Section 22 of 74 - Table of Contents
--Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuck Mulligan clucked lewdly. O word of fear!
Dark dome received, reverbed.
--And what a character is Iago! undaunted John Eglinton exclaimed.
When all is said Dumas FILS (or is it Dumas PERE?) is right. After God
Shakespeare has created most.
--Man delights him not nor woman neither, Stephen said. He returns after
a life of absence to that spot of earth where he was born, where he has
always been, man and boy, a silent witness and there, his journey of life
ended, he plants his mulberrytree in the earth. Then dies. The motion is
ended. Gravediggers bury Hamlet PERE and Hamlet FILS. A king and a
prince at last in death, with incidental music. And, what though murdered
and betrayed, bewept by all frail tender hearts for, Dane or Dubliner,
sorrow for the dead is the only husband from whom they refuse to be
divorced. If you like the epilogue look long on it: prosperous Prospero,
the good man rewarded, Lizzie, grandpa's lump of love, and nuncle Richie,
the bad man taken off by poetic justice to the place where the bad niggers
go. Strong curtain. He found in the world without as actual what was in his
world within as possible. Maeterlinck says: IF SOCRATES LEAVE HIS HOUSE
TODAY HE WILL FIND THE SAGE SEATED ON HIS DOORSTEP. IF JUDAS GO FORTH
TONIGHT IT IS TO JUDAS HIS STEPS WILL TEND. Every life is many days,
day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants,
old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love, but always meeting
ourselves. The playwright who wrote the folio of this world and wrote it
badly (He gave us light first and the sun two days later), the lord of
things as they are whom the most Roman of catholics call DIO BOIA,
hangman god, is doubtless all in all in all of us, ostler and butcher,
and would be bawd and cuckold too but that in the economy of heaven,
foretold by Hamlet, there are no more marriages, glorified man, an
androgynous angel, being a wife unto himself.
--EUREKA! Buck Mulligan cried. EUREKA!
Suddenly happied he jumped up and reached in a stride John Eglinton's
desk.
--May I? he said. The Lord has spoken to Malachi.
He began to scribble on a slip of paper.
Take some slips from the counter going out.
--Those who are married, Mr Best, douce herald, said, all save one, shall
live. The rest shall keep as they are.
He laughed, unmarried, at Eglinton Johannes, of arts a bachelor.
Unwed, unfancied, ware of wiles, they fingerponder nightly each his
variorum edition of THE TAMING OF THE SHREW.
--You are a delusion, said roundly John Eglinton to Stephen. You have
brought us all this way to show us a French triangle. Do you believe your
own theory?
--No, Stephen said promptly.
--Are you going to write it? Mr Best asked. You ought to make it a
dialogue, don't you know, like the Platonic dialogues Wilde wrote.
John Eclecticon doubly smiled.
--Well, in that case, he said, I don't see why you should expect payment
for it since you don't believe it yourself. Dowden believes there is some
mystery in HAMLET but will say no more. Herr Bleibtreu, the man Piper met
in Berlin, who is working up that Rutland theory, believes that the secret
is hidden in the Stratford monument. He is going to visit the present
duke, Piper says, and prove to him that his ancestor wrote the plays.
It will come as a surprise to his grace. But he believes his theory.
I believe, O Lord, help my unbelief. That is, help me to believe or help
me to unbelieve? Who helps to believe? EGOMEN. Who to unbelieve? Other
chap.
--You are the only contributor to DANA who asks for pieces of silver. Then
I don't know about the next number. Fred Ryan wants space for an article
on economics.
Fraidrine. Two pieces of silver he lent me. Tide you over. Economics.
--For a guinea, Stephen said, you can publish this interview.
Buck Mulligan stood up from his laughing scribbling, laughing: and
then gravely said, honeying malice:
--I called upon the bard Kinch at his summer residence in upper
Mecklenburgh street and found him deep in the study of the SUMMA CONTRA
GENTILES in the company of two gonorrheal ladies, Fresh Nelly and Rosalie,
the coalquay whore.
He broke away.
--Come, Kinch. Come, wandering Aengus of the birds.
Come, Kinch. You have eaten all we left. Ay. I will serve you your orts
and offals.
Stephen rose.
Life is many days. This will end.
--We shall see you tonight, John Eglinton said. NOTRE AMI Moore says
Malachi Mulligan must be there.
Buck Mulligan flaunted his slip and panama.
--Monsieur Moore, he said, lecturer on French letters to the youth of
Ireland. I'll be there. Come, Kinch, the bards must drink. Can you walk
straight?
Laughing, he ...
Swill till eleven. Irish nights entertainment.
Lubber ...
Stephen followed a lubber ...
One day in the national library we had a discussion. Shakes. After.
His lub back: I followed. I gall his kibe.
Stephen, greeting, then all amort, followed a lubber jester, a
wellkempt head, newbarbered, out of the vaulted cell into a shattering
daylight of no thought.
What have I learned? Of them? Of me?
Walk like Haines now.
The constant readers' room. In the readers' book Cashel Boyle
O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell parafes his polysyllables. Item: was
Hamlet mad? The quaker's pate godlily with a priesteen in booktalk.
