The Norton Anthology of English literature. Volume 2

�Is the fire hot, sir? But the man could not hear her with the noise of the furnace. It was just as well. He might have answered rudely.

A wave of yet more tender joy escaped from his heart and went coursing in warm flood along his arteries. Like the tender fires of stars moments of their life together, that no one knew of or would ever know of, broke upon and illumined his memory. He longed to recall to her those moments, to make her forget the years of their dull existence together and remember only their moments of ecstasy. For the years, he felt, had not quenched his soul or hers. Their children, his writing, her household cares had not quenched all their souls' tender fire. In one letter that he had written to her then he had said:

Why is it that words like these seem to me so dull and cold? Is it because there is no word tender enough to be your name?

Like distant music these words that he had written years before were borne towards him from the past. He longed to be alone with her. When the others had gone away, when he and she were in their room in the hotel, then they would be alone together. He would call her softly:

�Gretta! Perhaps she would not hear at once: she would be undressing. Then something in his voice would strike her. She would turn and look at him. . . .

At the corner of Winetavern Street they met a cab. He was glad of its rattling noise as it saved him from conversation. She was looking out of the window and seemed tired. The others spoke only a few words, pointing out some building or street. The horse galloped along wearily under the murky morning sky, dragging his old rattling box after his heels, and Gabriel was again in a cab with her, galloping to catch the boat, galloping to their honeymoon.

As the cab drove across O'Connell9 Bridge Miss O'Callaghan said:

�They say you never cross O'Connell Bridge without seeing a white horse.

�I see a white man this time, said Gabriel.

�Where? asked Mr Bartell D'Arcy.

Gabriel pointed to the statue, on which lay patches of snow. Then he nodded familiarly to it and waved his hand. �Good-night, Dan, he said gaily. When the cab drew up before the hotel Gabriel jumped out and, in spite of

Mr Bartell D'Arcy's protest, paid the driver. He gave the man a shilling over his fare. The man saluted and said:

8. Grayish purple alist, statesman, and orator. His statue stands by 9. Daniel O'Connell (1775-1847), Irish nation- O'Connell Bridge in Dublin.

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THE DEAD / 2195

�A prosperous New Year to you, sir.

�The same to you, said Gabriel cordially.

She leaned for a moment on his arm in getting out of the cab and while standing at the curbstone, bidding the others good-night. She leaned lightly on his arm, as lightly as when she had danced with him a few hours before. He had felt proud and happy then, happy that she was his, proud of her grace and wifely carriage. But now, after the kindling again of so many memories, the first touch of her body, musical and strange and perfumed, sent through him a keen pang of lust. Under cover of her silence he pressed her arm closely to his side; and, as they stood at the hotel door, he felt that they had escaped from their lives and duties, escaped from home and friends and run away together with wild and radiant hearts to a new adventure.

An old man was dozing in a great hooded chair in the hall. He lit a candle in the office and went before them to the stairs. They followed him in silence, their feet falling in soft thuds on the thickly carpeted stairs. She mounted the stairs behind the porter, her head bowed in the ascent, her frail shoulders curved as with a burden, her skirt girt tightly about her. He could have flung his arms about her hips and held her still for his arms were trembling with desire to seize her and only the stress of his nails against the palms of his hands held the wild impulse of his body in check. The porter halted on the stairs to settle his guttering candle. They halted too on the steps below him. In the silence Gabriel could hear the falling of the molten wax into the tray and the thumping of his own heart against his ribs.

The porter led them along a corridor and opened a door. Then he set his unstable candle down on a toilet-table and asked at what hour they were to be called in the morning.

�Eight, said Gabriel. The porter pointed to the tap of the electric-light and began a muttered apology but Gabriel cut him short.

�We don't want any light. We have light enough from the street. And I say, he added, pointing to the candle, you might remove that handsome article, like a good man.

The porter took up his candle again, but slowly for he was surprised by such a novel idea. Then he mumbled good-night and went out. Gabriel shot the lock to.

A ghostly light from the street lamp lay in a long shaft from one window to the door. Gabriel threw his overcoat and hat on a couch and crossed the room towards the window. He looked down into the street in order that his emotion might calm a little. Then he turned and leaned against a chest of drawers with his back to the light. She had taken off her hat and cloak and was standing before a large swinging mirror, unhooking her waist.1 Gabriel paused for a few moments, watching her, and then said:

�Gretta!

She turned away from the mirror slowly and walked along the shaft of light towards him. Her face looked so serious and weary that the words would not pass Gabriel's lips. No, it was not the moment yet.

�You looked tired, he said.

�I am a little, she answered.

�You don't feel ill or weak?

�No, tired: that's all.

1. Shirtwaist; a tailored blouse.

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219 6 / JAMES JOYCE

She went on to the window and stood there, looking out. Gabriel waited again and then, fearing that diffidence was about to conquer him, he said abruptly:

�By the way, Gretta!

�What is it?

�You know that poor fellow Malins? he said quickly.

�Yes. What about him?

�Well, poor fellow, he's a decent sort of chap after all, continued Gabriel in a false voice. He gave me back that sovereign I lent him and I didn't expect it really. It's a pity he wouldn't keep away from that Browne, because he's not a bad fellow at heart.

He was trembling now with annoyance. Why did she seem so abstracted? He did not know how he could begin. Was she annoyed, too, about something? If she would only turn to him or come to him of her own accord! To take her as she was would be brutal. No, he must see some ardour in her eyes first. He longed to be master of her strange mood.

�When did you lend him the pound? she asked, after a pause.

Gabriel strove to restrain himself from breaking out into brutal language about the sottish Malins and his pound. He longed to cry to her from his soul, to crush her body against his, to overmaster her. But he said:

�O, at Christmas, when he opened that little Christmas-card shop in Henry Street.

He was in such a fever of rage and desire that he did not hear her come from the window. She stood before him for an instant, looking at him strangely. Then, suddenly raising herself on tiptoe and resting her hands lightly on his shoulders, she kissed him.

�You are a very generous person, Gabriel, she said.

Gabriel, trembling with delight at her sudden kiss and at the quaintness of her phrase, put his hands on her hair and began smoothing it back, scarcely touching it with his fingers. The washing had made it fine and brilliant. His heart was brimming over with happiness. Just when he was wishing for it she had come to him of her own accord. Perhaps her thoughts had been running with his. Perhaps she had felt the impetuous desire that was in him and then the yielding mood had come upon her. Now that she had fallen to him so easily he wondered why he had been so diffident.

He stood, holding her head between his hands. Then, slipping one arm

swiftly about her body and drawing her towards him, he said softly:

�Gretta dear, what are you thinking about?

She did not answer nor yield wholly to his arm. He said again, softly:

�Tell me what it is, Gretta. I think I know what is the matter. Do I know?

She did not answer at once. Then she said in an outburst of tears:

�O, I am thinking about that song, The Lass of Aughrim.

She broke loose from him and ran to the bed and, throwing her arms across

the bed-rail, hid her face. Gabriel stood stock-still for a moment in astonish

ment and then followed her. As he passed in the way of the cheval-glass2 he

caught sight of himself in full length, his broad, well-filled shirt-front, the face

whose expression always puzzled him when he saw it in a mirror and his glim

mering gilt-rimmed eyeglasses. He halted a few paces from her and said:

�What about the song? Why does that make you cry?

2. Full-length mirror that can be tilted.

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THE DEAD / 2197

She raised her head from her arms and dried her eyes with the back of her hand like a child. A kinder note than he had intended went into his voice.

�Why, Gretta? he asked.

�I am thinking about a person long ago who used to sing that song.

�And who was the person long ago? asked Gabriel, smiling.

�It was a person I used to know in Galway when I was living with my grandmother, she said.

The smile passed away from Gabriel's face. A dull anger began to gather again at the back of his mind and the dull fires of his lust began to glow angrily in his veins.

�Someone you were in love with? he asked ironically.

�It was a young boy I used to know, she answered, named Michael Furey. He used to sing that song, The Lass of Aughrim. He was very delicate.

Gabriel was silent. He did not wish her to think that he was interested in this delicate boy.

�I can see him so plainly, she said after a moment. Such eyes as he had: big dark eyes! And such an expression in them�an expression!

�O then, you were in love with him? said Gabriel.

�I used to go out walking with him, she said, when I was in Galway.

A thought flew across Gabriel's mind.

�Perhaps that was why you wanted to go to Galway with that Ivors girl? he said coldly.

She looked at him and asked in surprise:

�What for?

Her eyes made Gabriel feel awkward. He shrugged his shoulders and said:

�How do I know! To see him perhaps.

She looked away from him along the shaft of light towards the window in silence. �He is dead, she said at length. He died when he was only seventeen. Isn't it a terrible thing to die so young as that?

�What was he? asked Gabriel, still ironically.

�He was in the gasworks,3 she said.

Gabriel felt humiliated by the failure of his irony and by the evocation of this figure from the dead, a boy in the gasworks. While he had been full of memories of their secret life together, full of tenderness and joy and desire, she had been comparing him in her mind with another. A shameful consciousness of his own person assailed him. He saw himself as a ludicrous figure, acting as a pennyboy for his aunts, a nervous well-meaning sentimentalist, orating to vulgarians and idealising his own clownish lusts, the pitiable fatuous fellow he had caught a glimpse of in the mirror. Instinctively he turned his back more to the light lest she might see the shame that burned upon his forehead.

He tried to keep up his tone of cold interrogation but his voice when he spoke was humble and indifferent.

�I suppose you were in love with this Michael Furey, Gretta, he said.

�I was great with him at that time, she said.

Her voice was veiled and sad. Gabriel, feeling now how vain it would be to try to lead her whither he had purposed, caressed one of her hands and said, also sadly:

3. Factory where coal gas for heating and lighting is produced.

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2 198 / JAMES JOYCE

�And what did he die of so young, Gretta? Consumption, was it?

�I think he died for me, she answered.

A vague terror seized Gabriel at this answer as if, at that hour when he had hoped to triumph, some impalpable and vindictive being was coming against him, gathering forces against him in its vague world. But he shook himself free of it with an effort of reason and continued to caress her hand. He did not question her again for he felt that she would tell him of herself. Her hand was warm and moist: it did not respond to his touch but he continued to caress it just as he had caressed her first letter to him that spring morning.

�It was in the winter, she said, about the beginning of the winter when 1 was going to leave my grandmother's and come up here to the convent. And he was ill at the time in his lodgings in Galway and wouldn't be let out and his people in Oughterard were written to. He was in decline, they said, or something like that. I never knew rightly.

She paused for a moment and sighed.

�Poor fellow, she said. He was very fond of me and he was such a gentle boy. We used to go out together, walking, you know, Gabriel, like the way they do in the country. He was going to study singing only for his health. He had a very good voice, poor Michael Furey.

�Well; and then? asked Gabriel.

�And then when it came to the time for me to leave Galway and come up to the convent he was much worse and I wouldn't be let see him so I wrote a letter saying I was going up to Dublin and would be back in the summer and hoping he would be better then.

She paused for a moment to get her voice under control and then went on:

�Then the night before I left I was in my grandmother's house in Nuns' Island, packing up, and I heard gravel thrown up against the window. The window was so wet I couldn't see so I ran downstairs as I was and slipped out the back into the garden and there was the poor fellow at the end of the garden, shivering.

�And did you not tell him to go back? asked Gabriel.

�I implored him to go home at once and told him he would get his death in the rain. But he said he did not want to live. I can see his eyes as well as well! He was standing at the end of the wall where there was a tree.

�And did he go home? asked Gabriel.

�Yes, he went home. And when I was only a week in the convent he died and he was buried in Oughterard where his people came from. O, the day I heard that, that he was dead!

She stopped, choking with sobs, and overcome by emotion, flung herself face downward on the bed, sobbing in the quilt. Gabriel held her hand for a moment longer, irresolutely, and then, shy of intruding on her grief, let it fall gently and walked quietly to the window.

She was fast asleep.

Gabriel, leaning on his elbow, looked for a few moments unresentfully on her tangled hair and half-open mouth, listening to her deep-drawn breath. So she had had that romance in her life: a man had died for her sake. It hardly pained him now to think how poor a part he, her husband, had played in her life. He watched her while she slept as though he and she had never lived together as man and wife. His curious eyes rested long upon her face and on her hair: and, as he thought of what she must have been then, in that time of

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THE DEAD / 2199

her first girlish beauty, a strange friendly pity for her entered his soul. He did not like to say even to himself that her face was no longer beautiful but he knew that it was no longer the face for which Michael Furey had braved death.

Perhaps she had not told him all the story. His eyes moved to the chair over which she had thrown some of her clothes. A petticoat string dangled to the floor. One boot stood upright, its limp upper fallen down: the fellow of it lay upon its side. He wondered at his riot of emotions of an hour before. From what had it proceeded? From his aunt's supper, from his own foolish speech, from the wine and dancing, the merry-making when saying good-night in the hall, the pleasure of the walk along the river in the snow. Poor Aunt Julia! She, too, would soon be a shade with the shade of Patrick Morkan and his horse. He had caught that haggard look upon her face for a moment when she was singing Arrayed for the Bridal. Soon, perhaps, he would be sitting in that same drawing-room, dressed in black, his silk hat on his knees. The blinds would be drawn down and Aunt Kate would be sitting beside him, crying and blowing her nose and telling him how Julia had died. He would cast about in his mind for some words that might console her, and would find only lame and useless ones. Yes, yes: that would happen very soon.

The air of the room chilled his shoulders. He stretched himself cautiously along under the sheets and lay down beside his wife. One by one they were all becoming shades. Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age. He thought of how she who lay beside him had locked in her heart for so many years that image of her lover's eyes when he had told her that he did not wish to live.

Generous tears filled Gabriel's eyes. He had never felt like that himself towards any woman but he knew that such a feeling must be love. The tears gathered more thickly in his eyes and in the partial darkness he imagined he saw the form of a young man standing under a dripping tree. Other forms were near. His soul had approached that region where dwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious of, but could not apprehend, their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity was fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself which these dead had one time reared and lived in was dissolving and dwindling.

A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen4 and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.

4. The name given to many separate peat bogs between the rivers Liffey (which runs through Dublin) and Shannon (which runs through the central plain of Ireland).

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220 0 / JAMES JOYCE

From Ulysses1

[PROTEUS] 2

Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought through my eyes.3 Signatures of all things4 I am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane.5 But he adds: in bodies. Then he was aware of them bodies before of them coloured. How? By knocking his sconce against them, sure. Go easy. Bald he was and a millionaire, maestro di color che sanno.6 Limit of the diaphane in. Why in? Diaphane, adiaphane.7 If you can put your five fingers through it, it is a gate, if not a door. Shut your eyes and see.

Stephen closed his eyes to hear his boots crush crackling wrack and shells. You are walking through it howsomever. I am, a stride at a time. A very short space of time through very short times of space. Five, six: the Nacheinander.8 Exactly: and that is the ineluctable modality of the audible. Open your eyes. No. Jesus! If I fell over a cliff that beetles o'er his base,9 fell through the Nebeneinander1 ineluctably. I am getting on nicely in the dark. My ash sword hangs at my side. Tap with it: they do.2 My two feet in his boots3 are at the

1. Ulysses was first published in book form on Feb. Marsh's library" (in Dublin). Stephen's highly the2, 1922, Joyce's fortieth birthday. The text given oretical, inquiring, musing mind contrasts sharply here has been collated with the 1932 Odyssey with the practical, humane, sensual, concrete Press edition. imagination of the book's real hero, Leopold 2. "Proteus," the third of the novel's eigtheen epi-Bloom, but significant parallels exist between the sodes, is so titled because of the deliberate analo-streams of consciousness of the two. Some of the gies that exist between it and the description of more important themes that emerge in Stephen's Proteus in Homer's Odyssey 4. (Joyce did not title reverie are pointed out in the footnotes. any of the episodes in Ulysses, but the names are 3. I.e., the sense of sight provides an unavoidable his; he used them in correspondence and in talk way ("ineluctable modality") of knowing reality, with friends.) the knowledge thus provided being a kind of In the Odyssey Proteus is the sea god, who con-"thought through [the] eyes." tinually alters his shape: when Telemachus, Ulys-4. From Jakob Bohme (1575�1624), German ses' son, asks Menelaus for help in finding his mystic. father, Menelaus tells him that he encountered 5. Transparency. Stephen is speculating on Aris- Proteus by the seashore on the island of Pharos "in totle's view of perception as developed in his De front of Egypt," and that, by holding on to him Anima. while he changed from one shape to another, he 6. One tradition held that Aristotle was bald, with was able to force him to tell what had happened to thin legs, small eyes, and a lisp. Aristotle is also Ulysses and the other Greek heroes of the Trojan traditionally supposed to have inherited consider- War. In Joyce's narrative Stephen Dedalus (who, able wealth and to have been presented with a for- like Homer's Telemachus, is looking for a father, tune by his former pupil Alexander the Great. The but not in the literal "consubstantial" sense) is Italian phrase, Dante's description of Aristotle in walking alone by the Dublin shore, "along Sandy-the Inferno, means "the master of them that mount strand," speculating on the shifting shapes know." of things and the possibility of knowing truth by 7. What is not transparent (opposite of "diaappearances. phane").

Stephen meditates first on the "modality of the 8. After one another (German). Stephen, with visible" and on the mystical notion that the Dem-eyes shut, is now sensing reality through the sense iurge, God's subordinate, writes his signature on of sound only: unlike sight, sound falls on the sense all things; then on the "modality of the audible," of hearing in chronological sequence, one sound closing his eyes and trying to know reality through after another. the sense of hearing. As he continues his walk, the 9. "What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord, people and objects he sees mingle in his thoughts / Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff/That bee- with memories of his past relations with his family, tles o'er his base into the sea" (Hamlet 1.4.50�52). of his schooldays, of his residence in Paris (from Allusions to Hamlet occur often in Ulysses. where he was recalled by his mother's fatal illness), 1. Beside one another (German). of his feeling guilty about his mother's death (he 2. Stephen is still walking with his eyes shut, tap- had refused to kneel down and pray at her bedside, ping with his "ash sword" (the ash-wood walking because he considered it a betrayal of his integrity stick he carries), as "they" (i.e., blind people) do. as an unbeliever), and also with a variety of spec-3. I.e., his friend Buck Mulligan's. Stephen, lackulations about life and reality often derived from ing boots of his own, had borrowed a cast-off pair mystical works he had read "in the stagnant bay of of Mulligan's.

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ULYSSES [PROTEUS] / 220 1

ends of my legs, nebeneinander. Sounds solid: made by the mallet of Los demiurgos.4 Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? Crush, crack, crik, crick. Wild sea money. Dominie Deasy kens them a'.5

Won't you come to Sandymount, Madeline the mare?

Rhythm begins, you see. I hear. A catalectic tetrameter6 of iambs marching. No, agallop: deline the mare. Open your eyes now. I will. One moment. Has all vanished since? If I open and am for ever in the black adiaphane. Basta!7 I will see if I can see. See now. There all the time without you: and ever shall be, world without end.

They came down the steps from Leahy's terrace prudently, Frauenzimmer:8 and down the shelving shore flabbily, their splayed feet sinking in the silted sand. Like me, like Algy,9 coming down to our mighty mother. Number one swung lourdily1 her midwife's bag, the other's gamp2 poked in the beach. From the liberties, out for the day. Mrs Florence MacCabe, relict of the late Patk MacCabe,3 deeply lamented, of Bride Street. One of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life. Creation from nothing. What has she in the bag? A misbirth with a trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool. The cords of all link back, strandentwining cable of all flesh. That is why mystic monks. Will you be as gods? Gaze in your omphalos. Hello. Kinch here. Put me on to Edenville. Aleph, alpha: nought, nought, one.4

Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon: Heva,5 naked Eve. She had no navel. Gaze. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a buckler of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from everlasting to everlasting. Womb of sin.6

4. The Demiurge, or demiurgos, supernatural being who, according to Gnostic philosophy, made the world in subordination to God. The mystical notion of the Demiurge, whose mallet fashioned all things and who writes his signature on them, haunts Stephen's mind. The world, sensed by the ear only, "sounds solid," as though made by the Demiurge's hammer. The ending -os gives the word the appearance of a Spanish plural, so Joyce whimsically writes "Los demiurgos, '' which in Spanish would be "the demiurges." 5. "Dominie": schoolmaster. Mr. Deasy was the headmaster of the school where Stephen taught (the previous episode has shown Stephen teaching). "Kens them a' ": knows them all; Stephen is putting Deasy into a mock-Scottish folk song. 6. The first of the two lines of popular verse that have come into Stephen's head consists metrically of four iambic feet ("tetrameter") with the last foot unlike the first, not defective ("catalectic"). 7. Enough! (Italian). 8. Dames, wenches (German). Here, midwives. Stephen sees them coming from Leahy's Terrace, which runs by the beach. 9. Algernon Charles Swinburne, who wrote: "I will go back to the great sweet mother, / Mother and lover of men, the sea. / I will go down to her, 1 and none other" ("The Triumph of Time," lines 1�3). 1. Heavily (coined by Stephen from the French lourd). Stephen, like Joyce, had studied modern languages at University College, Dublin, and his preoccupation with words and languages is part of his character as potential literary artist. 2. Umbrella; and perhaps reference to Mrs. Gamp, the nurse in Dickens's Martin Chuzzlewit. 3. Stephen imagines the first midwife is called Mrs. MacCabe. "Relict": widow. 4. Stephen is speculating on the mystical significance of the navel cord, seeing it as linking the generations, the combined navel cords stretching back to Adam and Eve. A mystic gazed in his omphalos (navel) to make contact with the first man. Stephen thinks of himself ("Kinch," his nickname) calling up Adam in "Edenville" through his navel, using the line of linked navel cords as a telephone line. Adam's telephone number, "Aleph, alpha: nought, nought, one," begins with the first letters of the Hebrew and of the Greek alphabet to suggest the great primeval number. 5. Hebrew for Eve. Because she was not born in the regular way, but created from Adam's rib, she had no navel. "Adam Kadmon": Adam the Beginner, so called in Hebrew cabalistic literature of the Middle Ages. 6. Stephen is led, through reflection on Eve's navel-less "belly without blemish," to a recollection of the description of the original Eden (Paradise) by Thomas Traherne (ca. 1637�1674), from whose prose Centuries of Meditation he quotes: "The corn was orient and immortal wheat, which should never be reaped, nor was ever sown. I thought it had stood from everlasting to everlasting." But immediately afterward Stephen reflects that such language is inappropriate to Eve's body, as hers was the "womb of sin"�i.e., she first ate the fatal apple and brought forth sin.

