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Ulysses
Mr Bloom turned over idly pages of THE AWFUL DISCLOSURES OF MARIA
MONK, then of Aristotle's MASTERPIECE. Crooked botched print. Plates:
infants cuddled in a ball in bloodred wombs like livers of slaughtered
cows. Lots of them like that at this moment all over the world. All
butting with their skulls to get out of it. Child born every minute
somewhere. Mrs Purefoy.
He laid both books aside and glanced at the third: TALES OF THE GHETTO
by Leopold von Sacher Masoch.
--That I had, he said, pushing it by.
The shopman let two volumes fall on the counter.
--Them are two good ones, he said.
Onions of his breath came across the counter out of his ruined mouth.
He bent to make a bundle of the other books, hugged them against his
unbuttoned waistcoat and bore them off behind the dingy curtain.
On O'Connell bridge many persons observed the grave deportment and gay
apparel of Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing &c.
Mr Bloom, alone, looked at the titles. FAIR TYRANTS by James
Lovebirch. Know the kind that is. Had it? Yes.
He opened it. Thought so.
A woman's voice behind the dingy curtain. Listen: the man.
No: she wouldn't like that much. Got her it once.
He read the other title: SWEETS OF SIN. More in her line. Let us see.
He read where his finger opened.
--ALL THE DOLLARBILLS HER HUSBAND GAVE HER WERE SPENT IN THE STORES ON
WONDROUS GOWNS AND COSTLIEST FRILLIES. FOR HIM! FOR RAOUL!
Yes. This. Here. Try.
--HER MOUTH GLUED ON HIS IN A LUSCIOUS VOLUPTUOUS KISS WHILE HIS HANDS
FELT FOR THE OPULENT CURVES INSIDE HER DESHABILLE.
Yes. Take this. The end.
--YOU ARE LATE, HE SPOKE HOARSELY, EYING HER WITH A SUSPICIOUS GLARE.
THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN THREW OFF HER SABLETRIMMED WRAP, DISPLAYING HER
QUEENLY SHOULDERS AND HEAVING EMBONPOINT. AN IMPERCEPTIBLE SMILE
PLAYED ROUND HER PERFECT LIPS AS SHE TURNED TO HIM CALMLY.
Mr Bloom read again: THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN.
Warmth showered gently over him, cowing his flesh. Flesh yielded amply
amid rumpled clothes: whites of eyes swooning up. His nostrils arched
themselves for prey. Melting breast ointments (FOR HIM! FOR RAOUL!).
Armpits' oniony sweat. Fishgluey slime (HER HEAVING EMBONPOINT!).
Feel! Press! Crushed! Sulphur dung of lions!
Young! Young!
An elderly female, no more young, left the building of the courts of
chancery, king's bench, exchequer and common pleas, having heard in
the lord chancellor's court the case in lunacy of Potterton, in the
admiralty division the summons, exparte motion, of the owners of the
Lady Cairns versus the owners of the barque Mona, in the court of
appeal reservation of judgment in the case of Harvey versus the Ocean
Accident and Guarantee Corporation.
Phlegmy coughs shook the air of the bookshop, bulging out the dingy
curtains. The shopman's uncombed grey head came out and his unshaven
reddened face, coughing. He raked his throat rudely, puked phlegm on
the floor. He put his boot on what he had spat, wiping his sole along
it, and bent, showing a rawskinned crown, scantily haired.
Mr Bloom beheld it.
Mastering his troubled breath, he said:
--I'll take this one.
The shopman lifted eyes bleared with old rheum.
--SWEETS OF SIN, he said, tapping on it. That's a good one.
* * * * *
The lacquey by the door of Dillon's auctionrooms shook his handbell
twice again and viewed himself in the chalked mirror of the cabinet.
Dilly Dedalus, loitering by the curbstone, heard the beats of the
bell, the cries of the auctioneer within. Four and nine. Those lovely
curtains. Five shillings. Cosy curtains. Selling new at two guineas.
Any advance on five shillings? Going for five shillings.
The lacquey lifted his handbell and shook it:
--Barang!
Bang of the lastlap bell spurred the halfmile wheelmen to their
sprint. J. A. Jackson, W. E. Wylie, A. Munro and H. T. Gahan, their
stretched necks wagging, negotiated the curve by the College library.
Mr Dedalus, tugging a long moustache, came round from Williams's row.
He halted near his daughter.
--It's time for you, she said.
--Stand up straight for the love of the lord Jesus, Mr Dedalus said.
Are you trying to imitate your uncle John, the cornetplayer, head upon
shoulder? Melancholy God!
