, thought of his little book Old Times in the Barony and of the book that might be written about jesuit houses and of Mary Rochfort, daughter of lord Molesworth, first countess of Belvedere.
A listless lady, no more young, walked alone the shore of lough Ennel, Mary, first countess of Belvedere, listlessly walking in the evening, not startled when an otter plunged. Who could know the truth? Not the jealous lord Belvedere and not her confessor if she had not committed adultery fully, eiaculatio seminis inter vas naturale mulieris, with her husband's brother? She would half confess if she had not all sinned as women did. Only God knew and she and he, her husband's brother.
Father Conmee thought of that tyrannous incontinence, needed however for men'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.
The lychgate of a field showed Father Conmee breadths of cabbages, curtseying to him with ample underleaves. The sky showed him a flock of small white clouds going slowly down the wind. Moutonner, the French said. A homely and just word.
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.
Father Conmee read in secret Pater and Ave and crossed his breast. Deus in adiutorium.
He wamked calmly and read mutely the nones, walking and reading till he came to Res in Beati immaculati: Principium verborum tuotum veritas: in eternum omnia iudicia iustitu tu&Aelig;.
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.
Father Conmee blessed both gravely and turned a thin page of his breviary. Sin: Principes persecuti sunt me gratis: et a verbis tuis formidavit cor meum.
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
-- For England...
He swung himself violently forward past Katey and Boody Dedalus, halted and growled:
-- home and beauty.
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 and glanced sourly at the unheeding windows, sank his head and swung himself forward four strides.
He halted and growled angrily:
-- For England...
Two barefoot urchins, sucking long liquorice laces, halted near him, gaping at his stump with their yellow-slobbered mouths.
He swung himself forward in vigorous jerks, halted, lifted his head towards a window and bayed deeply:
-- home and beauty.
The gay sweet chirping whistling within went on a bar or two, ceased. The blind of the window was drawn aside. A card Unfurnished Apartments slipped from the sash and fell.
A plump bare generous arm shone, was seen, held forth from a white petticoatbodice and taut shiftstraps. A woman's hand flung forth a coin over the area railings. It fell on the path.
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.
Body 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.
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 blonde 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 car.
-- 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.
-- Ma! Almidano Artifoni said.
He gazed over Stephen's shoulder at Goldsmith's knobby poll.
Two carfuls of tourists passed slowly, their women sitting fore, gripping frankly the handrests. Pale faces. 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.
-- Anch'io ho avuto di queste idee, Almidano Artifoni said, quand' ero giovine come Lei. Eppoi mi sono convinto che il mondo è una bestia. è peccato. Perche la sua voce... sarebbe un cespite di rendita, via. Invece, Lei si sacrifica.
-- Sacrifizio incruento, Stephen said smiling, swaying his ashplant in slow swingswong from its midpoint, lightly.
-- Speriamo, the round mustachioed face said pleasantly. Ma, dia retta a me. Ci rifletta.
By the stern stone hand of Grattan, bidding halt, an Inchicore tram unloaded straggling Highland soldiers of a band.
-- Ci riflettò, Stephen said, glancing down the solid trouser-leg.
-- Ma, sul serio, eh? Almidano Artifoni said.
His heavy hand took Stephen's firmly. Human eyes. They gazed curiously an instant and turned quickly towards a Dalkey tram.
-- Eccolo, Almidano Artifoni said in friendly haste. Venga a trovarmi e ci pensi. Addio, caro.
-- Arrivederla, maestro, Stephen said, raising his hat when his hand was freed. E grazie.
-- Di che? Almidano Artifoni said. Scusi, eh? Tante belle cose!
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 bare-kneed gillies smuggling implements of music through Trinity gates.
Miss Dunne hid the Capel street library copy of The Woman in White far back in her drawer and rolled a sheet of gaudy notepaper into her typewriter.
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 is 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 l 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.
-- God, he cried. I forgot to tell him that one about the earl of Kildare after he set fire to Cashel cathedral. You know that one? I'm bloody sorry I did it, says he, but I declare to God I thought the archbishop was inside. He mightn't like it, though. What? God, I'll tell him anyhow. That was the great earl, the Fitzgerald Mor. Hot members they were all of them, the Geraldines.
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 a while. Holdhard.
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... 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 vice-regal 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 dark-backed figure scanned books on the hawker's cart.
-- There he is, Lenehan said.
-- Wonder what he is buying, M'Coy said, glancing behind.
-- Leopoldo or the Bloom is on the Rye, Lenehan said.
-- 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.
-- 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 river wall.
Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam came out of Mangan's, late Fehrenbach's, carrying a pound and a half of porksteaks.
-- There was a big 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.
A card Unfurnished Apartments reappeared on the windowsash of number 7 Eccles street.
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 cura?ao 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.
-- But wait till I tell you, he said. We had a midnight lunch too after all the jollification and when we sallied forth it was blue o'clock the morning after the night before. Coming home it was a gorgeous winter's night on the Featherbed Mountain. Bloom and Chris Callinan were on one side of the car and I was with the wife on the other. We started singing glees and duets: Lo, the early beam of morning. She was well primed with a good load of Delahunt's port under her bellyband. Every jolt the bloody car gave I had her bumping up against me. Hell's delights! She has a fine pair, God bless her. Like that.