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220 2 / JAMES JOYCE

Wombed in sin darkness I was too, made not begotten. By them, the man with my voice and my eyes and a ghostwoman with ashes on her breath.7 They clasped and sundered, did the couplers will. From before the ages He willed me and now may not will me away or ever. A lex etema8 stays about Him. Is that then the divine substance wherein Father and Son are consubstantial? Where is poor dear Arius9 to try conclusions? Warring his life long on the contransmagnificandjewbangtantiality.1 Illstarred heresiarch.2 In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. With beaded mitre and with crozier, stalled upon his throne, widower of a widowed see, with upstiffed omophorion, with clotted hinderparts.

Airs romped round him, nipping and eager airs. They are coming, waves. The whitemaned seahorses, champing, brightwindbridled, the steeds of Mananaan.3

I mustn't forget his letter for the press. And after? The Ship, half twelve. By the way go easy with that money like a good young imbecile. Yes, I must.4

His pace slackened. Here. Am I going to aunt Sara's or not? My consubstantial father's voice. Did you see anything of your artist brother Stephen lately? No? Sure he's not down in Strasburg terrace with his aunt Sally? Couldn't he fly a bit higher than that, eh? And and and and tell us Stephen, how is uncle Si? O weeping God, the things I married into. De boys up in de hayloft. The drunken little costdrawer and his brother, the cornet player. Highly respectable gondoliers. And skeweyed Walter sirring his father, no less. Sir. Yes, sir. No, sir. Jesus wept: and no wonder, by Christ.5

I pull the wheezy bell of their shuttered cottage: and wait. They take me for a dun, peer out from a coign of vantage.6

�It's Stephen, sir.

�Let him in. Let Stephen in.

A bolt drawn back and Walter welcomes me.

�We thought you were someone else.

In his broad bed nuncle Richie, pillowed and blanketed, extends over the

7. Stephen is haunted by thoughts of his mother are connected in Stephen's mind with argument in this guise. about the relation between God the Father and 8. Eternal law (Latin). God's eternal law, Stephen God the Son and so with the problem of the true reflects, willed his birth from the beginning. He nature of paternity, which haunts him constantly. then goes on to speculate on the nature of the 3. Mananaan MacLir, Celtic sea god; his steeds divine substance and whether God the Father and are the "whitemaned seahorses." ("White horses" God the Son are of the same substance ("consub-is still the name in Britain for the white foam atop stantial"). waves.) 9. Third-century theologian who "tried conclu-4. Mr. Deasy had given Stephen a letter to the sions" on this matter, maintaining that Christ was press to be taken to the newspaper office. After less divine than God (Arius's views were con-that he has an appointment with Mulligan at The demned as heretical by the Council of Nicaea in Ship, a tavern. "That money" is Mr. Deasy's last 325). payment to him. 1. Ironic "portmanteau word" made up of terms 5. Stephen has been wondering whether to call on connected with the Arian controversy�"consub-his uncle and aunt, Richie and Sara Goulding. He stantial," "transubstantial" (of a substance that imagines his father interrogating him about the changes into another)�and with the facts of visit as if he had gone; he then pictures his cousins Christ's nature (e.g., "Jew"; Jesus was a Jew, as asking after his father, Simon Dedalus (his cousins' Leopold Bloom in a later episode reminds an anti-"uncle Si"). Simon is contemptuous of his wife's Semitic Irishman). relations (Sara Goulding is his wife's sister). Ste2. Arch-heretic. Arius died suddenly in Constan-phen knows that any mention of them will bring tinople in 336. He was never a bishop, and Ste-on the familiar abuse of "the things I married phen's image of him at the moment of death in full into"�at best "highly respectable gondoliers" episcopal attire seems to combine recollections of (from Gilbert and Sullivan's opera The Gondoliers). other early "heresiarchs." In an earlier reverie Ste-The scene that follows is also Stephen's purely phen had conjured up in his mind "a horde of imaginary picture of what the visit would be like. heresies fleeing with mitres awry." These heretics 6. Favorable corner.

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ULYSSES [PROTEUS] / 220 3

hillock of his knees a sturdy forearm. Cleanchested. He has washed the upper moiety.

�Morrow, nephew.

He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for the eyes of master Goff and master Shapland Tandy, filing consents and common searches and a writ of Duces Tecum.1 A bogoak frame over his bald head: Wilde's Requiescat.8 The drone of his misleading whistle brings Walter back.

�Yes, sir?

�Malt9 for Richie and Stephen, tell mother. Where is she?

�Bathing Crissie, sir.

Papa's little bedpal. Lump of love.

�No, uncle Richie . . .

�Call me Richie. Damn your lithia water.1 It lowers. Whusky!

�Uncle Richie, really. . . .

�Sit down or by the law Harry I'll knock you down.

Walter squints vainly for a chair.

�He has nothing to sit down on, sir.

�He has nowhere to put it, you mug. Bring in our chippendale chair. Would you like a bite of something? None of your damned lawdeedaw air here: the rich of a rasher fried with a herring? Sure? So much the better. We have nothing in the house but backache pills.

All'erta!2 He drones bars of Ferrando's aria di sortita. The grandest number, Stephen, in the whole opera. Listen. His tuneful whistle sounds again, finely shaded, with rushes of the air, his fists bigdrumming on his padded knees.

This wind is sweeter.

Houses of decay, mine, his and all. You told the Clongowes gentry you had an uncle a judge and an uncle a general in the army.3 Come out of them, Stephen. Beauty is not there. Nor in the stagnant bay of Marsh's library where you read the fading prophecies of Joachim Abbas.4 For whom? The hundred- headed rabble of the cathedral close.5 A hater of his kind ran from them to the wood of madness, his mane foaming in the moon, his eyeballs stars. Houyhnhnm, horsenostrilled.6 The oval equine faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell. Lantern jaws. Abbas7 father, furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? Paff! Descende, calve, ut nimium decalveris.8 A garland of

7. You shall take with you (Latin); opening words 5. I.e., the precinct of a cathedral (Marsh's Library of a search warrant. Goulding was a law clerk with is in the close of St. Patrick's Cathedral). Messrs. Goff and Tandy. 6. St. Patrick's Close has recalled Jonathan Swift, 8. Poem by Oscar Wilde. who was dean of St. Patrick's. Stephen remembers 9. Whiskey. Swift's misanthropy (he was "a hater of his kind") 1. Mineral water containing lithium salts, often and his creation of the Houyhnhnms (noble used therapeutically. horses) in book 4 of Gidliver's Travels. Then he 2. Look out! (Italian); the first words of the aria di thinks of people he knew who have horse faces. sortita (aria sung by a character about to leave the 7. Literally: father. stage) sung by Ferrando, captain of the guard, in 8. Go down, bald-head, lest you become even Verdi's opera II Trovatore. balder (Latin). This sentence, from Joachim's Con3. Stephen, reflecting on the steady social decline cordia of the Old and New Testaments, is based of his family, is remembering that, while at school on the mocking cry of the children to the prophet at Clongowes Wood College, he had pretended to Elisha (2 Kings 2.23: "Go up, thou bald head"); have important relations. Joachim saw Elisha as a forerunner of St. Bene4. Abbot Joachim of Floris (the monastery of San dict�both had shaven or baldish heads. Stephen Giovanni in Fiore, Italy), 12th-century mystic and goes on to imagine the "comminated" (threatened) theologian, whose prophetic work Expositio in head of Joachim descending, clutching a "monA- pocalypsin Stephen (like Joyce) had read in strance" (receptacle in which the Host [conseMarsh's Library. crated bread or wafer] is exposed for adoration), in

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220 4 / JAMES JOYCE

grey hair on his comminated head see him me clambering down to the footpace (�descende), clutching a monstrance, basiliskeyed. Get down, bald poll! A choir gives back menace and echo, assisting about the altars horns, the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving burly in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat with the fat of kidneys of wheat.

And at the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is elevating it. Dringdring! And two streets off another locking it into a pyx.9 Dringadring! And in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his own cheek. Dringdring! Down, up, forward, back. Dan Occam1 thought of that, invincible doctor. A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickled his brain. Bringing his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his second bell the first bell in the transept (he is lifting his) and, rising, heard (now I am lifting) their two bells (he is kneeling) twang in diphthong.

Cousin Stephen, you will never be a saint.2 Isle of saints.3 You were awfully holy, weren't you? You prayed to the Blessed Virgin that you might not have a red nose. You prayed to the devil in Serpentine avenue that the fubsy widow in front might lift her clothes still more from the wet street. O si, certo!4 Sell your soul for that, do, dyed rags pinned round a squaw. More tell me, more still! On the top of the Howth tram alone crying to the rain: Naked women! What about that, eh?

What about what? What else were they invented for?

Reading two pages apiece of seven books every night, eh? I was young. You bowed to yourself in the mirror, stepping forward to applause earnestly, striking face. Hurray for the Goddamned idiot! Hray! No-one saw: tell no-one. Books you were going to write with letters for titles. Have you read his F? O yes, but I prefer Q. Yes, but W is wonderful. O yes, W. Remember your epiphanies5 on green oval leaves, deeply deep, copies to be sent if you died to all the great libraries of the world, including Alexandria? Someone was to read them there after a few thousand years, a mahamanvantara.6 Pico della Mirandola7 like. Ay, very like a whale.8 When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one feels that one is at one with one who once . . .

The grainy sand had gone from under his feet. His boots trod again a damp crackling mast, razorshells, squeaking pebbles, that on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the shipworm, lost Armada. Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading soles, breathing upward sewage breath. He coasted

the midst of a nightmare church service. he attempted to express, in the writing, the

9. Vessel in which the Host is kept. Stephen is moment at which "the soul of the commonest imagining such a service, with himself officiating object . . . seems to us radiant." Stephen's recollec( he almost became a priest). tion of early and exotic literary ambitions is drawn 1. William of Occam or Ockham ("Dan" means directly from Joyce's ambitions at the same age. "master"), 14th-century English theologian, who 6. Cycle of change and recurrence, in Indian mysheld that the individual thing is the reality and its tical thought. It is connected in Stephen s mind name, the universal, an abstraction; he was con-with the constant ebb and flow of the sea by which cerned with hypostasis�the essential part of a he is walking. thing as distinct from its attributes. 7. 15th-century mystical philosopher; his Hepta2. A parody of the words of Drvden to his distant plus is a mystical account of the Creation, much relative Swift: "Cousin, you will never make a influenced by Jewish cabalistic thought. poet." 8. Polonius to Hamlet (Hamlet 3.2.351) with ref3. Ireland was called "insula sanctorum" (isle of erence to the changing shape of a cloud. The Pro- saints) in the Middle Ages. tean theme of constant change, of ebb and flow, 4. Oh yes, certainly! (Italian). and of metempsychosis (i.e., transmigration of 5. Joyce s term for the prose poems he wrote as a souls: a major theme in Ulysses), is working in Steyoung man. An epiphany, he said, was the sudden phen's mind. The following sentence is a parody of "revelation of the whatness of a thing"�of a ges-an elegant, condescending modern essay on Pico ture, a phrase, or a thought he had experienced; or some other early mystic.

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ULYSSES [PROTEUS] / 220 5

them, walking warily. A porterbottle stood up, stogged to its waist, in the cakey sand dough. A sentinel: isle of dreadful thirst.9 Broken hoops on the shore; at the land a maze of dark cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts. Ringsend: wigwams of brown steersmen and master mariners. Human shells.

He halted. I have passed the way to aunt Sara's. Am I not going there? Seems not. No-one about. He turned northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the Pigeonhouse.1

�Qui vous a mis dans cette ficltue position?

�C'est le pigeon, Joseph.

Patrice, home on furlough, lapped warm milk with me in the bar Mac- Mahon. Son of the wild goose, Kevin Egan of Paris. My father's a bird, he lapped the sweet lait chaud with pink young tongue, plump bunny's face. Lap, lapin. He hopes to win in the gros lots. About the nature of women he read in Michelet. But he must send me La Vie de Jesus by M. Leo Taxil. Lent it to his friend.2

�C'est tordant, vous savez. Moi, je suis socialiste. Je ne crois pas en 1'existence

de Dieu. Faut pas le dire a mon pere.

�II croit?

�Mon pere} oui.

SchlussHe laps.

My Latin quarter hat. God, we simply must dress the character. I want puce gloves. You were a student, weren't you? Of what in the other devil's name? Paysayenn. P. C. N., you know: physiques, chimiques et naturelles.4 Aha. Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet,5 fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen. Just say in the most natural tone: when I was in Paris, boid'Mich',61 used to. Yes, used to carry punched tickets to prove an alibi if they arrested you for murder somewhere. Justice. On the night of the seventeenth of February 1904 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. Other fellow did it: other me. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. Lui, c'est moi.7 You seem to have enjoyed yourself.

Proudly walking. Whom were you trying to walk like? Forget: a dispossessed. With mother's money order, eight shillings, the banging door of the post office slammed in your face by the usher. Hunger toothache. Encore deux minutes.

9. The atmosphere of the sandflats reminds Stephen of a desert island where people die of thirst. (The island of Pharos, where Menelaus found Proteus, was an "island of dreadful hunger.") 1. The Pigeon House in Ringsend, an old structure built on a breakwater in Dublin Bay and which in the course of time has served a great variety of purposes, suggests to Stephen the Dove, which is the symbol of the Holy Spirit, and this in turn suggests an irreverent dialogue (supposedly between Joseph and Mary when Mary is found to be pregnant: "Who has got you into this wretched condition?" "It was the pigeon [i.e., the Holy Dove], Joseph"). This he had picked up in Paris from the blasphemous M. Leo Taxil, whose book La Vie de Jesus ("The Life of Jesus") is mentioned in the next paragraph. 2. Stephen had first met Leo Taxil through Patrice, the son of "Kevin Egan of Paris," who in real life was the exiled nationalist Joseph Casey. The phrase "my father's a bird" comes from The Song of the Cheerful Jesus, a blasphemous poem by Buck Mulligan (based on Joyce's friend Oliver Gogarty, who really wrote the poem); Stephen recalls Patrice reciting it as he drank warm milk ("lait chaud"), lapping it like a "lapin" (rabbit), and expressing the hope that he would win something substantial in the French national lottery (gros lot: "first prize"). Jules Michelet (1798-1874), French historian.

3. End (German). Conversation in French between Stephen and Patrice: "It's screamingly funny, you know. I'm a socialist myself. I don't believe in the existence of God. Mustn't tell my father." "He is a believer?" "My father, yes." 4. I.e., the faculty of physics, chemistry, and biology at the Ecole de Medecine in Paris, where Stephen, like Joyce, took a premedical course for a short time. The faculty was popularly known as "P.C.N." (pronounced "Paysayenn"). 5. Stew. 6. Popular Parisian abbreviation for the Boulevard Saint Michel. 7. "He is me"�a parody of Louis XIV's remark "L'etat c'est moi" (I am the state).

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220 6 / JAMES JOYCE

Look clock. iMust get. Ferme. Hired dog! Shoot him to bloody bits with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack back. Not hurt? O, that's all right. Shake hands. See what I meant, see? O, that's all right. Shake a shake. O, that's all only all right.8

You were going to do wonders, what? Missionary to Europe after fiery Columbanus. Fiacre and Scotus on their creepystools9 in heaven spilt from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: Euge!l Eugel Pretending to speak broken English as you dragged your valise, porter threepence, across the slimy pier at Newhaven. Comment? Rich booty you brought back; Le Tutu, five tattered numbers of Pantalon Blanc et Culotte Rouge,2 a blue French telegram, curiosity to show:

�Mother dying come home father.3

The aunt thinks you killed your mother. That's why she won't.4

Then here's a health to Mulligan's aunt And I'll tell you the reason why. She always kept things decent in The Hannigan famileye.

His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the sand furrows, along by the boulders of the south wall. He stared at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. Gold light on sea, on sand, on boulders. The sun is there, the slender trees, the lemon houses.

Paris rawly waking, crude sunlight on her lemon streets. Moist pith of farls5 of bread, the froggreen wormwood, her matin incense, court the air. Belluomo rises from the bed of his wife's lover's wife, the kerchiefed housewife is astir, a saucer of acetic acid in her hand. In Rodot's Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering with gold teeth chaussons of pastry, their mouths yellowed with the pus of flan hreton.b Faces of Paris men go by, their wellpleased pleasers, curled conquistadores.7

Noon slumbers. Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes through fingers smeared with printer's ink,8 sipping his green fairy as Patrice his white. About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets. Un demi setter!9 A jet of coffee steam from the burnished caldron. She serves me at his beck. II est irlandais. Hollandais? Non fromage. Deux irlandais, nous, Irlande, vous savez? Ah, oui!] She thought you wanted a cheese hollandais. Your postprandial, do you know

8. A recollection of the occasion when, desperate 4. Stephen recalls Buck Mulligan's telling him for money, Stephen had received a money order that his (Mulligan's) aunt disapproved of Stephen for eight shillings from his mother. Afflicted with because, by refusing to pray at his dying mother's both hunger and toothache, he had gone to cash bedside, he had hastened her death. Stephen then it at the post office�which was closed, even tries to laugh away his guilty feeling by quoting though, as he expostulated with the man at the mentally a (slightly parodied) verse of a popular door, there were still two minutes ("encore deux song. minutes") until the official closing time. In his ret-5. Thin circular cakes. rospective rage he imagines himself shooting the 6. Memories of a restaurant in Paris. "Chaussons": "hired dog" to bits, and then in a revulsion of feel-pastry turnovers. "Flan breton": pastry filled with ing has a mental reconciliation with him. custard. 9. Low stools. "Columbanus": 6th-century Irish 7. Conquerors (Spanish). missionary on the Continent. Fiacre was a 6th-8. Egan (i.e., Joseph Casey) became a typesetter century Irish saint. John Duns Scotus (1266� for the Parisian edition of the New York Herald. 1308), Scottish scholastic theologian and philos-9. Abusive Parisian slang for a liquid measure opher. (about one-fourth of a liter)�here, presumably, of 1. Well done! wine or beer. "Green Fairy": absinthe, a strong 2. Like Le Tutu, the name of a French popular green liqueur. periodical. 1. He is Irish. Dutch? Not cheese. We are two 3. This telegram was actually received by Joyce in Irishmen, Ireland, you understand? Oh, yes! Paris.

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ULYSSES [PROTEUS] / 220 7

that word? Postprandial. There was a fellow I knew once in Barcelona, queer fellow, used to call it his postprandial. Well: slainte!2 Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. His breath hangs over our saucestained plates, the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips. Of Ireland, the Dalcassians, of hopes, conspiracies, of Arthur Griffith now.3 To yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes our common cause. You're your father's son. I know the voice. His fustian shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his secrets. M. Drumont,4 famous journalist, Drumont, know what he called queen Victoria? Old hag with the yellow teeth. Vieille ogresse with the dents jaunes. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, la Patrie, M. Millevoye, Felix Faure,' know how he died? Licentious men. Thefroeken, bonne a toutfaire,6 who rubs male nakedness in the bath at Upsala. Moi faire, she said, tous les messieurs.7 Not this monsieur, I said. Most licentious custom. Bath a most private thing. I wouldn't let my brother, not even my own brother, most lascivious thing. Green eyes, I see you. Fang, I feel. Lascivious people.