Dilly shrugged her shoulders. Mr Dedalus placed his hands on them and
held them back.
--Stand up straight, girl, he said. You'll get curvature of the spine.
Do you know what you look like?
He let his head sink suddenly down and forward, hunching his shoulders
and dropping his underjaw.
--Give it up, father, Dilly said. All the people are looking at you.
Mr Dedalus drew himself upright and tugged again at his moustache.
--Did you get any money? Dilly asked.
--Where would I get money? Mr Dedalus said. There is no-one in Dublin
would lend me fourpence.
--You got some, Dilly said, looking in his eyes.
--How do you know that? Mr Dedalus asked, his tongue in his cheek.
Mr Kernan, pleased with the order he had booked, walked boldly along
James's street.
--I know you did, Dilly answered. Were you in the Scotch house now?
--I was not, then, Mr Dedalus said, smiling. Was it the little nuns
taught you to be so saucy? Here.
He handed her a shilling.
--See if you can do anything with that, he said.
--I suppose you got five, Dilly said. Give me more than that.
--Wait awhile, Mr Dedalus said threateningly. You're like the rest of
them, are you? An insolent pack of little bitches since your poor
mother died. But wait awhile. You'll all get a short shrift and a long
day from me. Low blackguardism! I'm going to get rid of you. Wouldn't
care if I was stretched out stiff. He's dead. The man upstairs is
dead.
He left her and walked on. Dilly followed quickly and pulled his coat.
--Well, what is it? he said, stopping.
The lacquey rang his bell behind their backs.
--Barang!
--Curse your bloody blatant soul, Mr Dedalus cried, turning on him.
The lacquey, aware of comment, shook the lolling clapper of his bell
but feebly:
--Bang!
Mr Dedalus stared at him.
--Watch him, he said. It's instructive. I wonder will he allow us to
talk.
--You got more than that, father, Dilly said.
--I'm going to show you a little trick, Mr Dedalus said. I'll leave
you all where Jesus left the jews. Look, there's all I have. I got two
shillings from Jack Power and I spent twopence for a shave for the
funeral.
He drew forth a handful of copper coins, nervously.
--Can't you look for some money somewhere? Dilly said.
Mr Dedalus thought and nodded.
--I will, he said gravely. I looked all along the gutter in O'Connell
street. I'll try this one now.
--You're very funny, Dilly said, grinning.
--Here, Mr Dedalus said, handing her two pennies. Get a glass of milk
for yourself and a bun or a something. I'll be home shortly.
He put the other coins in his pocket and started to walk on.
The viceregal cavalcade passed, greeted by obsequious policemen, out
of Parkgate.
--I'm sure you have another shilling, Dilly said.
The lacquey banged loudly.
Mr Dedalus amid the din walked off, murmuring to himself with a
pursing mincing mouth gently:
--The little nuns! Nice little things! O, sure they wouldn't do
anything! O, sure they wouldn't really! Is it little sister Monica!
* * * * *
From the sundial towards James's gate walked Mr Kernan, pleased with
the order he had booked for Pulbrook Robertson, boldly along James's
street, past Shackleton's offices. Got round him all right. How do you
do, Mr Crimmins? First rate, sir. I was afraid you might be up in your
other establishment in Pimlico. How are things going? Just keeping
alive. Lovely weather we're having. Yes, indeed. Good for the country.
Those farmers are always grumbling. I'll just take a thimbleful of
your best gin, Mr Crimmins. A small gin, sir. Yes, sir. Terrible
affair that General Slocum explosion. Terrible, terrible! A thousand
casualties. And heartrending scenes. Men trampling down women and
children. Most brutal thing. What do they say was the cause?
Spontaneous combustion. Most scandalous revelation. Not a single
lifeboat would float and the firehose all burst. What I can't
understand is how the inspectors ever allowed a boat like that ...
Now, you're talking straight, Mr Crimmins. You know why? Palm oil. Is
that a fact? Without a doubt. Well now, look at that. And America they
say is the land of the free. I thought we were bad here.
I smiled at him. AMERICA, I said quietly, just like that. WHAT IS IT?
THE SWEEPINGS OF EVERY COUNTRY INCLUDING OUR OWN. ISN'T THAT TRUE?
That's a fact.
Graft, my dear sir. Well, of course, where there's money going there's
always someone to pick it up.
Saw him looking at my frockcoat. Dress does it. Nothing like a dressy
appearance. Bowls them over.
--Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said. How are things?
--Hello, Bob, old man, Mr Dedalus answered, stopping.