--O please do, sir ... I shall be most pleased ...
Amused Buck Mulligan mused in pleasant murmur with himself, selfnodding:
--A pleased bottom.
The turnstile.
Is that? ... Blueribboned hat ... Idly writing ... What? Looked? ...
The curving balustrade: smoothsliding Mincius.
Puck Mulligan, panamahelmeted, went step by step, iambing, trolling:
JOHN EGLINTON, MY JO, JOHN,
WHY WON'T YOU WED A WIFE?
He spluttered to the air:
--O, the chinless Chinaman! Chin Chon Eg Lin Ton. We went over to their
playbox, Haines and I, the plumbers' hall. Our players are creating a new
art for Europe like the Greeks or M. Maeterlinck. Abbey Theatre! I smell
the pubic sweat of monks.
He spat blank.
Forgot: any more than he forgot the whipping lousy Lucy gave him.
And left the FEMME DE TRENTE ANS. And why no other children born? And his
first child a girl?
Afterwit. Go back.
The dour recluse still there (he has his cake) and the douce youngling,
minion of pleasure, Phedo's toyable fair hair.
Eh ... I just eh ... wanted ... I forgot ... he ...
--Longworth and M'Curdy Atkinson were there ...
Puck Mulligan footed featly, trilling:
I HARDLY HEAR THE PURLIEU CRY
OR A TOMMY TALK AS I PASS ONE BY
BEFORE MY THOUGHTS BEGIN TO RUN
ON F. M'CURDY ATKINSON,
THE SAME THAT HAD THE WOODEN LEG
AND THAT FILIBUSTERING FILIBEG
THAT NEVER DARED TO SLAKE HIS DROUTH,
MAGEE THAT HAD THE CHINLESS MOUTH.
BEING AFRAID TO MARRY ON EARTH
THEY MASTURBATED FOR ALL THEY WERE WORTH.
Jest on. Know thyself.
Halted, below me, a quizzer looks at me. I halt.
--Mournful mummer, Buck Mulligan moaned. Synge has left off wearing
black to be like nature. Only crows, priests and English coal are black.
A laugh tripped over his lips.
--Longworth is awfully sick, he said, after what you wrote about that old
hake Gregory. O you inquisitional drunken jewjesuit! She gets you a job on
the paper and then you go and slate her drivel to Jaysus. Couldn't you do
the Yeats touch?
He went on and down, mopping, chanting with waving graceful arms:
--The most beautiful book that has come out of our country in my time.
One thinks of Homer.
He stopped at the stairfoot.
--I have conceived a play for the mummers, he said solemnly.
The pillared Moorish hall, shadows entwined. Gone the nine men's
morrice with caps of indices.
In sweetly varying voices Buck Mulligan read his tablet:
EVERYMAN HIS OWN WIFE
OR
A HONEYMOON IN THE HAND
(A NATIONAL IMMORALITY IN THREE ORGASMS)
BY
BALLOCKY MULLIGAN
He turned a happy patch's smirk to Stephen, saying:
--The disguise, I fear, is thin. But listen.
He read, MARCATO:
--Characters:
TODY TOSTOFF (a ruined Pole)
CRAB (a bushranger)
MEDICAL DICK )
and ) (two birds with one stone)
MEDICAL DAVY )
MOTHER GROGAN (a watercarrier)
FRESH NELLY
and
ROSALIE (the coalquay whore).
He laughed, lolling a to and fro head, walking on, followed by Stephen:
and mirthfully he told the shadows, souls of men:
--O, the night in the Camden hall when the daughters of Erin had to lift
their skirts to step over you as you lay in your mulberrycoloured,
multicoloured, multitudinous vomit!
--The most innocent son of Erin, Stephen said, for whom they ever lifted
them.
About to pass through the doorway, feeling one behind, he stood aside.
Part. The moment is now. Where then? If Socrates leave his house
today, if Judas go forth tonight. Why? That lies in space which I in time
must come to, ineluctably.
My will: his will that fronts me. Seas between.
A man passed out between them, bowing, greeting.
--Good day again, Buck Mulligan said.
The portico.
Here I watched the birds for augury. Aengus of the birds. They go,
they come. Last night I flew. Easily flew. Men wondered. Street of harlots
after. A creamfruit melon he held to me. In. You will see.
--The wandering jew, Buck Mulligan whispered with clown's awe. Did you
see his eye? He looked upon you to lust after you. I fear thee, ancient
mariner. O, Kinch, thou art in peril. Get thee a breechpad.
Manner of Oxenford.
Day. Wheelbarrow sun over arch of bridge.
A dark back went before them, step of a pard, down, out by the
gateway, under portcullis barbs.
They followed.
Offend me still. Speak on.
Kind air defined the coigns of houses in Kildare street. No birds. Frail
from the housetops two plumes of smoke ascended, pluming, and in a flaw
of softness softly were blown.
Cease to strive. Peace of the druid priests of Cymbeline: hierophantic:
from wide earth an altar.
LAUD WE THE GODS
AND LET OUR CROOKED SMOKES CLIMB TO THEIR NOSTRILS
FROM OUR BLESS'D ALTARS.
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