The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. Loose tobacco shreds catch fire: a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Raw facebones under his peep of day boy's hat. How the head centre got away, authentic version. Got up as a young bride, man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the road to Malahide. Did, faith. Of lost leaders, the betrayed, wild escapes. Disguises, clutched at, gone not here.8

Spurned lover. I was a strapping young gossoon9 at that time, I tell you. I'll show you my likeness one day. I was, faith. Lover, for her love he prowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of his sept,1 under the walls of Clerkenwell2 and, crouching, saw a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the fog. Shattered glass and toppling masonry. In gay Paree he hides, Egan of Paris, unsought by any save by me. Making his day's stations, the dingy printing-case, his three taverns, the Montmartre lair he sleeps short night in, rue de la Goutte-d'Or, damascened with flyblown faces of the gone. Loveless, landless, wifeless. She is quite nicey comfy without her outcast man,' madame in rue Git-le-Coeur, canary and two buck lodgers. Peachy cheeks, a zebra skirt, frisky as a young thing's. Spurned and undespairing. Tell Pat4 you saw me, won't you? I wanted to get poor Pat a job one time. Monfils, soldier of France. I taught him to sing The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. Know that old lay? I taught Patrice that. Old Kilkenny: saint Canice, Strongbow's castle on the Nore.5 Goes like this. O, O. He takes me, Napper Tandy,6 by the hand.

2. Your health! (Gaelic). 9. Boy. 3. Two extremes of Irish history. From the Dal-1. Clan. "Tanist": successor-apparent to a Celtic cassian line came the early kings of Munster (from chief. 300 c.E. on). Arthur Griffith (1872-1922) was an 2. District in east-central London. Stephen is Irish revolutionary leader, founder of the Sinn Fein recalling Egan's conversation about the Fenian vio(" Ourselves Alone") movement. lence in London that necessitated his fleeing to 4. Edouard Drumont (1844-1917), French poli-France. tician and bitter anti-Semite. 3. I.e., Egan's wife, who is "quite nicey comfy" in 5. 19th-century French statesman. "Maud the metaphorical "rue Git-le-Caeur" (i.e., the street Gonne," the beautiful actress and violent Irish where the heart lies dead) back home in Ireland. nationalist whom W. B. Yeats loved. "La Patrie": 4. Patrice, Egan's son. journal edited by Lucien Millevoye, French nation-5. Kilkenny is called after the Irish Saint Canice alist deputy and Maud Gonne's lover. (its Irish name is Cill Chainnigh), on the river 6. Maid-of-all-work (French). "Froeken": froken, Nore, where Strongbow (the second earl of Pemunmarried woman or Miss (Swedish). broke, who invaded Ireland in the 1 2th century), 7. I do all the gentlemen (in broken French). had his stronghold. 8. Another Protean theme of change. Egan had 6. James Napper Tandy (1740-1803), Irish revotold Stephen of his cousin James Stephens's lutionary hero of the song "The Wearing of the escape from prison disguised as a bride. Green."

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220 8 / JAMES JOYCE

O, O the bcr)'s of Kilkenny . . .

Weak wasting hand on mine. They have forgotten Kevin Egan, not he them. Remembering thee, O Sion.7

He had come nearer the edge of the sea and wet sand slapped his boots. The new air greeted him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness. Here, I am not walking out to the Kish lightship, am I? He stood suddenly, his feet beginning to sink slowly in the quaking soil. Turn back.

Turning, he scanned the shore south, his feet sinking again slowly in new sockets. The cold domed room of the tower8 waits. Through the barbicans9 the shafts of light are moving ever, slowly ever as my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over the dial floor. Blue dusk, nightfall, deep blue night. In the darkness of the dome they wait, their pushedback chairs, my obelisk valise, around a board of abandoned platters. Who to clear it? He has the key.1 I will not sleep there when this night comes. A shut door of a silent tower, entombing their blind bodies, the panthersahib and his pointer.2 Call: no answer. He lifted his feet up from the suck and turned back by the mole of boulders. Take all, keep all. My soul walks with me, form of forms. So in the moon's midwatches I pace the path above the rocks, in sable silvered, hearing Elsinore's tempting flood.3

The flood is following me. I can watch it flow past from here. Get back then by the Poolbeg road to the strand there. He climbed over the sedge and eely oarweeds and sat on a stool of rock, resting his ashplant in a grike.4

A bloated carcass of a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack. Before him the gunwale of a boat, sunk in sand. Un coche ensahles Louis Veuillot called Gautier's6 prose. These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here. And there, the stoneheaps of dead builders, a warren of weasel rats. Hide gold there. Try it. You have some. Sands and stones. Heavy of the past. Sir Lout's toys. Mind you don't get one bang on the ear. I'm the bloody well gigant rolls all them bloody well boulders, bones for my steppingstones. Feefawfum. I zmellz de bloodz oldz an Iridzman.7

A point, live dog, grew into sight running across the sweep of sand. Lord, is he going to attack me? Respect his liberty. You will not be master of others or their slave. I have my stick. Sit tight. From farther away, walking shoreward across from the crested tide, figures, two. The two maries. They have tucked it safe mong the bulrushes. Peekaboo. I see you. No, the dog. He is running back to them. Who?

Galleys of the Lochlanns8 ran here to beach, in quest of prey, their blood- beaked prows riding low on a molten pewter surf. Dane vikings, tores of toma

7. Cf. Psalm 137.1 (in the King James Bible): "we wept, when we remembered Zion." But "Zion" in the Douay (Roman Catholic) Bible, is spelled "Sion," and the Book of Common Prayer has "When we remembered thee, O Sion." 8. Where Stephen lived with Buck Mulligan. 9. Outworks of a castle. 1. In the preceding episode Mulligan asked for and got the key of the tower from Stephen. 2. I.e., Mulligan and the Englishman Haines, who lived with Stephen in the tower. Stephen thinks of them as calling for him in vain, because he has decided not to return. 3. Cf. Hamlet 1.2.241, where the ghost of Hamlet's murdered father is described as having a beard of "sable silver'd." 4. Chink, crevice. 5. A coach embedded in the sand (French). 6. Theophile Gautier, 19th-century French poet, novelist, and critic. Veuillot, 19th-century French journalist. 7. Stephen is thinking of the boulders on the shore as the work of a large but clumsy giant ("Sir Lout"). "They [Sir Lout and his family] were giants right enough. . . . My Sir Lout has rocks in his mouth instead of teeth. He articulates badly" (Joyce to Frank Budgen, reported in Budgen's James Joy ce and the Making of Ulysses, 1934). 8. Scandinavians (Gaelic). Stephen is meditating on the Vikings who settled Dublin; it was here that they came ashore, he thinks. Malachi (below), king of Meath, had their first leader drowned.

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ULYSSES [PROTEUS] / 220 9

hawks aglitter on their breasts when Malachi wore the collar of gold. A school of turlehide whales stranded in hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the shallows. Then from the starving cagework city a horde of jerkined dwarfs, my people, with flayers' knives, running, scaling, hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. Famine, plague and slaughters. Their blood is in me, their lusts my waves. I moved among them on the frozen Liffey, that I, a changeling, among the spluttering resin fires. I spoke to no-one: none to me.

The dog's bark ran towards him, stopped, ran back. Dog of my enemy. I just simply stood pale, silent, bayed about. Terribilia meditans.9 A primrose doublet, fortune's knave, smiled on my fear. For that are you pining, the bark of their applause? Pretenders: live their lives. The Bruce's brother, Thomas Fitzgerald, silken knight, Perkin Warbeck, York's false scion, in breeches of silk of whiterose ivory, wonder of a day, and Lambert Simnel, with a tail of nans and sutlers, a scullion crowned.1 All kings' sons. Paradise of pretenders then and now. He saved men from drowning2 and you shake at a cur's yelping. But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in their own house. House of . . . We don't want any of your medieval abstrusiosities. Would you do what he did? A boat would be near, a lifebuoy. Natiirlich,3 put there for you. Would you or would you not? The man that was drowned nine days ago off Maiden's rock. They are waiting for him now. The truth, spit it out. I would want to. I would try. I am not a strong swimmer. Water cold soft. When I put my face into it in the basin at Clongowes. Can't see! Who's behind me? Out quickly, quickly! Do you see the tide flowing quickly in on all sides, sheeting the lows of sands quickly, shellcocoacoloured? If I had land under my feet. I want his life still to be his, mine to be mine. A drowning man. His human eyes scream to me out of horror of his death. I . . . With him together down .. . I could not save her.4 Waters: bitter death: lost.

A woman and a man. I see her skirties. Pinned up, I bet.

Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, trotting, sniffing on all sides. Looking for something lost in a past life. Suddenly he made off like a bounding hare, ears flung back, chasing the shadow of a lowskimming gull. The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. He turned, bounded back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling shanks. On a field tenney a buck, trippant, proper, unattired.5 At the lacefringe of the tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. His snout lifted barked at the wavenoise, herds of seamorse. 6 They serpented towards his feet, curling, unfurling many crests, every ninth, breaking, plashing, from far, from farther out, waves and waves.

Cocklepickers.7 They waded a little way in the water and, stooping, soused their bags, and, lifting them again, waded out. The dog yelped running to them, reared up and pawed them, dropping on all fours, again reared up at them with mute bearish fawning. Unheeded he kept by them as they came towards the drier sand, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his jaws. His speckled body ambled ahead of them and then loped off at a calf's gallop. The carcass

9. Meditating terrible things (Latin). again his mother's death. 1. Stephen is meditating on pretenders (i.e., false 5. The dog is described in the language of her- claimants): the names here are those of pretenders aldry. "On an orange-brown (tawny) background, who have figured in English history. a buck, tripping, in natural colors, without horns." 2. Mulligan had saved a man from drowning. 6. Seahorses, with a pun on Morse code. 3. Of course (German). 7. Stephen recognizes the man and woman on the 4. A man had been drowned off the coast, and his beach as gypsy cockle pickers (cockles are edible body had not yet been recovered. As Stephen shellfish, like mussels). thinks of the horror of drowning, he recalls once

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221 0 / JAMES JOYCE

lay on his path. He stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, brother, nosing closer, went round it, sniffing rapidly like a dog all over the dead dog's bedraggled fell. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the ground, moves to one great goal. Ah, poor dogsbody. Here lies poor dogsbody's body.

�Tatters! Outofthat, you mongrel.

The cry brought him skulking back to his master and a blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, crouched in flight. He slunk back in a curve. Doesn't see me. Along by the edge of the mole he lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock and from under a cocked hindleg pissed against it. He trotted forward and, lifting his hindleg, pissed quick short at an unsmelt rock. The simple pleasures of the poor. His hindpaws then scattered sand: then his forepaws dabbled and delved. Something he buried there, his grandmother.8 He rooted in the sand, dabbling, delving and stopped to listen to the air, scraped up the sand again with a fury of his claws, soon ceasing, a pard,9 a panther, got in spousebreach,' vulturing the dead.

After he woke me last night same dream or was it? Wait. Open hallway. Street of harlots. Remember. Haroun al Raschid.2 I am almosting it. That man led me, spoke. I was not afraid. The melon he had he held against my face. Smiled: creamfruit smell. That was the rule, said. In. Come. Red carpet spread. You will see who.

Shouldering their bags they trudged, the red Egyptians.3 His blued feet out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, a dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck. With woman steps she followed: the ruffian and his strolling mort. Spoils4 slung at her back. Loose sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. About her windraw face her hair trailed. Behind her lord his helpmate, bing awast, to Romeville.5 When night hides her body's flaws calling under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have mired. Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in O'Loughlin's of Blackpitts. Buss her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for, O, my dimber wapping dell.6 A shefiend's whiteness under her rancid rags. Fumbally's lane that night: the tanyard smells.

White thy fambles, red thy gan And thy quarrons dainty is. Couch a hogshead with me then. In the darkmans clip and kiss.7

Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, frate porcospino,8 Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted. Call away let him:9 thy quarrons dainty is. Language no whit worse than his. Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their girdles: rogue- words, tough nuggets patter in their pockets.

8. Reference to a joke Stephen had made to his 12.36). pupils in school that morning about "the fox bury-5. Go away to London. ing his grandmother under a hollybush." 6. 17th-century thieves' slang. "Buss": kiss. 9. Leopard or panther. "Wap": copulate with. "Rum": good. "Dimber": 1. I.e., begotten in adultery. pretty. "Wapping dell": whore. 2. Stephen's dream of the famous Caliph of Bagh-7. More thieves' slang. "Fambles": hands. "Gan": dad, of the "street of harlots," and of his meeting mouth. "Quarrons": body. "Couch a hogshead": a man with a melon foreshadows his meeting later come to bed. "Darkmans": night. "Clip": kiss. in the day with Leopold Bloom and his visit to the These four lines and some of the phrases in the brothel area of Dublin. preceding paragraph are quoted from a song of the 3. I.e., gypsies. As Stephen watches the gypsy period, "The Rogue's Delight in Praise of His cockle pickers with their dog he imagines their vag-Strolling Mort" (cf. n. 3 and n. 4, this page). abond life and recalls fragments of gypsy speech 8. Brother porcupine (Italian), a reference to the and of thieves' slang. fat ("tunbelly") but prickly 13-centuryphilosopher, 4. The association of gypsy ("mort": free gypsy St. Thomas Aquinas. woman; harlot) with Egyptian reminds Stephen of 9. The gypsy is calling his dog. the Israelites "spoiling the Egyptians" (Exodus

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ULYSSES [PROTEUS] / 221 1

Passing now.

A side-eye at my Hamlet hat. If I were suddenly naked here as I sit? I am not. Across the sands of all the world, followed by the sun's flaming sword, to the west, trekking to evening lands. She trudges, schlepps, trains, drags, trascines her load.1 A tide westering, moondrawn, in her wake. Tides, myriadislanded, within her, blood not mine, oinopa ponton,2 a winedark sea. Behold the handmaid of the moon. In sleep the wet sign calls her hour, bids her rise. Bridebed, childbed, bed of death, ghostcandled.3 Omnis caro ad te veniet. He comes, pale vampire, through storm his eyes, his bat sails bloodying the sea, mouth to her mouth's kiss.4

Here. Put a pin in that chap, will you? My tablets.5 Mouth to her kiss. No. Must be two of em. Glue em well. Mouth to her mouth's kiss.

His lips lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of air: mouth to her womb. Oomb, allwombing tomb.6 His mouth moulded issuing breath, unspeeched: ooeeehah: roar of cataractic planets, globed, blazing, roaring wayawayawayawayawayaway. Paper. The banknotes, blast them. Old Deasy's letter. Here. Thanking you for the hospitality tear the blank end off. Turning his back to the sun he bent over far to a table of rock and scribbled words.7 That's twice I forgot to take slips from the library counter.

His shadow lay over the rocks as he bent, ending. Why not endless till the farthest star? Darkly they are there behind this light, darkness shining in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds. Me sits there with his augur's rod of ash, in borrowed sandals, by day beside a livid sea, unbeheld, in violet night walking beneath a reign of uncouth stars.8 I throw this ended shadow from me, manshape ineluctable, call it back. Endless, would it be mine, form of my form? Who watches me here? Who ever anywhere will read these written words? Signs on a white field. Somewhere to someone in your flutiest voice. The good bishop of Cloyne9 took the veil of the temple out of his shovel hat: veil of space with coloured emblems hatched on its field. Hold hard. Coloured on a flat: yes, that's right. Flat I see, then think distance, near, far, flat I see, east, back. Ah, see now. Falls back suddenly, frozen in stereoscope. Click does the trick. You find my words dark. Darkness is in our souls, do you not think? Flutier. Our souls, shamewounded by our sins, cling to us yet more, a woman to her lover clinging, the more the more.

She trusts me, her hand gentle, the longlashed eyes. Now where the blue hell am I bringing her beyond the veil?1 Into the ineluctable modality of the ineluctable visuality. She, she, she. What she? The virgin at Hodges Figgis' window on Monday looking in for one of the alphabet books you were going

1. All words suggesting moving or dragging. " i letter to the press and writes a poem, which is like that crescendo of verbs,' he [Joyce] said. 'The quoted later in the novel. irresistible tug of the tides' " (Budgen). 8. He imagines himself as the constellation Cas2. Winedark sea (Homer). siopeia, supposed to represent the wife of Cepheus 3. He is thinking of his mother again. The follow-(an Ethiopian king) seated in a chair and holding ing Latin (from the burial service) means: All flesh up her arms. His ash walking stick he thinks of as will come to thee. an "augur's [Roman soothsayer's] rod of ash." 4. Death comes like the Flying Dutchman in a 9. George Berkeley (1685-1753), bishop of phantom ship to give the fatal kiss. Cloyne (in Ireland), who argued that the external 5. Cf. Hamlet 1.5.107: "My tables." world has no objective reality but exists only in the 6. Cf. Blake's poem "The Gates of Paradise," esp. mind of the perceiver. Stephen (as at the opening the lines "The door of death I open found / And of this episode) is experimenting again with ways the worm weaving in the ground: / Thou'rt my of sensing reality. mother from the womb, / Wife, sister, daughter, to 1. "She" is Psyche, the soul, whom he is bringing the tomb." Cf. also Romeo and Juliet 2.2.9�10: from "beyond the veil." But from metaphysical "the earth, that's nature's mother, is her tomb. / speculations on reality and the soul Stephen is led What is her burving grave, that is her womb." (by the Psyche association) to think of "the virgin 7. Stephen tears off the blank end of Mr. Deasy's at Hodges Figgis' [a bookseller's] window."

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22 12 / JAMES JOYCE

to write. Keen glance you gave her. Wrist through the braided jess of her sunshade. She lives in Leeson park with a grief and kickshaws, a lady of letters. Talk that to some else, Stevie: a pickmeup. Bet she wears those curse of God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool. Talk about apple dumplings, piuttosto.2 Where are your wits?

Touch me. Soft eyes. Soft soft soft hand. I am lonely here. O, touch me soon, now. What is that word known to all men? I am quiet here alone. Sad too. Touch, touch me.

He lay back at full stretch over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled note and pencil into a pocket, his hat tilted down on his eyes. That is Kevin Egan's movement I made, nodding for his nap, sabbath sleep. Et vidit Dens. Et erant valde bona.3 Alo! Bonjour. Welcome as the flowers in May. Under its leaf he watched through peacocktwittering lashes the southing sun. I am caught in this burning scene. Pan's hour, the faunal noon. Among gumheavy serpentplants, milkoozing fruits, where on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. Pain is far.

And no more turn aside and brood.4

His gaze brooded on his broadtoed boots, a buck's castoffs, nebeneinander. He counted the creases of rucked leather wherein another's foot had nested warm. The foot that beat the ground in tripudium, foot I dislove. But you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe went on you: girl I knew in Paris. Tiens, quel petit pied!5 Staunch friend, a brother soul: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name.6 He now will leave me. And the blame? As I am. As I am. All or not at all.

In long lassoes from the Cock lake the water flowed full, covering green- goldenly lagoons of sand, rising, flowing. My ashplant will float away. I shall wait. No, they will pass on, passing chafing against the low rocks, swirling, passing. Better get this job over quick. Listen: a fourworded wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss ooos. Vehement breath of waters amid seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks. In cups of rocks it slops: flop, slop, slap: bounded in barrels. And, spent, its speech ceases. It flows purling, widely flowing, floating foam- pool, flower unfurling.

Under the upswelling tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats,7 in whispering water swaying and upturning coy silver fronds. Day by day: night by night: lifted, flooded and let fall. Lord, they are weary: and, whispered to, they sigh. Saint Ambrose heard it, sigh of leaves and waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their times, diebus ac noctibus iniurias patiens ingemiscit.8 To no end gathered; vainly then released, forthflowing, wending back: loom of the moon. Weary too in sight of lovers, lascivious men, a naked woman shining in her courts, she draws a toil of waters.

Five fathoms out there. Full fathom five thy father lies.9 At one he said.

2. Rather, sooner (Italian). 3. Connecting two phrases from the Vulgate (Latin Bible): "And God saw" (Genesis 1.4) and "And they were very good" (Genesis 1.31). 4. The first line of the second (and last) stanza of Yeats's poem "Who Goes with Fergus?" which is often in Stephen's mind. The line expresses for him the mood, of noontide stillness and of lotos eating in a lush Asian scene, that overcomes him momentarily when he realizes that it is twelve o'clock, the hour of the Greek nature god Pan, "faunal noon." This Asian lotos-eating theme, which is associated also with Bloom, is important in the Odyssey.

5. Look, what a little foot! (French). 6. Asked at his 1895 trial for homosexuality what this line meant, Oscar Wilde defined it as the great spiritual affection of an elder man for a younger man. 7. A phrase from a vulgar song sung by Mulligan earlier that morning. 8. Night and day he patiently groaned forth his wrongs (St. Ambrose). 9. From Ariel's song (The Tempest 1.2.400).

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ULYSSES [LESTRYGONIANS] / 22 17

Found drowned. High water at Dublin bar. Driving before it a loose drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells. A corpse rising salt-white from the undertow, bobbing landward a pace a pace a porpoise. There he is. Hook it quick. Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. We have him. Easy now.

Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. A quiver of minnows, fat of a spongy titbit, flash through the slits of his buttoned trouserfly. God becomes man becomes fish becomes barnacle goose becomes featherbed mountain. Dead breaths I living breathe, tread dead dust, devour a urinous offal from all dead. Hauled stark over the gunwhale he breathes upward the stench of his green grave, his leprous nosehole snoring to the sun.

A seachange1 this, brown eyes saltblue. Seadeath, mildest of all deaths known to man. Old Father Ocean. Prix de Paris:2 beware of imitations. Just you give it a fair trial. We enjoyed ourselves immensely.

Come. I thirst. Clouding over. No black clouds anywhere, are there? Thunderstorm. Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the intellect, Lucifer, dico, qui nescit occasum.3 No. My cockle hat and staff and hismy sandal shoon.4 W here? To evening lands. Evening will find itself.

He took the hilt of his ashplant, lunging with it softly, dallying still. Yes, evening will find itself in me, without me. All days make their end. By the way next when is it? Tuesday will be the longest day. Of all the glad new year, mother,5 the rum turn tiddledy turn. Lawn Tennyson,6 gentleman poet. Gia.1 For the old hag with the yellow teeth. And Monsieur Drumont, gentleman journalist. Gia. My teeth are very bad. Why, I wonder? Feel. That one is going too. Shells. Ought I go to a dentist, I wonder, with what money? That one. Toothless Kinch, the superman. Why is that, I wonder, or does it mean something perhaps?

My handkerchief. He threw it. I remember. Did I not take it up?

His hand groped vainly in his pockets. No, I didn't. Better buy one.

He laid the dry snot picked from his nostril on a ledge of rock, carefully. For the rest let look who will. Behind. Perhaps there is someone. He turned his face over a shoulder, rere regardant.8 Moving through the air

high spars of a threemaster, her sails brailed up on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a silent ship.

[LESTRYGONIANS]9

Pineapple rock, lemon platt, butter scotch. A sugarsticky girl shovelling scoopfuls of creams for a christian brother. Some school treat. Bad for their

1. Another quotation from Ariel's song (1.2.404). 2. Prize of Paris. The reference is probably to the Paris Exposition of 1889, where prizes were awarded in various categories of food and other commodities; the winners bore the seal of the prize on the label (hence, "beware of imitations"). Stephen mentally awards the prize to death by drowning. 3. Lucifer, I say, who knows not his fall (Latin). Thunder and lightning recall the fall of Lucifer. 4. From Ophelia's mad song (Hamlet 4.5.23�26): "How should I your true love know / From another one?� / By his cockle hat and staff. / And his sandal shoon." Ophelia, too, was drowned. 5. Cf. Alfred, Lord Tennyson, "The May Queen": "You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; / Tomorrow ill be the happiest time of all the glad New Year." 6. A parody of ihe poet's name, punning on "lawn tennis," attributed to W. B. Yeats.

7. Let's go (Italian). 8. Looking behind him (heraldic terminology). Stephen, as we leave him sitting by the shore, is described in a highly stylized, heraldic language. 9. The eighth of the novel's eighteen episodes. It is lunchtime in Dublin, and Leopold Bloom, as he walks through the city in no great hurry (for he likes to linger and watch what goes on around him), thinks of food. The Lestrygonians in book 10 of the Odyssey1 are cannibals, and throughout this episode there are suggestions of the slaughter of living creatures for food or of food as something disgusting, which make somewhat tenuous contact with Homer's description of the cannibals spearing Ulysses' men for food. This episode shows us Bloom's consciousness responding to the sights and sounds of Dublin. His humane curiosity, his desire to learn and to improve the human lot. his

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22 14 / JAMES JOYCE

tummies. Lozenge and comfit manufacturer to His Majesty the King. God. Save. Our. Sitting on his throne sucking red jujubes white.

A sombre Y. M. C. A. young man, watchful among the warm sweet fumes of Graham Lemon's, placed a throwaway in a hand of Mr Bloom.

Heart to heart talks.

Bloo . . . Me? No.

Blood of the Lamb.1

His slow feet walked him riverward, reading. Are you saved? All are washed in the blood of the lamb. God wants blood victim. Birth, hymen, martyr, war, foundation of a building, sacrifice, kidney burntoffering, druids' altars. Elijah is coming. Dr John Alexander Dowie,2 restorer of the church in Zion, is coming.

Is coming! Is coming!! Is coming!!! All heartily welcome.

Paying game. Torry and Alexander last year. Polygamy. His wife will put the stopper on that. Where was that ad some Birmingham firm the luminous crucifix. Our Saviour. Wake up in the dead of night and see him on the wall, hanging. Pepper's ghost idea.3 Iron Nails Ran In.

Phosphorus it must be done with. If you leave a bit of codfish for instance. I could see the bluey silver over it. Night I went down to the pantry in the kitchen. Don't like all the smells in it waiting to rush out. What was it she4 wanted? The Malaga raisins. Thinking of Spain. Before Rudy5 was born. The phosphorescence, that bluey greeny. Very good for the brain.

From Butler's monument house corner he glanced along Bachelor's walk. Dedalus' daughter there still outside Dillon's auctionrooms. Must be selling off some old furniture. Knew her eyes at once from the father. Lobbing about waiting for him. Home always breaks up when the mother goes. Fifteen children he had. Birth every year almost. That's in their theology or the priest won't give the poor woman the confession, the absolution. Increase and multiply. Did you ever hear such an idea? Eat you out of house and home. No families themselves to feed. Living on the fat of the land. Their butteries and larders. I'd like to see them do the black fast Yom Kippur.6 Crossbuns. One meal and a collation for fear he'd collapse on the altar. A housekeeper of one of those fellows if you could pick it out of her. Never pick it out of her. Like getting L s. d.7 out of him. Does himself well. No guests. All for number one. Watching his water. Bring your own bread and butter. His reverence. Mum's the word.

sympathetic concern for Mrs. Breen and Mrs. Purefoy, his feeding the gulls, his recollections of a happier time when his daughter was a baby and his relations with his wife were thoroughly satisfactory, his interest in opera, his continuous shying away from thoughts of his wife's rendezvous with the dashing Blazes Boylan�all this helps to build up his character in depth and to differentiate him sharply from Stephen. Unlike Stephen, Bloom's interest in language is confined to simple puns and translations; his interest in poetry is obvious and sentimental; his interest in the nature of reality takes the form of half-forgotten fragments of science remaining in his mind from school days. Everything about him is concrete, practical, sen

("throwaway") containing the phrase "Blood of the Lamb." He at first mistakes "Blood" for "Bloom."

2. Scottish American evangelist (1847�1907), who established the "Christian Catholic Apostolic Church in Zion" in 1896 and founded Zion City, IL, in 1901. 3. A dramatic troupe advertising as "The original Pepper's Ghost! and Spectral Opera Company" was popular in the late-19th century; it seems to have specialized in ghostly special effects, possibly achieved through the use of phosphorescent material on its costumes. 4. I.e., Bloom's wife, Molly, born in Gibraltar. 5. Their son, who had died in infancy eleven years before. sual, and middlebrow or lowbrow, as distinct from 6. Jewish Day of Atonement. the abstract, theoretical, esoteric speculations of 7. I.e., cash: L, s., d. are the abbreviations, respec- Stephen in the "Proteus" episode. tively, for pounds, shillings, and pence.

1. Bloom has been handed a religious leaflet

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ULYSSES [LESTRYGONIANS] / 22 17

Good Lord, that poor child's dress is in flitters. Underfed she looks too. Potatoes and marge, marge and potatoes. It's after they feel it. Proof of the pudding. Undermines the constitution.

As he set foot on O'Connell bridge a puffball of smoke plumed up from the parapet. Brewery barge with export stout. England. Sea air sours it, I heard. Be interesting some day get a pass through Hancock to see the brewery. Regular world in itself. Vats of porter, wonderful. Rats get in too. Drink themselves bloated as big as a collie floating. Dead drunk on the porter. Drink till they puke again like christians. Imagine drinking that! Rats: vats. Well of course if we knew all the things.

Looking down he saw flapping strongly, wheeling between the gaunt quay- walls, gulls. Rough weather outside. If I threw myself down? Reuben J's son must have swallowed a good bellyful of that sewage.8 One and eightpence too much. Hhhhm. It's the droll way he comes out with the things. Knows how to tell a story too.

They wheeled lower. Looking for grub. Wait.

He threw down among them a crumpled paper ball. Elijah thirtytwo feet per sec is com.5 Not a bit. The ball bobbed unheeded on the wake of swells, floated under by the bridgepiers. Not such damn fools. Also the day I threw that stale cake out of the Erin's King picked it up in the wake fifty yards astern. Live by their wits. They wheeled, flapping.

The hungry famished gull Flaps o'er the waters dull.

That is how poets write, the similar sounds. But then Shakespeare has no rhymes: blank verse. The flow of the language it is. The thoughts. Solemn.

Hamlet, I am thy father's spirit Doomed for a certain time to walk the earth.1

�Two apples a penny! Two for a penny!

His gaze passed over the glazed apples serried on her stand. Australians they must be this time of year. Shiny peels: polishes them up with a rag or a handkerchief.

Wait. Those poor birds.

He halted again and bought from the old applewoman two Banbury cakes for a penny and broke the brittle paste and threw its fragments down into the Liffey. See that? The gulls swooped silently two, then all from their heights, pouncing on prey. Gone. Every morsel.

Aware of their greed and cunning he shook the powdery crumb from his hands. They never expected that. Manna.2 Live on fishy flesh they have to, all seabirds, gulls, seagoose. Swans from Anna Liffey3 swim down here sometimes to preen themselves. No accounting for tastes. Wonder what kind is swanmeat. Robinson Crusoe had to live on them.

They wheeled, flapping weakly. I'm not going to throw any more. Penny quite enough. Lot of thanks I get. Not even a caw. They spread foot and mouth

8. The sun of Reuben J. Dodd, Dublin solicitor thirty-two feet per second per second, the accel( lawyer), had been rescued from the river Liffey by eration rate of falling bodies. ("Elijah is coming" is a man to whom Reuben J. had given two shillings the legend on the handbill Bloom is tossing away). as a reward�"one and eightpence too much," as 1. Hamlet 1.5.9-10 (slightly misquoted). Simon Dedalus had remarked to Bloom earlier that 2. The divine food (small, round, and white) that morning when they were discussing the incident. the children of Israel ate in the wilderness (Exodus In the following sentences Bloom is thinking of 16.14-15). Dedalus's comment. 3. The Liffey flows from the Wicklow Mountains 9. I.e., Elijah is coming, accelerating at the rate of northeast and east to Dublin Bay.

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221 6 / JAMES JOYCE

disease too. If you cram a turkey, say, on chestnutmeal it tastes like that. Eat pig like pig. But then why is it that saltwater fish are not salty? How is that? His eyes sought answer from the river and saw a rowboat rock at anchor on the treacly swells lazily its plastered board.

Kino's 11/Trousers4

Good idea that. Wonder if he pays rent to the corporation. How can you own water really? It's always flowing in a stream, never the same, which in the stream of life we trace. Because life is a stream. All kinds of places are good for ads. That quack doctor for the clap used to be stuck up in all the greenhouses. Never see it now. Strictly confidential. Dr Hy Franks. Didn't cost him a red like Maginni the dancing master self advertisement. Got fellows to stick them up or stick them up himself for that matter on the q.t. running in to loosen a button. Flybynight. Just the place too. POST NO BILLS. POST NO PILLS. 5 Some chap with a dose burning him.

If he . . .

O!

Eh?

No . . . No.

No, no. I don't believe it. He wouldn't surely?

No, no.6

Mr Bloom moved forward, raising his troubled eyes. Think no more about that. After one. Timeball on the ballastoffice is down. Dunsink time. Fascinating little book that is of Sir Robert Ball's. Parallax. I never exactly understood. 7 There's a priest. Could ask him. Par it's Greek: parallel, parallax. Met him pike hoses" she called it till I told her about the transmigration. O rocks!

Mr Bloom smiled O rocks at two windows of the ballastoffice. She's right after all. Only big words for ordinary things on account of the sound. She's not exactly witty. Can be rude too. Blurt out what I was thinking. Still I don't know. She used to say Ben Dollard had a base barreltone voice. He has legs like barrels and you'd think he was singing into a barrel. Now isn't that wit? They used to call him big Ben. Not half as witty as calling him base barreltone. Appetite like an albatross. Get outside of a baron of beef. Powerful man he was at stowing away number one Bass.9 Barrel of Bass. See? It all works out.

A procession of whitesmocked men marched slowly towards him along the gutter, scarlet sashes across their boards. Bargains. Like that priest they are this morning: we have sinned: we have suffered. He read the scarlet letters on

4. I.e., eleven shillings ("11 / -") for Kino's Trousers. Bloom is a canvasser for advertisements: he receives commissions from newspapers for getting tradesmen to place advertisements with them. 5. The revised text edited by John Kidd (1993) reads, POST NO BILLS. POST 110 PILLS. "Post no bills" can mean either "do not affix any posters" or "mail no accounts." Bloom is punning to himself on the quack doctor's advertising (by posting bills), collecting his money (by mailing accounts), and sending pills to patients by mail. 6. Blazes Boylan, flashy philanderer, is due to call on Molly Bloom that afternoon, to discuss the program of a concert that he is managing for her (Molly is a singer). Bloom knows that Boylan and his wife will commit adultery together. Here it suddenly occurs to him that Boylan might give Molly a "dose" of veneral disease, but he puts the thought from him as incredible.

7. The "timeball on the ballastoffice" registers the official time of the observatory at Dunsink (Dublin). Noticing that the timeball is down, which means that it is after one o'clock. Bloom is reminded of the observatory, then of the Irish astronomer Sir Robert Ball's popular book on astronomy, The Story of the Heavens (1886), and of the astronomical term parallax, which he found in the book but "never exactly understood." 8. Molly's way of pronouncing metempsychosis. When Bloom had explained metempsychosis to her that morning, she had exclaimed "O rocks!" at the pretentious term. He now mentally repeats "O rocks!" at the thought of the word parallax. 9. A popular British ale.

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ULYSSES [LESTRYGONIANS] / 22 17

their five tall white hats: H. E. L. Y. S. Wisdom Hely's. Y lagging behind drew a chunk of bread from under his foreboard, crammed it into his mouth and munched as he walked. Our staple food. Three bob a day, walking along the gutters, street after street. Just keep skin and bone together, bread and skilly. They are not Boyl: no: M'Glade's men. Doesn't bring in any business either. I suggested to him about a transparent showcart with two smart girls sitting inside writing letters, copybooks, envelopes, blottingpaper. I bet that would have caught on. Smart girls writing something catch the eye at once. Everyone dying to know what she's writing. Get twenty of them round you if you stare at nothing. Have a finger in the pie. Women too. Curiosity. Pillar of salt.1 Wouldn't have it of course because he didn't think of it himself first. Or the inkbottle I suggested with a false stain of black celluloid. His ideas for ads like Plumtree's potted under the obituaries, cold meat department. You can't lick 'em. What? Our envelopes. Hello! Jones, where are you going? Can't stop, Robinson, I am hastening to purchase the only reliable inkeraser Kansell, sold by Hely's Ltd, 85 Dame street. Well out of that ruck I am. Devil of a job it was collecting accounts of those convents. Tranquilla convent. That was a nice nun there, really sweet face. Wimple suited her small head. Sister? Sister? I am sure she was crossed in love by her eyes. Very hard to bargain with that sort of a woman. I disturbed her at her devotions that morning. But glad to communicate with the outside world. Our great day, she said. Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel. Sweet name too: caramel. She knew, I think she knew by the way she. If she had married she would have changed. I suppose they really were short of money. Fried everything in the best butter all the same. No lard for them. My heart's broke eating dripping. They like buttering themselves in and out. Molly tasting it, her veil up. Sister? Pat Claffey, the pawnbroker's daughter. It was a nun they say invented barbed wire.

He crossed Westmoreland street when apostrophe S had plodded by. Rover cycleshop. Those races are on today. How long ago is that? Year Phil Gilligan died. We were in Lombard street west. Wait, was in Thorn's. Got the job in Wisdom Hely's year we married. Six years. Ten years ago: ninetyfour he died, yes that's right the big fire at Arnott's. Val Dillon was lord mayor. The Glencree dinner. Alderman Robert O'Reilly emptying the port into his soup before the flag fell, Bobbob lapping it for the inner alderman. Couldn't hear what the band played. For what we have already received may the Lord make us. Milly2 was a kiddy then. Molly had that elephantgrey dress with the braided frogs. Mantailored with selfcovered buttons. She didn't like it because I sprained my ankle first day she wore choir picnic at the Sugarloaf. As if that. Old Goodwin's tall hat done up with some sticky stuff. Flies' picnic too. Never put a dress on her back like it. Fitted her like a glove, shoulder and hips. Just beginning to plump it out well. Rabbitpie we had that day. People looking after her.

Happy. Happier then. Snug little room that was with the red wallpaper, Dockrell's, one and ninepence a dozen. Milly's tubbing night. American soap I bought: elderflower. Cosy smell of her bathwater. Funny she looked soaped all over. Shapely too. Now photography.3 Poor papa's daguerreotype atelier he told me of. Hereditary taste.

He walked along the curbstone.

1. Cf. Genesis 19.1�26, where Lot's wife defies 2. Bloom's fifteen-year-old daughter. "For . . . us": God's order to "look not behind thee" and is turned cf. the Lord's Prayer, often said before meals. into "a pillar of salt." 3. Milly is working at a photographer's.

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22 18 / JAMES JOYCE

Stream of life. What was the name of that priestlylooking chap was always squinting in when he passed? Weak eves, woman. Stopped in Citron's saint Kevin's parade. Pen something. Pendennis? My memory is getting. Pen . . . ? Of course it's years ago. Noise of the trams probably. Well, if he couldn't remember the dayfather's name that he sees every day.

Bartell d'Arcy was the tenor, just coming out then. Seeing her home after practice. Conceited fellow with his waxedup moustache. Gave her that song Winds that blow from the south.

Windy night that was 1 went to fetch her there was that lodge meeting on about those lottery tickets after Goodwin's concert in the supperroom or oak- room of the Mansion house. He and I behind. Sheet of her music blew out of my hand against the High school railings. Lucky it didn't. Thing like that spoils the effect of a night for her. Professor Goodwin linking her in front. Shaky on his pins, poor old sot. His farewell concerts. Positively last appearance on any stage. May be for months and may be for never. Remember her laughing at the wind, her blizzard collar up. Corner of Harcourt road remember that gust. Brrfoo! Blew up all her skirts and her boa nearly smothered old Goodwin. She did get flushed in the wind. Remember when we got home raking up the fire and frying up those pieces of lap of mutton for her supper with the Chutney sauce she liked. And the mulled rum. Could see her in the bedroom from the hearth unclamping the busk of her stays: white.

Swish and soft flop her stays made on the bed. Always warm from her. Always liked to let her self out. Sitting there after till near two taking out her hairpins. Milly tucked up in beddyhouse. Happy. Happy. That was the night. . .

�O, Mr Bloom, how do you do?

�O, how do you do, Mrs Breen?4

�No use complaining. How is Molly those times? Haven't seen her for ages.

�In the pink, Mr Bloom said gaily, Milly has a position down in Mullingar, you know. �Go away! Isn't that grand for her? �Yes, in a photographer's there. Getting on like a house on fire. How are all your charges?

�All on the baker's list, Mrs Breen said.

How many has she? No other in sight.

�You're in black I see. You have no . . .

�No, Mr. Bloom said. I have just come from a funeral.

Going to crop up all day, I foresee. Who's dead, when and what did he die of ? Turn up like a bad penny. �O dear me, Mrs Breen said, I hope it wasn't any near relation. May as well get her sympathy. �Dignam, Mr Bloom said. An old friend of mine. He died quite suddenly,

poor fellow. Heart trouble, I believe. Funeral was this morning.

Your funeral's tomorrow While you're coming through the rye. Diddlediddle dumdum Diddlediddle . . .

�Sad to lose the old friends, Mrs Breen's womaneyes said melancholily.

Now that's quite enough about that. Just quietly: husband.

4. Mrs. Breen had been an old sweetheart of Bloom's.

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ULYSSES [LESTRYGONIANS] / 22 17

�And your lord and master?

Mrs Breen turned up her two large eyes. Hasn't lost them anyhow.

�O, don't be talking, she said. He's a caution to rattlesnakes. He's in there now with his lawbooks finding out the law of libel. He has me heartscalded. Wait till I show you.

Hot mockturtle vapour and steam of newbaked jampuffs rolypoly poured out from Harrison's. The heavy noonreek tickled the top of Mr Bloom's gullet. Want to make good pastry, butter, best flour, Demerara sugar, or they'd taste it with the hot tea. Or is it from her? A barefoot arab stood over the grating, breathing in the fumes. Deaden the gnaw of hunger that way. Pleasure or pain is it? Penny dinner. Knife and fork chained to the table.

Opening her handbag, chipped leather, hatpin: ought to have a guard on those things. Stick it in a chap's eye in the tram. Bummaging. Open. Money. Please take one. Devils if they lose sixpence. Raise Cain. Husband barging. Where's the ten shillings I gave you on Monday? Are you feeding your little brother's family? Soiled handkerchief: medicinebottle. Pastille that was fell. What is she? . . .