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.
-- The lad stood to attention anyhow, he said with a sigh. She's a gamey mare and no mistake. Bloom was pointing out all the stars and the comets in the heavens to Chris Callinan and the jarvey: the great bear and Hercules and the dragon and the whole jingbang lot. But, by God, I was lost, so to speak, in the milky way. He knows them all, faith. At last she spotted a weeny weeshy one miles away. And what star is that, Poldy? says she. By God, she had Bloom cornered. That one, is it? says Chris Callinan, sure that's only what you might call a pinprick. By God, he wasn't far wide of the mark.
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.
Mr Bloom turned over idly pages of The Awful Disclosures of Maria Monk, then of Aristotle's Masterpiece. Crooked botched print. Plates: infants cuddled in a ball in bloodred wombs like livers of slaughtered cows. Lots of them like that at this moment all over the world. All butting with their skulls to get out of it. Child born every minute somewhere. Mrs Purefoy.
He laid both books aside and glanced at the third: Tales of the Ghetto by Leopold von Sacher Masoch.
-- 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.
Mr Bloom, alone, looked at the titles. Fair Tyrants by James Lovebirch. Know the kind that is. Had it? Yes.
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 the other title: Sweets of Sin. More in her line. Let us see.
He read where his finger opened.
-- All the dollarbills her husband gave her were spent in the stores on wondrous gowns and costliest frillies. For him! For Raoul!
Yes. This. Here. Try.
-- Her mouth glued on his in a luscious voluptuous kiss while his hands felt for the opulent curves inside her déshabillé.
Yes. Take this. The end.
-- You are late, he spoke hoarsely, eyeing her with a suspicious glare. The beautiful woman threw off her sabletrimmed wrap, displaying her queenly shoulders and heaving embonpoint. An imperceptible smile played round her perfect lips as she turned to him calmly.
Mr Bloom read again: The beautiful woman.
Warmth showered gently over him, cowing his flesh. Flesh yielded amid rumpled clothes. Whites of eyes swooning up. His nostrils arched themselves for prey. Melting breast ointments (For him! For Raoul!). Armpits' oniony sweat. Fishgluey slime (her heaving embonpoint!). Feel! Press! Crushed! Sulphur dung of lions!
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, spat 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.
-- Sweets of Sin, he said, tapping on it. That's a good one.
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, listening 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:
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 shoulders? 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.
-- 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:
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, that'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:
-- 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 are 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 are talking straight, Mr Crimmins. You know why? Palmoil. 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.
I smiled at him. America, I said, quietly, just like that. What is it? The sweepings of every country including our own. Isn't that true? That's a fact.
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 ferry-wash, 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 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.
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.
At the siege of Ross did my father fall.
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 burns 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 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 light 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.
Tattered pages. The Irish Beekeeper. Life and Miracles of the Curé of Ars. Pocket Guide to Killarney.
I might find here one of my pawned schoolprizes. Stephano Dedalo, alumno optimo, palmam ferenti.
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:
-- Se et yilo nebrakada femininum! Amor me solo! Sanktus! Amen.
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.
A Stuart face of nonesuch Charles, lank locks falling at its sides. It glowed as she crouched feeding the fire with broken boots. I told her of Paris. Late lieabed under a quilt of old overcoats, fingering a pinchbeck bracelet, Dan Kelly's token. Nebrakada femininum.
-- 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.
Agenbite of inwit. Inwit's agenbite.
-- 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.
-- And how is that basso profondo, Benjamin? Father Cowley asked.
Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, murmuring, glasseyed, 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.
-- Look here Martin, John Wyse Nolan said, overtaking them at the Mail office. I see Bloom put his name down for five shillings.
-- 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.
Outside la Maison Claire Blazes Boylan waylaid Jack Mooney's brother-in-law, humpy, tight, making for the liberties.
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.
Hell open to christians they were having, Jimmy Henry said pettishly, about their damned Irish language. Where was the marshal, he wanted to know, to keep order in the council chamber. And old Barlow the macebearer laid up with asthma, no mace on the table, nothing in order, no quorum even and Hutchinson, the lord mayor, in Llandudno and little Lorcan Sherlock doing locum tenens for him. Damned Irish language, of our forefathers.
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 lieutenant general 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 long-faced 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.
-- I'll take a mélange, Haines said to the waitress.
-- Two mélanges, Buck Mulligan said. And bring us some scones and butter and some cakes as well.
When she had gone he said, laughing:
-- We call it D. B. C. because they have damn bad cakes. O, but you missed Dedalus on Hamlet.
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:
-- England expects...
Buck Mulligan's primrose waistcoat shook gaily to his laughter.
-- You should see him, he said, when his body loses its balance. Wandering &Aelig;ngus I call him.
-- I am sure he has an idée fixe, Haines said, pinching his chin thoughtfully with thumb and forefinger. Now I am speculating what it would be likely to be. Such persons always have.
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.