�There must be a new moon out, she said. He's always bad then.5 Do you know what he did last night? Her hand ceased to rummage. Her eyes fixed themselves on him, wide in alarm, yet smiling.

�What? Mr. Bloom asked.

Let her speak. Look straight in her eyes. 1 believe you. Trust me.

�Woke me up in the night, she said. Dream he had, a nightmare.

Indiges.6

�Said the ace of spades7 was walking up the stairs.

�The ace of spades! Mr Bloom said.

She took a folded postcard from her handbag.

�Read that, she said. He got it this morning.

�What is it? Mr Bloom asked, taking the card. U. P.?8

�U.p.: up, she said. Someone taking a rise out of him. It's a great shame for them whoever he is. �Indeed it is, Mr Bloom said. She took back the card, sighing. �And now he's going round to Mr Menton's office. He's going to take an action for ten thousand pounds, he says.

She folded the card into her untidy bag and snapped the catch.

Same blue serge dress she had two years ago, the nap bleaching. Seen its

best days. Wispish hair over her ears. And that dowdy toque: three old grapes

to take the harm out of it. Shabby genteel. She used to be a tasty dresser.

Lines round her mouth. Only a year or so older than Molly.

See the eye that woman gave her, passing. Cruel. The unfair sex.

He looked still at her, holding back behind his look his discontent. Pungent mockturtle oxtail mulligatawny. I'm hungry too. Flakes of pastry on the gusset of her dress: daub of sugary flour stuck to her cheek. Rhubarb tart with liberal fillings, rich fruit interior. Josie Powell that was. In Luke Doyle's long ago, Dolphin's Barn, the charades. U.p.: up.

Change the subject.

5. Mr. Breen is mentally disturbed. 8. Expression used in Charles Dickens's Oliver 6. I.e., indigestion, which Bloom thinks caused Twist (1838) to announce the approaching death Mr. Breen's nightmare. of an old woman. It also suggests "you're crazy" or 7. A symbol of death. "you've been screwed."

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222 0 / JAMES JOYCE

�Do you ever see anything of Mrs Beaufoy, Mr Bloom asked.

�Mina Purefoy? she said.

Philip Beaufoy I was thinking. Playgoers' Club9 Matcham often thinks of the masterstroke. Did I pull the chain? Yes. The last act.

�Yes.

�I just called to ask on the way in is she over it. She's in the lying-in hospital in Holies street. Dr Home got her in. She's three days bad now.

�O, Mr Bloom said. I'm sorry to hear that.

�Yes, Mrs Breen said. And a houseful of kids at home. It's a very stiff birth, the nurse told me. �O, Mr Bloom said. His heavy pitying gaze absorbed her news. His tongue clacked in compassion. Dth! Dth!

�I'm sorry to hear that, he said. Poor thing! Three days! That's terrible for her. Mrs Breen nodded -�She was taken bad on the Tuesday . . . Mr Bloom touched her funnybone gently, warning her. �Mind! Let this man pass. A bony form strode along the curbstone from the river, staring with a rapt

gaze into the sunlight through a heavystringed glass. Tight as a skullpiece a tiny hat gripped his head. From his arm a folded dustcoat, a stick and an umbrella dangled to his stride.

�Watch him, Mr Bloom said. He always walks outside the lampposts. Watch!

�Who is he if it's a fair question? Mrs Breen asked. Is he dotty?

�His name is Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, Mr Bloom said smiling. Watch!

�He has enough of them, she said. Denis will be like that one of these days. She broke off suddenly. �There he is, she said. I must go after him. Goodbye. Remember me to Molly, won't you?

�I will, Mr Bloom said.

He watched her dodge through passers towards the shopfronts. Denis Breen in skimpy frockcoat and blue canvas shoes shuffled out of Harrison's hugging two heavy tomes to his ribs. Blown in from the bay. Like old times. He suffered her to overtake him without surprise and thrust his dull grey beard towards her, his loose jaw wagging as he spoke earnestly.

Meshuggah.1 Off his chump.

Mr Bloom walked on again easily, seeing ahead of him in sunlight the tight skullpiece, the dangling stick, umbrella, dustcoat. Going the two days. Watch him! Out he goes again. One way of getting on in the world. And that other old mosey lunatic in those duds. Hard time she must have with him.

U.p.: up. I'll take my oath that's Alf Bergan or Richie Goulding. Wrote it for a lark in the Scotch house, I bet anything. Round to Menton's office. His oyster eyes staring at the postcard. Be a feast for the gods.

9. Bloom is thinking of the story "Matcham's Mas-that morning. He then mentally quotes the openterstroke," by "Mr. Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers' ing sentence. Club, London," which he had read on the toilet 1. Mad (Yiddish).

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ULYSSES [LESTRYGONIANS] / 22 17

He passed the Irish Times. There might be other answers lying there. Like to answer them all. Good system for criminals. Code. At their lunch now. Clerk with the glasses there doesn't know me. O, leave them there to simmer. Enough bother wading through fortyfour of them. Wanted smart lady typist to aid gentleman in literary work. I called you naughty darling because I do not like that other world. Please tell me what is the meaning. Please tell me what perfume does your wife. Tell me who made the world.2 The way they spring those questions on you. And the other one Lizzie Twigg.3 My literary efforts have had the good fortune to meet with the approval of the eminent poet A. E. (Mr Geo. Russell).4 No time to do her hair drinking sloppy tea with a book of poetry.

Best paper by long chalks for a small ad. Got the provinces now. Cook and general, exc cuisine, housemaid kept. Wanted live man for spirit counter. Resp. girl (R. C.) wishes to hear of post in fruit or pork shop. James Carlisle made that. Six and a half per cent dividend. Made a big deal on Coates's shares. Ca' canny. Cunning old Scotch hunks. All the toady news. Our gracious and popular vicereine.5 Bought the Irish Field now. Lady Mountcashel has quite recovered after her confinement and rode out with the Ward Union stag- hounds at the enlargement yesterday at Rathoath. Uneatable fox. Pothunters too. Fear injects juices make it tender enough for them. Riding astride. Sit her horse like a man. Weightcarrying huntress. No sidesaddle or pillion for her, not for Joe. First to the meet and in at the death. Strong as a broodmare some of those horsey women. Swagger around livery stables. Toss off a glass of brandy neat while you'd say knife. That one at the Grosvenor this morning. Up with her on the car: wishswish. Stonewall or fivebarred gate put her mount to it. Think that pugnosed driver did it out of spite. Who is this she was like? O yes! Mrs Miriam Dandrade that sold me her old wraps and black underclothes in the Shelbourne hotel. Divorced Spanish American. Didn't take a feather out of her my handling them. As if I was her clotheshorse. Saw her in the viceregal party when Stubbs the park ranger got me in with Whelan of the Express. Scavenging what the quality left. High tea. Mayonnaise I poured on the plums thinking it was custard. Her ears ought to have tingled for a few weeks after. Want to be a bull for her. Born courtesan. No nursery work for her, thanks.

Poor Mrs Purefoy! Methodist husband. Method in his madness. Saffron bun and milk and soda lunch in the educational dairy. Eating with a stopwatch, thirtytwo chews to the minute. Still his muttonchop whiskers grew. Supposed to be well connected. Theodore's cousin in Dublin Castle. One tony relative in every family. Hardy annuals he presents her with. Saw him out at the Three Jolly Topers marching along bareheaded and his eldest boy carrying one in a marketnet. The squallers. Poor thing! Then having to give the breast year after

2. Cf. Marlowe's The Tragical History' of Doctor Faustus 5, lines 237�44: FAUSTUS . . . Tell me who made the world? iMEPHASTOPHILlS 1 will not. . . . Think on hell Faustus, for thou art damned. FAUSTUS Think, Faustus, upon God, that made the world.

3. Bloom is mentally quoting a letter written to him by the typist Martha Clifford, with whom he is carrying on a purely epistolary love affair (she had misspelled word as world: "I do not like that other world"). Lizzie Twigg was one of the other typists who had answered his advertisement for a secretary "to aid gentleman in literary work" (Bloom's pretext for beginning such an affair).

4. /E (George Russell, 1 867-1935), the Irish poet mentioned as a reference by Lizzie Twigg when she answered Bloom's advertisement, is later encountered by Bloom with a woman who Bloom speculates might be Lizzie. 5. Wife of the viceroy, who represented the British Crown in Ireland: Bloom is thinking of the society column in the Irish Times.

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222 2 / JAMES JOYCE

year all hours of the night. Selfish those t.t's6 are. Dog in the manger. Only one lump of sugar in my tea, if you please.

He stood at Fleet street crossing. Luncheon interval a sixpenny at Rowe's? Must look up that ad in the national library.7 An eightpenny in the Burton. Better. On my way.

He walked on past Bolton's Westmoreland house. Tea. Tea. Tea. I forgot to tap Tom Kernan.8

Sss. Dth, dth, dth! Three days imagine groaning on a bed with a vinegared handkerchief round her forehead, her belly swollen out. Phew! Dreadful simply! Child's head too big: forceps. Doubled up inside her trying to butt its way out blindly, groping for the way out. Kill me that would. Lucky Molly got over hers lightly. They ought to invent something to stop that. Life with hard labour. Twilightsleep idea: queen Victoria was given that. Nine she had. A good layer. Old woman that lived in a shoe she had so many children. Suppose he was consumptive. Time someone thought about it instead of gassing about the what was it the pensive bosom of the silver effulgence.9 Flapdoddle to feed fools on. They could easily have big establishments. Whole thing quite painless out of all the taxes give every child born five quid at compound interest up to twentyone, five per cent is a hundred shillings and five tiresome pounds, multiply by twenty decimal system, encourage people to put by money save hundred and ten and a bit twentyone years want to work it out on paper come to a tidy sum, more than you think.

Not stillborn of course. They are not even registered. Trouble for nothing.

Funny sight two of them together, their bellies out. Molly and Mrs Moisel. Mothers' meeting. Phthisis retires for the time being, then returns. How flat they look after all of a sudden! Peaceful eyes. Weight off their mind. Old Mrs Thornton was a jolly old soul. All my babies, she said. The spoon of pap in her mouth before she fed them. O, that's nyumyum. Got her hand crushed by old Tom Wall's son. His first bow to the public. Head like a prize pumpkin. Snuffy Dr Murren. People knocking them up at all hours. For God's sake doctor. Wife in her throes. Then keep them waiting months for their fee. To attendance on your wife. No gratitude in people. Humane doctors, most of them.

Before the huge high door of the Irish house of parliament a flock of pigeons flew. Their little frolic after meals. Who will we do it on? I pick the fellow in black. Here goes. Here's good luck. Must be thrilling from the air. Apjohn, myself and Owen Goldberg up in the trees near Goose green playing the monkeys. Mackerel they called me.

A squad of constables debouched from College street, marching in Indian file. Goosestep. Foodheated faces, sweating helmets, patting their truncheons. After their feed with a good load of fat soup under their belts. Policeman's lot is oft a happy one.1 They split up into groups and scattered, saluting towards their beats. Let out to graze. Best moment to attack one in pudding time. A punch in his dinner. A squad of others, marching irregularly, rounded Trinity2 railings, making for the station. Bound for their troughs. Prepare to receive cavalry. Prepare to receive soup.

6. Abbreviation of teetotalers, total abstainers from alcohol. 7. Bloom's goal, on his walk through Dublin, is the National Library, where he wants to look up an advertisement in a back number of the Kilkenny People. 8. A Dublin tea merchant and friend of Bloom's, whom Bloom had earlier intended to ask ("tap") for some tea.

9. "Pensive bosom" and "silver effulgencc": Bloom recalls two phrases from a public speech that is quoted (via a newspaper account) in "Aeolus," the novel's seventh episode. 1. Cf. W. S. Gilbert, Pirates of Penzance: "The policeman's lot is not a happy one." 2. Trinity College, Dublin.

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ULYSSES [LESTRYGONIANS] / 22 17

He crossed under Tommy Moore's roguish finger. They did right to put him up over a urinal: meeting of the waters.3 Ought to be places for women. Running into cakeshops. Settle my hat straight. There is not in this wide world a vallee. Great song of Julia Morkan's. Kept her voice up to the very last. Pupil of Michael Balfe's wasn't she?

He gazed after the last broad tunic. Nasty customers to tackle. Jack Power could a tale unfold: father a G man. If a fellow gave them trouble being lagged they let him have it hot and heavy in the bridewell.4 Can't blame them after all with the job they have especially the young hornies. That horsepoliceman the day Joe Chamberlain was given his degree in Trinity he got a run for his money.5 My word he did! His horse's hoofs clattering after us down Abbey street. Luck I had the presence of mind to dive into Manning's or I was souped. He did come a wallop, by George. Must have cracked his skull on the cobblestones. I oughtn't to have got myself swept along with those medicals. And the Trinity jibs6 in their mortarboards. Looking for trouble. Still I got to know that young Dixon who dressed that sting for me in the Mater and now he's in Holies street where Mrs Purefoy. Wheels within wheels. Police whistle in my ears still. All skedaddled. Why he fixed on me. Give me in charge. Right here it began.

�Up the Boers!

�Three cheers for De Wet!7

�We'll hang Joe Chamberlain on a sourapple tree.

Silly billies: mob of young cubs yelling their guts out. Vinegar hill. The Butter exchange band. Few years' time half of them magistrates and civil servants. War comes on: into the army helterskelter: same fellows used to. Whether on the scaffold high.

Never know who you're talking to. Corny Kelleher he has Harvey Duff in his eye. Like that Peter or Denis or James Carey that blew the gaff on the invincibles. Member of the corporation too. Egging raw youths on to get in the know. All the time drawing secret service pay from the castle.8 Drop him like a hot potato. Why those plainclothes men are always courting slaveys. Easily twig a man used to uniform. Squarepushing up against a backdoor. Maul her a bit. Then the next thing on the menu. And who is the gentleman does be visiting there? Was the young master saying anything? Peeping Tom through the keyhole. Decoy duck. Hotblooded young student fooling round her fat arms ironing.

�Are those yours, Mary?

�I don't wear such things . . . Stop or I'll tell the missus on you. Out half the night. �There are great times coming, Mary. Wait till you see. �Ah, get along with your great times coming. Barmaids too. Tobaccoshopgirls. James Stephens'9 idea was the best. He knew them. Circles of ten so that a

fellow couldn't round on more than his own ring. Sinn Fein.1 Back out you

3. "The Meeting of the Waters" was a famous Afrikaners, fought and lost to the British Empire. poem by the much-loved Irish poet Thomas Moore 6. Trinity College students. (1779�1 852), whose statue Bloom now passes. 7. Boer general. "Up" here as in "up with." 4. Prison. 8. I.e., from the British government, whose rep5. When Joseph Chamberlain, the British colonial resentative lived at Dublin Castle. secretary, came to Dublin to receive an honorary 9. Irish nationalist revolutionary. degree from Trinity College, a group of medical 1. Ourselves Alone (Gaelic); Irish revolutionary students rioted against him and against the Anglo-movement. Boer War (1899-1902), in which the Boers, or

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222 4 / JAMES JOYCE

get the knife. Hidden hand. Stay in. The firing squad. Turnkey's daughter got him out of Richmond, off from Lusk. Putting up in the Buckingham Palace hotel under their very noses. Garibaldi.2

You must have a certain fascination: Parnell. Arthur Griffith3 is a square- headed fellow but he has no go in him for the mob. Want to gas about our lovely land. Gammon4 and spinach. Dublin Bakery Company's tearoom. Debating societies. That republicanism is the best form of government. That the language question should take precedence of the economic question. Have your daughters inveigling them to your house. Stuff them up with meat and drink. Michaelmas goose. Here's a good lump of thyme seasoning under the apron for you. Have another quart of goosegrease before it gets too cold. Half- fed enthusiasts. Penny roll and a walk with the band. No grace for the carver. The thought that the other chap pays best sauce in the world. Make themselves thoroughly at home. Show us over those apricots, meaning peaches. The not far distant day. Home Rule sun rising up in the northwest.5

His smile faded as he walked, a heavy cloud hiding the sun slowly, shadowing Trinity's surly front. Trams passed one another, ingoing, outgoing, clanging. Useless words. Things go on same; day after day: squads of police marching out, back: trams in, out. Those two loonies mooching about. Dignam carted off. Mina Purefoy swollen belly on a bed groaning to have a child tugged out of her. One born every second somewhere. Other dying every second. Since I fed the birds five minutes. Three hundred kicked the bucket. Other three hundred born, washing the blood off, all are washed in the blood of the lamb, bawling maaaaaa.

Cityful passing away, other cityful coming, passing away too: other coming on, passing on. Houses, lines of houses, streets, miles of pavements, piledup bricks, stones. Changing hands. This owner, that. Landlord never dies they say. Other steps into his shoes when he gets his notice to quit. They buy the place up with gold and still they have all the gold. Swindle in it somewhere. Piled up in cities, worn away age after age. Pyramids in sand. Built on bread and onions. Slaves Chinese wall. Babylon. Big stones left. Round towers. Rest rubble, sprawling suburbs, jerrybuilt, Kerwan's mushroom houses built of breeze. Shelter for the night.

No-one is anything. This is the very worst hour of the day. Vitality. Dull, gloomy: hate this hour. Feel as if I had been eaten and spewed.

Provost's house. The reverend Dr Salmon: tinned salmon. Well tinned in there. Wouldn't live in it if they paid me. Hope they have liver and bacon today. Nature abhors a vacuum.

The sun freed itself slowly and lit glints of light among the silverware in Walter Sexton's window opposite by which John Howard Parnell6 passed, unseeing.

There he is: the brother. Image of him. Haunting face. Now that's a coincidence. Course hundreds of times you think of a person and don't meet him. Like a man walking in his sleep. No-one knows him. Must be a corporation

2. Bloom is thinking of a variety of nationalist con-4. Ham, bacon. spirators who escaped from danger, among them 5. Reference to Griffith's comment on the Free- the 19th-century Italian patriot and general Giu-man's Journal masthead, which showed the sun risseppe Garibaldi. ing in the northwest from behind the Bank of 3. Founder of Sinn Fein (1872-1922). Charles Ireland. Bloom has a Freeman in his pocket. Stewart Parnell (1846-1891), Irish nationalist 6. Charles Parnell's brother. political leader.

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ULYSSES [LESTRYGONIANS] / 22 17

meeting today. They say he never put on the city marshal's uniform since he got the job. Charley Beulger used to come out on his high horse, cocked hat, puffed, powdered and shaved. Look at the woebegone walk of him. Eaten a bad egg. Poached eyes on ghost. I have a pain. Great man's brother: his brother's brother. He'd look nice on the city charger. Drop into the D. B. C. probably for his coffee, play chess there. His brother used men as pawns. Let them all go to pot. Afraid to pass a remark on him. Freeze them up with that eye of his. That's the fascination: the name. All a bit touched. Mad Fanny and his other sister Mrs Dickinson driving about with scarlet harness. Bolt upright like surgeon M'Ardle. Still David Sheehy beat him for south Meath. Apply for the Chiltern Hundreds7 and retire into public life. The patriot's banquet. Eating orangepeels in the park. Simon Dedalus said when they put him in parliament that Parnell would come back from the grave and lead him out of the House of Commons by the arm.

�Of the twoheaded octopus, one of whose heads is the head upon which the ends of the world have forgotten to come while the other speaks with a Scotch accent. The tentacles . . .

They passed from behind Mr Bloom along the curbstone. Beard and bicycle. Young woman.

And there he is too. Now that's really a coincidence: second time. Coming events cast their shadows before. With the approval of the eminent poet, Mr Geo Russell. That might be Lizzie Twigg with him.8 A. E.: what does that mean? Initials perhaps. Albert Edward, Arthur Edmund, Alphonsus Eb Ed El Esquire. What was he saying? The ends of the world with a Scotch accent. Tentacles: octopus. Something occult: symbolism. Holding forth. She's taking it all in. Not saying a word. To aid gentleman in literary work.

His eyes followed the high figure in homespun, beard and bicycle, a listening woman at his side. Coming from the vegetarian. Only weggebobbles and fruit. Don't eat a beefsteak. If you do the eyes of that cow will pursue you through all eternity. They say it's healthier. Wind and watery though. Tried it. Keep you on the run all day. Bad as a bloater. Dreams all night. Why do they call that thing they gave me nutsteak? Nutarians. Fruitarians. To give you the idea you are eating rumpsteak. Absurd. Salty too. They cook in soda. Keep you sitting by the tap all night.

Her stockings are loose over her ankles. I detest that: so tasteless. Those literary etherial people they are all. Dreamy, cloudy, symbolistic. Esthetes they are. I wouldn't be surprised if it was that kind of food you see produces the like waves of the brain the poetical. For example one of those policemen sweating Irish stew into their shirts; you couldn't squeeze a line of poetry out of him. Don't know what poetry is even. Must be in a certain mood.

The dreamy cloudy gull Waves o'er the waters didl.

He crossed at Nassau street corner and stood before the window of Yeates and Son, pricing the fieldglasses. Or will I drop into old Harris's and have a chat with young Sinclair? Wellmannered fellow. Probably at his lunch. Must

7. The stewardship of the Chiltern Hundreds (a who accept an office of profit under the Crown tract of land in central England owned by the Brit-must vacate their seats. ish Crown) is by a legal figment held to be an office 8. Bloom wronders whether the woman with A. E. of profit under the Crown and is conferred on might be Lizzie Twigg and then goes on to specumembers of Parliament wishing to resign, which late on the meaning of "A. E." and on Russell's by law they cannot do. Members of Parliament mystical ideas.

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222 6 / JAMES JOYCE

get those old glasses of mine set right. Gcerz lenses six guineas. Germans making their way everywhere. Sell on easy terms to capture trade. Undercutting. Might chance on a pair in the railway lost property office. Astonishing the things people leave behind them in trains and cloakrooms. What do they be thinking about? Women too. Incredible. Last year travelling to Ennis had to pick up that farmer's daughter's bag and hand it to her at Limerick junction. Unclaimed money too. There's a little watch up there on the roof of the bank to test those glasses by.

His lids came down on the lower rims of his irides. Can't see it. If you imagine it's there you can almost see it. Can't see it.

He faced about and, standing between the awnings, held out his right hand at arm's length towards the sun. Wanted to try that often. Yes: completely. The tip of his little finger blotted out the sun's disk. Must be the focus where the rays cross. If I had black glasses. Interesting. There was a lot of talk about those sunspots when we were in Lombard street west. Terrific explosions they are. There will be a total eclipse this year: autumn some time.

Now that I come to think of it, that ball falls at Greenwich time. It's the clock is worked by an electric wire from Dunsink. Must go out there some first Saturday of the month. If I could get an introduction to professor Joly or learn up something about his family. That would do to: man always feels complimented. Flattery where least expected. Nobleman proud to be descended from some king's mistress. His foremother. Lay it on with a trowel. Cap in hand goes through the land. Not go in and blurt out what you know you're not to: what's parallax? Show this gentleman the door.

Ah. His hand fell again to his side. Never know anything about it. Waste of time. Gasballs spinning about,

crossing each other, passing. Same old dingdong always. Gas, then solid, then world, then cold, then dead shell drifting around, frozen rock like thatpineapple rock. The moon. Must be a new moon out, she said. I believe there is.

He went on by la maison Claire.

Wait. The full moon was the night we were Sunday fortnight exactly there is a new moon. Walking down by the Tolka. Not bad for a Fairview moon. She was humming. The young May moon she's beaming, love. He other side of her. Elbow, arm. He. Glowworm's la-amp is gleaming, love. Touch. Fingers. Asking. Answer. Yes.

Stop. Stop. If it was it was.9 Must.

Mr Bloom, quickbreathing, slowlier walking passed Adam court.

With deep quiet relief, his eyes took note: this is street here middle of the day Bob Doran's bottle shoulders. On his annual bend, M'Coy said. They drink in order to say or do something or cherchez lafemme.1 Up in the Coombe with chummies and streetwalkers and then the rest of the year as sober as a judge.

Yes. Thought so. Sloping into the Empire. Gone. Plain soda would do him good. Where Pat Kinsella had his Harp theatre before Whitbread ran the Queen's.2 Broth of a boy. Dion Boucicault3 business with his harvestmoon face in a poky bonnet. Three Purty Maids from School. How time flies eh? Showing long red pantaloons under his skirts. Drinkers, drinking, laughed spluttering, their drink against their breath. More power, Pat. Coarse red: fun

9. Bloom is thinking again of his wife's infidelity. 3. Irish-bom American dramatist, manager, and 1. Look for the woman, i.e., in the case (French). actor. 2. The Queen's Theatre.

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ULYSSES [LESTRYGONIANS] / 22 17

for drunkards: guffaw and smoke. Take off that white hat. His parboiled eyes. Where is he now? Beggar somewhere. The harp that once did starve us all.4

I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I now I? Twentyeight I was. She twentythree when we left Lombard street west something changed. Could never like it again after Rudy. Can't bring back time. Like holding water in your hand. Would you go back to then? Just beginning then. Would you? Are you not happy in your home, you poor little naughty boy? Wants to sew on buttons for me. I must answer. Write it in the library.

Grafton street gay with housed awnings lured his senses. Muslin prints silk, dames and dowagers, jingle of harnesses, hoofthuds lowringing in the baking causeway. Thick feet that woman has in the white stockings. Hope the rain mucks them up on her. Countrybred chawbacon. All the beef to the heels were in. Always gives a woman clumsy feet. Molly looks out of plumb.

He passed, dallying, the windows of Brown Thomas, silk mercers. Cascades of ribbons. Flimsy China silks. A tilted urn poured from its mouth a flood of bloodhued poplin: lustrous blood. The huguenots brought that here. La causa e santa!'' Tara tara. Great chorus that. Tara. Must be washed in rainwater. Meyerbeer. Tara: bom bom bom.

Pincushions. I'm a long time threatening to buy one. Stick them all over the place. Needles in window curtains.

He bared slightly his left forearm. Scrape: nearly gone. Not today anyhow. Must go back for that lotion. For her birthday perhaps. Junejuly augseptember eighth. Nearly three months off. Then she mightn't like it. Women won't pick up pins. Say it cuts lo.

Gleaming silks, petticoats on slim brass rails, rays of flat silk stockings.

Useless to go back. Had to be. Tell me all.

High voices. Sunwarm silk. Jingling harnesses. All for a woman, home and houses, silkwebs, silver, rich fruits, spicy from Jaffa. Agendath Netaim.6 Wealth of the world.

A warm human plumpness settled down on his brain. His brain yielded. Perfume of embraces all him assailed. With hungered flesh obscurely, he mutely craved to adore.

Duke street. Here we are. Must eat. The Burton. Feel better then.

He turned Combridge's corner, still pursued. Jingling hoofthuds. Perfumed bodies, warm, full. All kissed, yielded: in deep summer fields, tangled pressed grass, in trickling hallways of tenements, along sofas, creaking beds.

�Jack, love!

�Darling!

�Kiss me, Reggy!

�My boy!

�Love!7

4. A reference to the lack of financial success of the Harp Theatre through a punning reworking of Moore's famous "Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls." 5. "The cause is sacred," chorus from Meyerbeer's opera Les Huguenots, which Bloom is recalling. The Huguenots were 16th- and 17th-century French Protestants, many of whom fled to Britain to escape persecution. 6. Planters' Company (Hebrew). Bloom recalls a leaflet, which he had seen that morning and is still carrying in his pocket, advertising an early Zionist settlement

7. Sensual images are leading Bloom to imagine love scenes from a sentimental novel as he enters Burton's restaurant. In the Odyssey, the Lestrygonians had used "the handsome daughter of Lestrygonian Antiphates" as a decoy to lure Ulysses' men to her father.

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222 8 / JAMES JOYCE

His heart astir he pushed in the door of the Burton restaurant. Stink gripped his trembling breath: pungent meatjuice, slop of greens. See the animals feed.

Men, men, men.

Perched on high stools by the bar, hats shoved back, at the tables calling for more bread no charge, swilling, wolfing gobfuls of sloppy food, their eyes bulging, wiping wetted moustaches. A pallid suetfaced young man polished his tumbler knife fork and spoon with his napkin. New set of microbes. A man with an infant's saucestained napkin tucked round him shovelled gurgling soup down his gullet. A man spitting back on his plate: halfmasticated gristle: no teeth to chewchewchew it. Chump chop from the grill. Bolting to get it over. Sad booser's eyes. Bitten off more than he can chew. Am I like that? See ourselves as others see us. Hungry man is an angry man. Working tooth and jaw. Don't! O! A bone! That last pagan king of Ireland Cormac in the school- poem choked himself at Sletty southward of the Boyne.8 Wonder what he was eating. Something galoptious.9 Saint Patrick converted him to Christianity. Couldn't swallow it all however.

�Roast beef and cabbage.

�One stew.

Smells of men. His gorge rose. Spaton sawdust, sweetish warmish cigarette- smoke, reek of plug, spilt beer, men's beery piss, the stale of ferment.

Couldn't eat a morsel here. Fellow sharpening knife and fork, to eat all before him, old chap picking his tootles. Slight spasm, full, chewing the cud. Before and after. Grace after meals. Look on this picture then on that. Scoffing up stewgravy with sopping sippets of bread. Lick it off the plate, man! Get out of this.

He gazed round the stooled and tabled eaters, tightening the wings of his

nose.

�Two stouts here.

�One corned and cabbage.

That fellow ramming a knifeful of cabbage down as if his life depended on

it. Good stroke. Give me the fidgets to look. Safer to eat from his three hands. Tear it limb from limb. Second nature to him. Born with a silver knife in his mouth. That's witty, I think. Or no. Silver means born rich. Born with a knife. But then the allusion is lost.

An illgirt server gathered sticky clattering plates. Rock, the bailiff, standing at the bar blew the foamy crown from his tankard. Well up: it splashed yellow near his boot. A diner, knife and fork upright, elbows on table, ready for a second helping stared towards the food-lift across his stained square of newspaper. Other chap telling him something with his mouth full. Sympathetic listener. Table talk. I munched hum un thu Unchster Bunk un Munchday. Ha? Did you, faith?

Mr Bloom raised two fingers doubtfully to his lips. His eyes said:

�Not here. Don't see him.1

Out. I hate dirty eaters.

He backed towards the door. Get a light snack in Davy Byrne's. Stopgap.

Keep me going. Had a good breakfast.

�Roast and mashed here.

8. Bloom is recalling a "schoolpoem" about a leg-1. He pretends he is looking for someone he canendary incident in Irish history. not see, so that he has an excuse to leave without 9. I.e., "goluptious," slang for delicious. eating.

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ULYSSES [LESTRYGONIANS] / 22 17

�Pint of stout. Every fellow for his own, tooth and nail. Gulp. Grub. Gulp. Gobstuff. He came out into clearer air and turned back towards Grafton street. Eat

or be eaten. Kill! Kill!

Suppose that communal kitchen years to come perhaps. All trotting down with porringers and tommycans to be filled. Devour contents in the street. John Howard Parnell example the provost of Trinity every mother's son don't talk of your provosts and provost of Trinity women and children, cabmen, priests, parsons, fieldmarshals, archbishops. From Ailesbury road, Clyde road, artisans' dwellings north Dublin union, lord mayor in his gingerbread coach, old queen in a bathchair. My plate's empty. After you with our incorporated drinking cup. Like sir Philip Crampton's fountain. Rub off the microbes with your handkerchief. Next chap rubs on a new batch with his. Father O'Flynn would make hares of them all. Have rows all the same. All for number one. Children fighting for the scrapings of the pot. Want a souppot as big as the Phoenix park. Harpooning flitches and hindquarters out of it. Hate people all round you. City Arms hotel table d'hote she called it. Soup, joint and sweet. Never know whose thoughts you're chewing. Then who'd wash up all the plates and forks? Might be all feeding on tabloids that time. Teeth getting worse and worse.

After all there's a lot in that vegetarian fine flavour of things from the earth garlic, of course, it stinks Italian organgrinders crisp of onions mushrooms truffles. Pain to animal too. Pluck and draw fowl. Wretched brutes there at the cattlemarket waiting for the poleaxe to split their skulls open. Moo. Poor trembling calves. Meh. Staggering bob. Bubble and squeak. Butchers' buckets wobble lights. Give us that brisket off the hook. Plup. Rawhead and bloody bones. Flayed glasseyed sheep hung from their haunches, sheepsnouts bloody- papered snivelling nosejam on sawdust. Top and lashers going out. Don't maul them pieces, young one.

Hot fresh blood they prescribe for decline. Blood always needed. Insidious.

Lick it up smokinghot, thick sugary. Famished ghosts. Ah, I'm hungry. He entered Davy Byrne's. Moral pub. He doesn't chat. Stands a drink now

and then. But in leapyear once in four. Cashed a cheque for me once. What will I take now? He drew his watch. Let me see now. Shandygaff? �Hello, Bloom, Nosey Flynn said from his nook. �Hello, Flynn. �How's things? �Tiptop . . . Let me see. I'll take a glass of burgundy and .. . let me see. Sardines on the shelves. Almost taste them by looking. Sandwich? Ham and

his descendants mustered and bred there. Potted meats. What is home without Plumtree's potted meat? Incomplete. What a stupid ad! Under the obituary notices they stuck it. All up a plumtree. Dignam's potted mat. Cannibals would with lemon and rice. White missionary too salty. Like pickled pork. Expect the chief consumes the parts of honour. Ought to be tough from exercise. His wives in a row to watch the effect. There was a right royal old nigger. Who ate or something the somethings of the reverend Mr MacTrigger. With it an abode of bliss. Lord knows what concoction. Cauls mouldy tripes windpipes faked and minced up. Puzzle find the meat. Kosher. No meat and milk together. Hygiene that was what they call now, Yom Kippur fast spring cleaning of inside. Peace and war depend on some fellow's digestion. Religions. Christmas turkeys and

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223 0 / JAMES JOYCE

geese. Slaughter of innocents.2 Eat, drink and be merry. Then casual wards full

after. Heads bandaged. Cheese digests all but itself. Mighty cheese.

�Have you a cheese sandwich?

�Yes, sir.

Like a few olives too if they had them. Italian I prefer. Good glass of burgundy; take away that. Lubricate. A nice salad, cool as a cucumber. Tom Kernan can dress. Puts gusto into it. Pure olive oil. Milly served me that cutlet with a sprig of parsley. Take one Spanish onion. God made food, the devil the cooks. Devilled crab.

�Wife well?

�Quite well, thanks .. . A cheese sandwich, then. Gorgonzola, have you?

�Yes, sir.

Nosey Flynn sipped his grog.

�Doing any singing those times?

Look at his mouth. Could whistle in his own ear. Flap ears to match. Music. Knows as much about it as my coachman. Still better tell him. Does no harm. Free ad. �She's engaged for a big tour end of this month. You may have heard perhaps.

�No. O, that's the style. Who's getting it up?

The curate3 served.

�How much is that?

�Seven d., sir . . . Thank you, sir.

Mr Bloom cut his sandwich into slender strips. Mr MacTrigger. Easier than the dreamy creamy stuff. His five hundred wives. Had the time of their lives. �Mustard, sir? �Thank you. He studded under each lifted strip yellow blobs. Their lives. I have it. It grew

bigger and bigger and bigger.

�Getting it up? he said. Well, it's like a company idea, you see. Part shares and part profits.

�Ay, now I remember, Nosey Flynn said, putting his hand in his pocket to scratch his groin. Who is this was telling me? Isn't Blazes Boylan mixed up in it?

A warm shock of air heat of mustard hanched on Mr Bloom's heart. He raised his eyes and met the stare of a bilious clock. Two. Pub clock five minutes fast. Time going on. Hands moving. Two. Not yet.4

His midriff yearned then upward, sank within him, yearned more longly, longingly.

Wine.

He smellsipped the cordial juice and, bidding his throat strongly to speed it, set his wineglass delicately down. �Yes, he said. He's the organiser in point of fact. No fear: no brains. Nosey Flynn snuffled and scratched. Flea having a good square meal. �He had a good slice of luck, Jack Mooney was telling me, over that boxing

match Myler Keogh won again that soldier in the Portobello barracks. By God, he had the little kipper down in the country Carlow he was telling me. . . .

2. CF. Herod's massacre of innocent children after 3. Bartender. hearing prophecies of Jesus' birth (Matthew 2.16). 4. I.e., not yet time for Boylan to visit Molly.

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ULYSSES [LESTRYGONIANS] / 22 17

Hope that dewdrop doesn't come down into his glass. No, snuffled it up.

�For near a month, man, before it came off. Sucking duck eggs by God till further orders. Keep him off the boose, see? O, by God, Blazes is a hairy chap.

Davy Byrne came forward from the hindbar in tuckstitched shirtsleeves, cleaning his lips with two wipes of his napkin. Herring's blush. Whose smile upon each feature plays with such and such replete. Too much fat on the parsnips.

�And here's himself and pepper on him, Nosey Flynn said. Can you give us a good one for the Gold cup? �I'm off that, Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne answered. I never put anything on a horse.

�You're right there, Nosey Flynn said.

Mr Bloom ate his strips of sandwich, fresh clean bread, with relish of disgust, pungent mustard, the feety savour of green cheese. Sips of his wine soothed his palate. Not logwood that. Tastes fuller this weather with the chill off.

Nice quiet bar. Nice piece of wood in that counter. Nicely planed. Like the way it curves there. �I wouldn't do anything at all in that line, Davy Byrne said. It ruined many a man, the same horses. Vintners' sweepstake. Licensed for the sale of beer, wine and spirits for consumption on the premises. Heads I win tails you lose.

�True for you, Nosey Flynn said. Unless you're in the know. There's no straight sport going now. Lenehan gets some good ones. He's giving Sceptre today. Zinfandel's the favourite, lord Howard de Walden's, won at Epsom. Mornv Cannon is riding him. I could have got seven to one against Saint Amant a fortnight before.

�That so? Davy Byrne said. . . . He went towards the window and, taking up the petty cash book, scanned its pages.

�I could, faith, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling. That was a rare bit of horseflesh. Saint Frusquin was her sire. She won in a thunderstorm, Rothschild's filly, with wadding in her ears. Blue jacket and yellow cap. Bad luck to big Ben Dollard and his John O'Gaunt. He put me off it. Ay.

He drank resignedly from his tumbler, running his fingers down the flutes.

�Ay, he said, sighing.

Mr Bloom, champing standing, looked upon his sigh. Nosey numbskull. Will I tell him that horse Lenehan?5 He knows already. Better let him forget. Go and lose more. Fool and his money. Dewdrop coming down again. Cold nose he'd have kissing a woman. Still they might like. Prickly beards they like. Dogs' cold noses. Old Mrs Riordan with the rumbling stomach's Skye terrier in the City Arms hotel. Molly fondling him in her lap. O, the big doggybowwowsywowsy!

Wine soaked and softened rolled pith of bread mustard a moment mawkish cheese. Nice wine it is. Taste it better because I'm not thirsty. Bath of course does that. Just a bite or two. Then about six o'clock I can. Six. Six. Time will be gone then. She . . .

Mild fire of wine kindled his veins. I wanted that badly. Felt so off colour. His eyes unhungrily saw shelves of tins, sardines, gaudy lobsters' claws. All

5. Bloom is wondering whether to pass on a tip from Lenehan, who wrote for the racing paper Sport.

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223 2 / JAMES JOYCE

the odd things people pick up for food. Out of shells, periwinkles with a pin, off trees, snails out of the ground the French eat, out of the sea with bait on a hook. Silly fish learn nothing in a thousand years. If you didn't know risky putting anything into your mouth. Poisonous berries. Johnny Magories. Roundness you think good. Gaudy colour warns you off. One fellow told another and so on. Try it on the dog first. Led on by the smell or the look. Tempting fruit. Ice cones. Cream. Instinct. Orangegroves for instance. Need artificial irrigation. Bleibtreustrasse.6 Yes but what about oysters. Unsightly like a clot of phlegm. Filthy shells. Devil to open them too. Who found them out? Garbage, sewage they feed on. Fizz and Red bank oysters. Effect on the sexual. Aphrodis. He was in the Red bank this morning. Was he oyster old fish at table. Perhaps he young flesh in bed. No. June has no ar no oysters. But there are people like tainted game. Jugged hare. First catch your hare. Chinese eating eggs fifty years old, blue and green again. Dinner of thirty courses. Each dish harmless might mix inside. Idea for a poison mystery. That archduke Leopold was it. No. Yes, or was it Otto one of those Habsburgs? Or who was it used to eat the scruff off his own head? Cheapest lunch in town. Of course, aristocrats, then the others copy to be in the fashion. Milly too rock oil and flour. Raw pastry I like myself. Half the catch of oysters they throw back in the sea to keep up the price. Cheap. No-one would buy. Caviare. Do the grand. Hock in green glasses. Swell blowout. Lady this. Powdered bosom pearls. The elite. Creme de la creme.1 They want special dishes to pretend they're. Hermit with a platter of pulse keep down the stings of the flesh. Know me come eat with me. Royal sturgeon. High sheriff, Coffey, the butcher, right to venisons of the forest from his ex.8 Send him back the half of a cow. Spread I saw down in the Master of the Rolls' kitchen area. Whitehatted Cfce/like a rabbi. Combustible duck. Curly cabbage a la duchesse de Parme. Just as well to write it on the bill of fare so you can know what you've eaten too many drugs spoil the broth. I know it myself. Dosing it with Edwards' desicated soup. Geese stuffed silly for them. Lobsters boiled alive. Do ptake some ptarmigan. Wouldn't mind being a waiter in a swell hotel. Tips, evening dress, halfnaked ladies. May I tempt you to a little more filleted lemon sole, miss Dubedat? Yes, do bedad. And she did bedad. Huguenot name I expect that. A miss Dubedat lived in Killiney, I remember. DM, de la, French. Still it's the same fish, perhaps old Micky Hanlon of Moore street ripped the guts out of making money, hand over fist, finger in fishes' gills, can't write his name on a cheque, think he was painting the landscape with his mouth twisted. Moooikill A Aitcha Ha. Ignorant as a kish of brogues,9 worth fifty thousand pounds.

Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck.

Glowing wine on his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the winepress grapes of Burgundy. Sun's heat it is. Seems to a secret touch telling me memory. Touched his sense moistened remembered. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth. Below us bay sleeping sky. No sound. The sky. The bay purple by the Lion's head. Green by Drumleck. Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Fields of undersea, the lines faint brown in grass, buried cities. Pillowed on my coat

6. The Berlin street that contained the offices of ditional rights to certain kinds of fish or game. the "Planters' Company" (see n. 6, p. 2227). Bloom goes on to imagine a Dublin butcher having 7. Cream of the cream (i.e., the very best, a "right to venisons of the forest from his socially). ex[cellency]"�i.e., the viceroy. 8. Ail sturgeon caught in or off Britain were the 9. A basket of shoes. property of the king, according to the ancient tra

.

ULYSSES [LESTRYGONIANS] / 22 17

she had her hair, earwigs in the heather scrub my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. O wonder! Coolsoft with ointments her hand touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not turn away. Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Yum. Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweet and sour with spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy. Young life, her lips that gave me pouting. Soft, warm, sticky gumjelly lips. Flowers her eyes were, take me, willing eyes. Pebbles fell. She lay still. A goat. No-one. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her, kissed her, eyes, her lips, her stretched neck, beating, woman's breasts full in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat nipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed me.1

Me. And me now.

Stuck, the flies buzzed.

His downcast eyes followed the silent veining of the oaken slab. Beauty: it curves: curves are beauty. Shapely goddesses, Venus, Juno: curves the world admires. Can see them library museum standing in the round hall, naked goddesses. Aids to digestion. They don't care what man looks. All to see. Never speaking, I mean to say to fellows like Flynn. Suppose she did Pygmalion and Galatea2 what would she say first? Mortal! Put you in your proper place. Quaffing nectar at mess with gods, golden dishes, all ambrosial. Not like a tanner lunch we have, boiled mutton, carrots and turnips, bottle of Allsop. Nectar, imagine it drinking electricity: god's food. Lovely forms of women sculped Junonian. Immortal lovely. And we stuffing food in one hole and out behind: food, chyle, blood, dung, earth, food: have to feed it like stoking an engine. They have no. Never looked. I'll look today. Keeper won't see. Bend down let something see if she.

Dribbling a quiet message from his bladder came to go to do not to do there to do. A man and ready he drained his glass to the lees and walked, to men too they gave themselves, manly conscious, lay with men lovers, a youth enjoyed her, to the yard.

When the sound of his boots had ceased Davy Byrne said from his book:

�What is this he is? Isn't he in the insurance line?

�He's out of that long ago, Nosey Flynn said. He does canvassing for the

Freeman.

�I know him well to see, Davy Byrne said. Is he in trouble?

�Trouble? Nosey Flynn said. Not that I heard of. Why?

�I noticed he was in mourning.

�Was he? Nosey Flynn said. So he was, faith. I asked him how was all at home. You're right, by God. So he was. �I never broach the subject, Davy Byrne said humanely, if I see a gentleman is in trouble that way. It only brings it up fresh in their minds. �It's not the wife anyhow, Nosey Flynn said. I met him the day before yesterday and he coming out of that Irish farm dairy John Wyse Nolan's wife

I. Bloom is remembering when he first proposed lost my breath .. . I saw he understood or felt what to Molly, on the Hill of Howth, near Dublin. Molly a woman is and I knew I could always get round also recalls this in the final episode ("Penelope"), him and I gave him all the pleasure I could leading which is her soliloquy: "we were lying among the him on." rhododendrons on Howth head in the gray tweed 2. In Greek mythology Pygmalion, king of Cyprus, suit and his straw hat the day I got him to propose sculpted a statue of the goddess Aphrodite that to me yes . . . my God after that long kiss I near became a mortal woman, Galatea.

.

223 4 / JAMES JOYCE

has in Henry street with a jar of cream in his hand taking it home to his better

half. She's well nourished, I tell you. Plovers on toast.

�And is he doing for the Freeman} Davy Byrne said.

Nosey Flynn pursed his lips.

�He doesn't buy cream on the ads he picks up. You can make bacon of that.

�How so? Davy Byrne asked, coming from his book.

Nosey Flynn made swift passes in the air with juggling fingers. He winked.

�He's in the craft,3 he said.

�Do you tell me so? Davy Byrne said.

�Very much so, Nosey Flynn said. Ancient free and accepted order. Light, life and love, by God. They give him a leg up. I was told that by a, well, I won't say who.

�Is that a fact?

�O, it's a fine order, Nosey Flynn said. They stick to you when you're down. I know a fellow was trying to get into it, but they're as close as damn it. By God they did right to keep the women out of it.

Davy Byrne smiledyawnednodded all in one:

�Iiiiiichaaaaaaach!

�There was one woman, Nosey Flynn said, hid herself in a clock to find out what they do be doing. But be damned but they smelt her out and swore her in on the spot a master mason. That was one of the Saint Legers of Doneraile.

Davy Byrne, sated after his yawn, said with tearwashed eyes: �And is that a fact? Decent quiet man he is. I often saw him in here and I never once saw him, you know, over the line.

�God Almighty couldn't make him drunk, Nosey Flynn said firmly. Slips off when the fun gets too hot. Didn't you see him look at his watch? Ah, you weren't there. If you ask him to have a drink first thing he does he outs with the watch to see what he ought to imbibe. Declare to God he does.

�There are some like that, Davy Byrne said. He's a safe man, I'd say.

�He's not too bad, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling it up. He has been known to put his hand down too to help a fellow. Give the devil his due. O, Bloom has his good points. But there's one thing he'll never do.

His hand scrawled a dry pen signature beside his grog.

�I know, Davy Byrne said.

�Nothing in black and white, Nosey Flynn said.

Paddy Leonard and Bantam Lyons came in. Tom Rochford followed frowning, a plaining hand on his claret waistcoat. �Day, Mr Byrne. �Day, gentlemen. They paused at the counter. �Who's standing? Paddy Leonard asked. -�I'm sitting anyhow, Nosey Flynn answered. �Well, what'll it be? Paddy Leonard asked. �I'll take a stone ginger, Bantam Lyons said. �How much? Paddy Leonard cried. Since when, for God's sake? What's yours, Tom?

�How is the main drainage? Nosey Flynn asked, sipping.

3. I.e., in the "free and accepted order" of Freemasons, one of the oldest European secret societies; it was not in good repute in predominantly Roman Catholic countries like Ireland.

.

ULYSSES [LESTRYGONIANS] / 22 17

For answer Tom Rochford pressed his hand to his breastbone and hiccupped.

�Would I trouble you for a glass of fresh water, Mr Byrne? he said.

�Certainly, sir.

Paddy Leonard eyed his alemates.

�Lord love a duck, he said, look at what I'm standing drinks to! Cold water and gingerpop! Two fellows that would suck whisky off a sore leg. He has some bloody horse up his sleeve for the Gold cup. A dead snip.

�Zinfandel is it? Nosey Flynn asked.

Tom Rochford spilt powder from a twisted paper into the water set before him. �That cursed dyspepsia, he said before drinking. �Breadsoda is very good, Davy Byrne said. Tom Rochford nodded and drank. �Is it Zinfandel? �Say nothing, Bantam Lyons winked. I'm going to plunge five bob on my own.

�Tell us if you're worth your salt and be damned to you, Paddy Leonard said. Who gave it to you? Mr Bloom on his way out raised three fingers in greeting. �So long, Nosey Flynn said. The others turned. �That's the man now that gave it to me, Bantam Lyons whispered. �Prrwht! Paddy Leonard said with scorn. Mr Byrne, sir, we'll take two of

your small Jamesons4 after that and a . . .

�Stone ginger, Davy Byrne added civilly.

�Ay, Paddy Leonard said. A suckingbottle for the baby.

Mr Bloom walked towards Dawson street, his tongue brushing his teeth

smooth. Something green it would have to be: spinach say. Then with those Rontgen rays5 searchlight you could.

At Duke lane a ravenous terrier choked up a sick knuckly cud on the cobblestones and lapped it with new zest. Surfeit. Returned with thanks having fully digested the contents. First sweet then savoury. Mr Bloom coasted warily. Ruminants. His second course. Their upper jaw they move. Wonder if Tom Bochford will do anything with that invention of his. Wasting time explaining it to Flynn's mouth. Lean people long mouths. Ought to be a hall or a place where inventors could go in and invent free. Course then you'd have all the cranks pestering.

He hummed, prolonging in solemn echo, the closes of the bars:

Don Giovanni, a cenar teco M'invitasti,6

Feel better. Burgundy. Good pick me up. Who distilled first? Some chap in the blues. Dutch courage. That Kilkenny People in the national library now I must.

Bare clean closestools, waiting, in the window of William Miller, plumber,

4. Brand of Irish whiskey. opera supplies some of the key themes in Ulysses, 5. X-rays. and the famous duet between Don Giovanni and 6. Because Molly is a singer, Bloom is familiar Zerlina, "La ci darem la mano" (There we will join with opera. Here he recalls the song sung by the hands), haunts Bloom's mind throughout the day. Commendatore's statue in Mozart's Don Giovanni It is on the program of Molly's concert that she is and below he translates accurately the Italian discussing with Boylan that afternoon, and Bloom words he quotes, except for "teco" (with thee). This associates it with her adultery with Boylan.

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223 6 / JAMES JOYCE

turned back his thoughts. They could: and watch it all the way down, swallow a pin sometimes come out of the ribs years after, tour round the body, changing biliary duct, spleen squirting liver, gastric juice coils of intestines like pipes. But the poor buffer would have to stand all the time with his insides entrails on show. Science.

�A cenar teco.

What does that teco mean? Tonight perhaps.

Don Giovanni, thou hast me invited To come to supper tonight, The rum the rumdum.

Doesn't go properly.

Keyes: two months if I get Nannetti7 to. That'll be two pounds ten, about two pounds eight. Three Hynes owes me. Two eleven. Prescott's ad. Two fifteen. Five guineas about. On the pig's back.

Could buy one of those silk petticoats for Molly, colour of her new garters.

Today. Today. Not think.8

Tour the south then. What about English wateringplaces? Brighton, Mar- gate. Piers by moonlight. Her voice floating out. Those lovely seaside girls. Against John Long's a drowsing loafer lounged in heavy thought, gnawing a crusted knuckle. Handy man wants job. Small wages. Will eat anything.

Mr Bloom turned at Gray's confectioner's window of unbought tarts and passed the reverend Thomas Connellan's bookstore. Why I left the church of Rome? Birds' Nest. Women run him. They say they used to give pauper children soup to change to protestants in the time of the potato blight. Society over the way papa went to for the conversion of poor jews. Same bait. Why we left the church of Rome?

A blind stripling stood tapping the curbstone with his slender cane. No tram in sight. Wants to cross.

�Do you want to cross? Mr Bloom asked.

The blind stripling did not answer. His wallface frowned weakly. He moved his head uncertainly. �You're in Dawson street, Mr Bloom said. Molesworth street is opposite. Do you want to cross? There's nothing in the way.

The cane moved out trembling to the left. Mr Bloom's eye followed its line and saw again the dyeworks' van drawn up before Drago's. Where I saw his brillantined hair just when I was. Horse drooping. Driver in John Long's. Slaking his drouth.

�There's a van there, Mr Bloom said, but it's not moving. I'll see you across. Do you want to go to Molesworth street?

�Yes, the stripling answered. South Frederick street.

�Come, Mr Bloom said.

He touched the thin elbow gently: then took the limp seeing hand to guide it forward. Say something to him. Better not do the condescending. They mistrust what you tell them. Pass a common remark. �The rain kept off.

7. Proofreader and business manager of the Free-gossip column, Keyes promises to renew his adverman's Journal and in charge of the advertising tisement, which means a commission for Bloom. Bloom is trying to get for the paper. If he will add 8. I.e., of Molly and Boylan. a complimentary reference to Keyes, a grocer, in a

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ULYSSES [LESTRYGONIANS] / 22 17

No answer.

Stains on his coat. Slobbers his food, 1 suppose. Tastes all different for him. Have to be spoonfed first. Like a child's hand, his hand. Like Milly's was. Sensitive. Sizing me up I daresay from my hand. Wonder if he has a name. Van. Keep his cane clear of the horse's legs tired drudge get his doze. That's right. Clear. Behind a bull: in front of a horse.

�Thanks, sir.

Knows I'm a man. Voice.

�Right now? First turn to the left.

The blind stripling tapped the curbstone and went on his way, drawing his cane back, feeling again.

Mr Bloom walked behind the eyeless feet, a flatcut suit of herringbone tweed. Poor young fellow! How on earth did he know that van was there? Must have felt it. See things in their foreheads perhaps. Kind of sense of volume. Weight would he feel it if something was removed. Feel a gap. Queer idea of Dublin he must have, tapping his way round by the stones. Could he walk in a beeline if he hadn't that cane? Bloodless pious face like a fellow going in to be a priest.

Penrose! That was that chap's name.

Look at all the things they can learn to do. Read with their fingers. Tune pianos. Or we are surprised they have any brains. Why we think a deformed person or a hunchback clever if he says something we might say. Of course the other senses are more. Embroider. Plait baskets. People ought to help. Workbasket I could buy Molly's birthday. Hates sewing. Might take an objection. Dark men they call them.

Sense of smell must be stronger too. Smells on all sides bunched together. Each person too. Then the spring, the summer: smells. Tastes. They say you can't taste wines with your eyes shut or a cold in the head. Also smoke in the dark they say get no pleasure.

And with a woman, for instance. More shameless not seeing. That girl passing the Stewart institution, head in the air. Look at me. I have them all on. Must be strange not to see her. Kind of a form in his mind's eye. The voice temperature when he touches her with fingers must almost see the lines, the curves. His hands on her hair, for instance. Say it was black for instance. Good. We call it black. Then passing over her white skin. Different feel perhaps. Feeling of white.

Postoffice. Must answer.9 Fag' today. Send her a postal order two shillings half a crown. Accept my little present. Stationer's just here too. Wait. Think over it.

With a gentle finger he felt ever so slowly the hair combed back above his ears. Again. Fibres of fine fine straw. Then gently his finger felt the skin of his right cheek. Downy hair there too. Not smooth enough. The belly is the smoothest. No-one about. There he goes into Frederick street. Perhaps to Levenston's dancing academy piano. Might be settling my braces.

Walking by Doran's public house he slid his hand between waistcoat and trousers and, pulling aside his shirt gently, felt a slack fold of his belly. But I know it's whitey yellow. Want to try in the dark to see.

He withdrew his hand and pulled his dress to.

Poor fellow! Quite a boy. Terrible. Really terrible. What dreams would he

9. Martha Clifford's letter. 1. Nuisance.

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223 8 / JAMES JOYCE

have, not seeing. Life a dream for him. Where is the justice being born that way. All those women and children excursion beanfeast burned and drowned in New York.2 Holocaust. Karma they call that transmigration for sins you did in a past life the reincarnation met him pike hoses.3 Dear, dear, dear. Pity of course: but somehow you can't cotton on to them someway.

Sir Frederick Falkiner going into the freemasons' hall. Solemn as Troy. After his good lunch in Earlsfort terrace. Old legal cronies cracking a magnum. Tales of the bench and assizes and annals of the bluecoat school.4 I sentenced him to ten years. I suppose he'd turn up his nose at that stuff I drank. Vintage wine for them, the year marked on a dusty bottle. Has his own ideas of justice in the recorder's court. Wellmeaning old man. Police charge sheets crammed with cases get their percentage manufacturing crime. Sends them to the rightabout. The devil on moneylenders. Gave Reuben J. a great strawcalling. Now he's really what they call a dirty jew. Power those judges have. Crusty old topers in wigs. Bear with a sore paw. And may the Lord have mercy on your soul.

Hello, placard. Mirus bazaar. His excellency the lord lieutenant. Sixteenth today it is. In aid of funds for Mercer's hospital. The Messiah was first given for that. Yes. Handel. What about going out there. Ballsbridge. Drop in on Keyes. No use sticking to him like a leech. Wear out my welcome. Sure to know someone on the gate.

Mr Bloom came to Kildare street. First I must. Library.

Straw hat in sunlight. Tan shoes. Turnedup trousers. It is. It is.5

His heart quopped6 softly. To the right. Museum. Goddesses. He swerved to the right. Is it? Almost certain. Won't look. Wine in my face. Why did I? Too heady. Yes, it is. The walk. Not see. Not see. Get on. Making for the museum gate with long windy strides he lifted his eyes. Handsome building. Sir Thomas Deane designed. Not following me?

Didn't see me perhaps. Light in his eyes.

The flutter of his breath came forth in short sighs. Quick. Cold statues: quiet there. Safe in a minute. No, didn't see me. After two. Just at the gate. My heart! His eyes beating looked steadfastly at cream curves of stone. Sir Thomas Deane was the Greek architecture.

Look for something I.

His hasty hand went quick into a pocket, took out, read unfolded Agendath

Netaim. Where did I?

Busy looking for.

He thrust back quickly Agendath.

Afternoon she said.

I am looking for that. Yes, that. Try all pockets. Handker. Freeman. Where did I? Ah, yes. Trousers. Purse. Potato. Where did I? Hurry. Walk quietly. Moment more. My heart.

2. This terrible disaster on an excursion steamer 4. Sir Frederick Falkiner wrote the history ol" the on a New York City river took place on June 15, "bluecoat school," in Oxmantown, Dublin, 1904, and was reported in the Dublin papers on founded by Charles II for poor children. June 16. 5. Bloom catches a glimpse of Boylan and tries to 3. I.e., metempsychosis. Bloom is remembering avoid an encounter. again their morning conversation on this subject, 6. Throbbed, quivered (dialect, now obsolete). when Molly exclaimed, "O rocks!"

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FINNEGANS WAKE / 223 9

His hand looking for the where did I put found in his hip pocket soap lotion have to call tepid paper stuck. Ah, soap there! Yes. Gate.7 Safe!

1914-21 1922

Finnegans Wake Because the meanings in Finnegans Wake are developed not by action but by language�a great network of multiple puns that echo themes back and forth throughout the book�the careful reading of a single passage, even out of context, will convey more than any summary of the "plot" (some discussion of the general plan of the work is given in the Joyce headnote). The passage printed here was one of Joyce's favorites, and there exists an audio recording of it made by him. It consists of the closing pages of chapter 8 of book 1; the chapter was published separately as "Anna Livia Plurabelle" in 1928 and 1930, although the finished book omits this title.

The entire chapter is a dialogue, and the scene is the river Liffey: two washerwomen are washing in public the dirty linen of HCE and ALP (the "hero" and "heroine") and gossiping as they work. As this excerpt opens, it is growing dark; things become gradually less and less distinct, so that the washerwomen cannot be sure what the objects seen in the dusk really are. As it grows darker, the river becomes wider (we get nearer its mouth) and the wind rises, so that the women have more and more difficulty hearing each other. At last, as night falls, they become part of the landscape, an elm tree and a stone on the river bank. Toward the end of the dialogue they ask to hear a tale of Shem and Shaun (the two sons of HCE and ALP), and this question points the way to book 2, which opens with the boys (metamorphosed for the moment into Glugg and Chuff) playing in front of the tavern in the evening.

A complete annotation of even this brief passage is, of course, a physical impossibility in this anthology. The notes that are provided are intended to indicate the nature of what Joyce does with language and to enable the reader to see some of what is going on. But all sorts of suggestions built up in the language are not referred to in the notes; all readers will find some for themselves.

From Finnegans Wake

From Anna Livia Plurabelle * * * Well, you know or don't you kennet1 or haven't I told you every telling has a taling and that's the he and the she of it. Look, look, the dusk is growing! My branches lofty are taking root. And my cold cher's gone ashley.2 Fieluhr?

7. Anxious to avoid Boylan, Bloom pretends to admire the architecture of the Museum and National Library building and then pretends to be looking for something in his pockets, where he finds the "Agendath Netaim" leaflet. He continues to search desperately in his pockets to avoid looking up and seeing Boylan, discovers the potato he carries as a remedy against rheumatism and a cake of soap he had bought that morning (the soap reminds him that he must call at the chemist's to collect a face lotion he had ordered for Molly). At last he goes through the National Library gate and feels safe. 1. Ken it ("know it") + Kennet (river in England). Rivers in Finnegans Wake symbolize the flow of life, and thousands of river names are suggested throughout the book in allusive pun combinations, as here.

2. "Cold cher": cold cheer (i.e., cold comfort) + cold chair + (perhaps) culture. "Gone ashley": gone to ashes. Going to ashes suggests the fiery death and rebirth of the mythical bird called the phoenix: from the ashes of the dead phoenix rises a new one. Modern culture, which can provide only cold cheer, is in the state of decay, the "going to ashes," which precedes the stage of rebirth into a new cultural cycle (according to Giambattista Vico's cyclical theory of history, which is important to Finnegans Wake). "Gone ashley" also means "turned into an ash tree" (i.e., it is so cold that the speaker feels herself turning into a tree).

.

224 0 / JAMES JOYCE

Filou!3 What age is at? It saon4 is late. Tis endless now senne5 eye or erewone6 last saw Waterhouse's clogh.7 They took it asunder, I hurd thum sigh. When will they reassemble it? O, my back, my back, my bach!8 I'd want to go to Aches-les-Pains.9 Pingpong! There's the Belle for Sexaloitez!1()And Concepta de Send-us-pray! Pang! Wring out the Clothes! Wring in the dew!11 Godavari,12 vert the showers!13 And grant thaya grace! Aman. Will we spread them here now? Ay, we will. Flip! Spread on your bank and I'll spread mine on mine. Flep! It's what I'm doing. Spread! It's churning chill. Der went14 is rising. I'll lay a few stones on the hostel sheets. A man and his bride embraced between them. Else I'd have sprinkled and folded them only. And I'll tie my butcher's apron here. It's suety yet. The strollers will pass it by. Six shifts, ten kerchiefs, nine to hold to the fire and this for the code,15 the convent napkins, twelve, one baby's shawl. Good mother Jossiph16 knows, she said. Whose head? Mutter snores? Deataceas!17 Wharnow are alle her childer, say? In kingdome gone or power to come or gloria be to them farther? Allalivial, allalluvial!18 Some here, more no more, more again lost alia stranger.19 I've heard tell that same brooch of the Shannons20 was married into a family in Spain. And all the Dunders de Dunnes21 in Markland's22 Vineland beyond the Brendan's herring pool23 takes number nine in yangsee's24 hats. And one of Biddy's25 beads went bobbing till she rounded up lost histereve26 with a marigold and a cobbler's candle in a side strain of a main drain of a manzinahurries27 off Bachelor's Walk. But all that's left to the last of the Meaghers28 in the loup29 of the years prefixed and between is one kneebuckle and two hooks in the front. Do you tell me that now? I do in troth. Orara por Orbe and poor Las Animals!30 Ussa, Ulla, we're

3. Pickpocket; thief (French). "Fieluhr": Viel Uhr? (What's the timer; German). From an old anecdote of a German soldier and a French soldier shouting at each other across the Rhine. They mishear each other as the washerwomen will later. 4. Soon + Saone (river in France). 5. Since + Senne (river in Belgium). 6. E'er a one -I-Erewhon (novel by Samuel But- ler�an anagram for Nowhere). 7. Waterhouse's clock, a well-known clock on Dame Street, Dublin. 8. "Brook" (German) + "dear" (Welsh). 9. Cf. Aix-les-Bains, France. 10. "Sachseliite," a Zurich fertility rite (literally, the ringing of six o'clock), which celebrates the burial of winter. 11. Tennyson, In Memoriam: "Ring out the old, ring in the new." 12. God of Eire + the name of a river in India. 13. "Vert": avert + vert (green; French), for "the showers" make grass green. 14. Der Wind (the wind; German) + Derwent (river in England). 15. Cold + code (i.e., the code in which the book is written). The numbers in this sentence have special meanings indicated in other episodes. 16. Joseph 4-joss (God; pidgin English) + gossip (which derives from "god-sib," Middle English, "godparent"). 17. A play on Deo gratias ("thanks be to God") and on Dea Tacita ("silent-goddess"), a name from Roman mythology. 18. Multiple punning�Anna Livia + all alive + la lluvia (rain; Spanish) + alluvial�suggesting the mother-river-fertility associations of ALP. At least two other meanings are also present: All alive O! (street cry of shellfish vendors) + Alleluia (Vulgate Latin form of Hallelujah). 19. Cf. a I'etranger (abroad; French). 20. Same ornament and branch of the Shannons (family and river).

21. The form of the name suggests an aristocratic Anglo-Norman family. "Dunder" suggests thunder. Dun is an Irish word meaning "hill," "fort on a hill." 22. Borderland + land of the mark (i.e., land of money, or America; Markland's Vineland was one of Leif Eriksson's names for America). Both King Mark of Cornwall (a character in the Tristan and Iseult story) and Mark of the Gospels are primary symbolic characters in Finnegans Wake. 23. The Atlantic Ocean. St. Brendan was an Irish monk who sailed out into the Atlantic to find the terrestrial paradise. 24. Yankees' + Yangtze (river in China). The de Dunnes have swollen heads now that they have emigrated to America. 25. Diminutive form of the name Bridget. St. Brigid (or Bridget) is a patron saint of Ireland. "Biddy" is also a term for an Irish maidservant. 26. Yester eve (last night) + eve of history. The sentence may be paraphrased: "Irish history got lost when she went off in a side branch of the main Roman Catholic Church, and Biddy (i.e., Ireland) landed herself in the dirt." Also, hysteria + eve. 27. A urinal + Manzanares (river in Spain). Also, man's in a hurry. 28. Thomas Francis Meagher, Irish patriot and revolutionary, who was transported to Van Die- men's Land in 1849 and escaped to America in 1852. 29. Loop + loup ("wolf" and also "solitary man"; French). Cf. Wolfe Tone, the ill-fated Irish revolutionist. 30. Souls (Spanish) + the name of a river in Colorado. Ora pro nobis (pray for us; Latin) + Orara (river in New South Wales) + pro orbe (for the world; Latin) + Orbe (river in France). The entire sentence may be read: "Pray for us and for all souls."

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FINNEGANS WAKE / 2241

umbas31 all! Mezha, didn't you hear it a deluge of times, ufer32 and ufer, respund to spond?33 You deed, you deed! I need, I need! It's that irrawaddyng34 I've stoke in my aars. It all but husheth the lethest zswound. Oronoko!35 What's your trouble? Is that the great Finnleader36 himself in his joakimono37 on his statue riding the high horse there forehengist?38 Father of Otters,39 it is himself! Yonne there! Isset that? On Fallareen Common? You're thinking of Astley's Amphitheayter where the bobby restrained you making sugarstuck pouts to the ghostwhite horse of the Peppers.40 Throw the cobwebs from your eyes, woman, and spread your washing proper! It's well I know your sort of slop. Flap! Ireland sober is Ireland stiff.41 Lord help you, Maria, full of grease, the load is with me! Your prayers. I sonht zo!42 Madammangut! Were you lifting your elbow, tell us, glazy cheeks, in Conway's Carrigacurra canteen? Was I what, hobbledyhips?43 Flop! Your rere gait's creakorheuman bitts your butts disagrees.44 Amn't I up since the damp dawn, marthared mary allacook, with Corrigan's pulse and varicoarse veins, my pramaxle smashed, Alice Jane in decline and my oneeyed mongrel twice run over, soaking and bleaching boiler rags, and sweating cold, a widow like me, for to deck my tennis champion son, the laundryman with the lavandier flannels? You won your limpopo45 limp from the husky46 hussars when Collars and Cuffs was heir to the town and your slur gave the stink to Carlow.47 Holy Scamander,48 I sar49 it again! Near the golden falls. Icis on us! Seints of light! Zezere!50 Subdue your noise, you hamble creature! What is it but a blackburry growth or the dwyergray ass them four old codgers51 owns. Are you meanam52 Tarpey and Lyons and Gregory?53 I meyne now, thank all, the four of them, and the roar of them, that draves54 that stray in the mist and old Johnny MacDougal along with them. Is that the Poolbeg flasher beyant,55 pharphar, or a fireboat coasting nyar56 the Kishtna57 or a glow I behold within a hedge or my Garry come back from the Indes? Wait till the honeying of the lune,58 love! Die eve, little eve, die!59 We see that

31. Umbra (shade; Latin) + Umba (river in Africa). "Ussa," "Ulla," and "IVlezha" are also river names; each contains a number of other meanings. 32. Bank (of river). 33. Spund (bung; German). 34. A multiple pun: Irrawady (river in Burma) + irritating 4- wadding. This and the following sentence may be paraphrased: "It's that wadding I've stuck in my ears. It hushes the least sound." 35. Oroonoko (novel by Aphra Behn about a "noble savage," published ca. 1678) + Orinoco (river in Venezuela). 36. Fionn mac Cumhail (Finn MacCool), legendary hero of ancient Ireland. 37. Comic kimono. Joki is the Finnish word for river; the name Joachim is perhaps also implied. 38. According to tradition, Hengist was the Jute invader of England (with Horsa), ca. 449; he founded the kingdom of Kent. 39. Father of Waters (i.e., the Mississippi) + Father of Orders (i.e., Saint Patrick). 40. Philip Astley's Royal Amphitheatre was a famous late-18th-century English circus, specializing in trained horses. "Pepper's Ghost" was a popular circus act. One of the washerwomen has been reproving the other, who thought she saw the great Finn himself riding his high horse, by telling her that once before she had to be restrained by a policeman for making "sugarstuck pouts" at a circus horse. 41. The temperance reformer Father Matthew had as his slogan "Ireland sober is Ireland free." 42. I thought so + Izonzo (river in Italy). 43. Hobbledehoy + wobbly hips. 44. The sentence is a punning discussion of her hard work and ailments. 45. A river in south Africa. 46. Cf. uisge (whiskey, but literally "water [of life]"; Gaelic). 47. I.e., "You got a slur on your reputation carrying on with soldiers in the Age of Elegance, and the scandal was all over Ireland" (ALP is being addressed and some of her many lovers are mentioned). "Carlow": a county in Ireland. 48. River near Troy, famous in classical legend. 49. 1 saw + Isar (river in Germany). 50. See there + Zezere (river in Portugal). 51. The Four Old Men, who represent, among other things, the authors of the Gospels, and the four elements. 52. Meaning + Menam (river in Thailand). 53. Tarpey, Lyons, Gregory, and MacDougal (next sentence) are the "four old codgers." 54. Drives + Drave (river in Hungary). 55. I.e., the Poolbeg Lighthouse beyond (this lighthouse is in Dublin Bay). "Pharphar": far far + Pharphar (river in Damascus) + pharos (lighthouse; Greek). 56. Near + Nyar (river in India). 57. City in ancient Mesopotamia, traditionally the ruling city after the Flood + Krishna (Hindu god of joy) + Kistna (river in India) + the Kish lightship (in Dublin Bay). 58. Loon (boy; Scottish) + lima (moon; Latin). "Honeying of the lune": honeymoon, etc. 59. From a children's game in which a swing is

.

224 2 / JAMES JOYCE

wonder in your eye. We'll meet again, we'll part once more. The spot I'll seek if the hour you'll find. My chart shines high where the blue milk's upset. Forgivemequick. I'm going! Bubye! And you, pluck your watch, forgetmenot. Your evenlode.60 So save to jurna's61 end! My sights are swimming thicker on me by the shadows to this place. I sow62 home slowly now by own way, moyvalley way. Towy I too, rathmine.63

Ah, but she was the queer old skeowsha64 anyhow, Anna Livia, trinkettoes! And sure he was the quare old buntz too, Dear Dirty Dumpling,65 foostherfather of fingalls66 and dotthergills. Gammer and gaffer we're all their gangsters. Hadn't he seven dams to wive him? And every dam had her seven crutches. And every crutch had its seven hues.67 And each hue had a differing cry. Sudds68 for me and supper for you and the doctor's bill for Joe John. Befor! Bifur!69 He married his markets, cheap by foul, I know, like any Etrurian Catholic Heathen, in their pinky limony creamy birnies70 and their turkiss indienne mauves. But at milkidmass71 who was the spouse? Then all that was was fair. Tys Elvenland!72 Teems of times and happy returns. The seim anew.73 Ordovico or viricordo. Anna was, Livia is, Plurabelle's to be.74 Northmen's thing made southfolk's place but howmulty plurators made each one in person? 75 Latin me that, my trinity scholard, out of eure sanscreed into oure eryan!76 Hircus Civis Eblanensis!77 He had buckgoat paps on him, soft ones for orphans. Ho,78 Lord! Twins of his bosom. Lord save us! And ho! Hey? What all men. Hot? His tittering daughters of. Whawk?

Can't hear with the waters of. The chittering waters of. Flittering bats, fieldmice bawk talk. Ho! Are you not gone ahome? What Thom Malone? Can't hear with bawk of bats, all thim liffeying waters of. Ho, talk save us! My foos won't moos.79 I feel as old as yonder elm. A tale told of Shaun or Shem? All

allowed to slow down to the refrain "She's dead, little Eva, little Eva, she's dead."

60. Evening load + Evenlode (river in England). 61. Journey + Jurna (river in Brazil). 62. Sow (river in England). 63. Moy is the name of an Irish river; Towy, a Welsh river. Moyvalley and Rathmine are names of Dublin suburbs. 64. Old timer, in Dublin. 65. "Dumpling" suggests Humpty Dumpty, whose fall is one of the many involved in the vastly symbolic fall of Finnegan. The phrase "Dear Dirty Dublin" occurs in Ulysses. 66. Blond and dark Scandinavian invaders of Ireland. 67. Colors of the rainbow (suggested a few lines later by "pinky limony creamy" and "turkiss indienne mauves"). In these sentences Joyce is parodying the nursery rhyme "As I was going to St. Ives / I met a man with seven wives." 68. Suds (slang for beer) + soap suds + sudd (the floating vegetable matter that often obstructs navigation on the White Nile). 69. Bifurcated creature! This image of human as a forked being suggests HCE (cf. "Etrurian Catholic Heathen," next sentence). HCE's marital history, in his role as the Great Parent or generator, is one theme in this passage. 70. Coats of mail. 71. Milking time + Michaelmas (September 29). 72. Tis the land of Elves + Tys Elv (Norway). 73. The same again -I- Seim (river in Ireland). 74. The Ordovices were an ancient British tribe in northern Wales, and Ordovician is a term for a geological period. "Ordovico" is also a pun on Vico and his order of historical phases. Joyce is suggesting the cyclical nature of things: the marital history of HCE is the history of ever-renewing life ("the seim anew"), and HCE's bride is Everywoman, past, present, and future ("Anna was, Livia is, Plurabelle's to be"). "Viricordo" is another verbal twist to Vico and his cycles, suggesting his ricorso ("recurrence," i.e., the fourth stage of the cycle that brings back the first), as well as overtones from the Latin vir (man) and cor (heart): the heart of the individual beats on, through all phases of civilization.

75. This sentence may be paraphrased: "The Northmen's assembly (thing) is now in Suffolk Place, but how many ancestors went into the making of each one of us?" 76. I.e., out of your Sanskrit into your Aryan. "Sanscreed" has further punning meanings: sans screed (without script) + sans creed (without faith). Thus the phrase can read: "out of your illiteracy or faithlessness into Irish" (Eire-an). I.e., the greatest skeptic must pause in reverence before the endless flow of life, represented by Irish history. "Trinity": Trinity College, Dublin. 77. The Goat-Citizen of Dublin! (Latin). The goat is the symbol of lust and so of fecundity; "Eblanensis" is the adjective form of Eblana, the name given by the 3rd-century Alexandrian geographer Ptolemy to what may have been the site of the modern Dublin. 78. River (Chinese). 79. Move 4-Moos (moss; German). Her foot ("foos") won't move; it is also turning to moss.

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D. H. LAWRENCE / 2243 Livia's daughter-sons. Dark hawks hear us. Night! Night! My ho head halls. I feel as heavy as yonder stone. Tell me of John or Shaun? Who were Shem and Shaun the living sons or daughters of? Night now! Tell me, tell me, tell me, elm! Night night! Telmetale of stem or stone.80 Beside the rivering waters of,

hitherandthithering waters of. Night! 1923-38 1939 80. Stone and elm tree are important symbols inFinnegans Wake. Signifying permanence andchange, time and space, mercy and justice, they undergo many changes throughout the book, of symbolic meaning

D. H. LAWRENCE 1885-1930 David Herbert Lawrence was born in the midland mining village of Eastwood, Nottinghamshire. His father was a miner; his mother, better educated than her husband and self-consciously genteel, fought all her married life to lift her children out of the working class. Lawrence was aware from a young age of the struggle between his parents, and allied himself with his mother's delicacy and refinement, resenting his father's coarse and sometimes drunken behavior. In his early novel Sons and Lovers (1913), against a background of paternal coarseness conflicting with maternal refinement, Lawrence sets the theme of the demanding mother who has given up the prospect of achieving a true emotional life with her husband and turns to her sons with a stultifying and possessive love. Many years later Lawrence came to feel that he had failed to appreciate his father's vitality and wholeness, even if they were distorted by the culture in which he lived.

Spurred on by his mother, Lawrence escaped from the mining world through education. He won a scholarship to Nottingham high school and later, after working first as a clerk and then as an elementary-school teacher, studied for two years at University College, Nottingham, where he obtained his teacher's certificate. Meanwhile he was reading on his own a great deal of literature and some philosophy and was working on his first novel. Publishing a group of poems in 1909, his first short story and his first novel, The White Peacock, in 1910, he was regarded in London literary circles as a promising young writer. He taught school from 1908 to 1912 in Croydon, a southern suburb of London, but he gave this up after falling in love with Frieda von Richthofen Weekley, the German wife of a professor at Nottingham. They went to Germany together and married in 1914, after Frieda's divorce.

Abroad with Frieda, Lawrence finished Sons and Lovers, at which he had been working off and on for years. The war brought them back to England, where Frieda's German origins and Lawrence's pacifist objection to the war gave him trouble with the authorities. More and more�especially after the almost immediate banning for indecency of his next novel, The Rainbow, in 1915�Lawrence came to feel that the forces of modern civilization were arrayed against him. As soon as he could leave England after the war, he sought refuge in Italy, Australia, Mexico, then again in Italy, and finally in the south of France, often desperately ill, restlessly searching for an ideal, or at least a tolerable, community in which to live. He died of tuberculosis in the south of France at the age of forty-four.

In his poetry and his fiction, Lawrence seeks to express the deep-rooted, the elemental, the instinctual in people and nature. He is at constant war with the mechanical and artificial, with the constraints and hypocrisies that civilization

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224 4 / D. H. LAWRENCE

imposes. Because lie had new things to say and a new way of saying them, he was not easily or quickly appreciated. Although his early novels are more conventional in style and treatment, from the publication of The Rainbow the critics turned away in bewilderment and condemnation. The rest of his life, during which he produced about a dozen more novels and many poems, short stories, sketches, and miscellaneous articles, was, in his own words, "a savage enough pilgrimage," marked by incessant struggle and by periods of frustration and despair. Phrases such as "supreme impulse" and "quickening spontaneous emotion" were characteristic of Lawrence's belief in intuition, in the dark forces of the inner self, that must not be allowed to be swamped by the rational faculties but must be brought into a harmonious relation with them.

The genteel culture of Lawrence's mother came more and more to represent death for Lawrence. In much of his later work, and especially in some of his short stories, he sets the deadening restrictiveness of middle-class conventional living against the forces of liberation that are often represented by an outsider�a peasant, a gypsy, a worker, a primitive of some kind, someone free by circumstance or personal effort. The recurring theme of his short stories�which contain some of his best work�is the distortion of love by possessiveness or gentility or a false romanticism or a false conception of the life of the artist and the achievement of a living relation between a man and a woman against the pressure of class-feeling or tradition or habit or prejudice.

In his two masterpieces, The Rainbow and Women in Love (both of which developed out of what was originally conceived as a single novel to be called The Sisters), Lawrence probes with both subtlety and power into various aspects of relationship� the relationship between humans and their environment, the relationship between the generations, the relationship between man and woman, the relationship between instinct and intellect, and above all the proper basis for the marriage relationship as he conceived it. Lawrence's view of marriage as a struggle, bound up with the deepest rhythms and most profound instincts, derived from his own relationship with his strong-minded wife. He explores this and other kinds of human relationships with a combination of uncanny psychological precision and intense poetic feeling. His novels have an acute surface realism, a sharp sense of time and place, and brilliant topographical detail; at the same time their high symbolism, both of the total pattern of action and of incidents and objects within it, establishes a formal and emotional rhythm.

In poetry as in fiction Lawrence sought out new modes of expression. He began writing in traditional verse forms but, especially after 1912, came to feel that poetry had to be unshackled from habit and fixed form, if it is to make contact with what he called the "insurgent naked throb of the instant moment." Harkening back to the experiments of the American poet Walt Whitman and anticipating the more "open" and "organic" forms of the later twentieth century, Lawrence claimed poetry must be spontaneous, flexible, alive, "direct utterance from the instant, whole man," and should express the "pulsating, carnal self" ("The Poetry of the Present," 1919). To convey the dynamism of animals and people, the emotional intensity of human relationships, his poems repeat and develop symbols or layer clauses in ritualistic cadences or unfold parallels with ancient myths. Vehemently autobiographical, the vital and even ecstatic encounters with nature, sex, and raw feeling in his poems assert the primacy of the unconscious and instinctual self, from which he felt the cerebral-intellectual self had alienated the English middle classes.