Mr Kernan halted and preened himself before the sloping mirror of
Peter Kennedy, hairdresser. Stylish coat, beyond a doubt. Scott of
Dawson street. Well worth the half sovereign I gave Neary for it.
Never built under three guineas. Fits me down to the ground. Some
Kildare street club toff had it probably. John Mulligan, the manager
of the Hibernian bank, gave me a very sharp eye yesterday on Carlisle
bridge as if he remembered me.
Aham! Must dress the character for those fellows. Knight of the road.
Gentleman. And now, Mr Crimmins, may we have the honour of your custom
again, sir. The cup that cheers but not inebriates, as the old saying
has it.
North wall and sir John Rogerson's quay, with hulls and anchorchains,
sailing westward, sailed by a skiff, a crumpled throwaway, rocked on
the ferrywash, Elijah is coming.
Mr Kernan glanced in farewell at his image. High colour, of course.
Grizzled moustache. Returned Indian officer. Bravely he bore his
stumpy body forward on spatted feet, squaring his shoulders. Is that
Ned Lambert's brother over the way, Sam? What? Yes. He's as like it as
damn it. No. The windscreen of that motorcar in the sun there. Just a
flash like that. Damn like him.
Aham! Hot spirit of juniper juice warmed his vitals and his breath.
Good drop of gin, that was. His frocktails winked in bright sunshine
to his fat strut.
Down there Emmet was hanged, drawn and quartered. Greasy black rope.
Dogs licking the blood off the street when the lord lieutenant's wife
drove by in her noddy.
Bad times those were. Well, well. Over and done with. Great topers
too. Fourbottle men.
Let me see. Is he buried in saint Michan's? Or no, there was a
midnight burial in Glasnevin. Corpse brought in through a secret door
in the wall. Dignam is there now. Went out in a puff. Well, well.
Better turn down here. Make a detour.
Mr Kernan turned and walked down the slope of Watling street by the
corner of Guinness's visitors' waitingroom. Outside the Dublin
Distillers Company's stores an outside car without fare or jarvey
stood, the reins knotted to the wheel. Damn dangerous thing. Some
Tipperary bosthoon endangering the lives of the citizens. Runaway
horse.
Denis Breen with his tomes, weary of having waited an hour in John
Henry Menton's office, led his wife over O'Connell bridge, bound for
the office of Messrs Collis and Ward.
Mr Kernan approached Island street.
Times of the troubles. Must ask Ned Lambert to lend me those
reminiscences of sir Jonah Barrington. When you look back on it all
now in a kind of retrospective arrangement. Gaming at Daly's. No
cardsharping then. One of those fellows got his hand nailed to the
table by a dagger. Somewhere here lord Edward Fitzgerald escaped from
major Sirr. Stables behind Moira house.
Damn good gin that was.
Fine dashing young nobleman. Good stock, of course. That ruffian, that
sham squire, with his violet gloves gave him away. Course they were on
the wrong side. They rose in dark and evil days. Fine poem that is:
Ingram. They were gentlemen. Ben Dollard does sing that ballad
touchingly. Masterly rendition.
AT THE SIEGE OF ROSS DID MY FATHER FALL.
A cavalcade in easy trot along Pembroke quay passed, outriders
leaping, leaping in their, in their saddles. Frockcoats. Cream
sunshades.
Mr Kernan hurried forward, blowing pursily.
His Excellency! Too bad! Just missed that by a hair. Damn it! What a
pity!
* * * * *
Stephen Dedalus watched through the webbed window the lapidary's
fingers prove a timedulled chain. Dust webbed the window and the
showtrays. Dust darkened the toiling fingers with their vulture nails.
Dust slept on dull coils of bronze and silver, lozenges of cinnabar,
on rubies, leprous and winedark stones.
Born all in the dark wormy earth, cold specks of fire, evil, lights
shining in the darkness. Where fallen archangels flung the stars of
their brows. Muddy swinesnouts, hands, root and root, gripe and wrest
them.
She dances in a foul gloom where gum bums with garlic. A sailorman,
rustbearded, sips from a beaker rum and eyes her. A long and seafed
silent rut. She dances, capers, wagging her sowish haunches and her
hips, on her gross belly flapping a ruby egg.
Old Russell with a smeared shammy rag burnished again his gem, turned
it and held it at the point of his Moses' beard. Grandfather ape
gloating on a stolen hoard.
And you who wrest old images from the burial earth? The brainsick
words of sophists: Antisthenes. A lore of drugs. Orient and immortal
wheat standing from everlasting to everlasting.
Two old women fresh from their whiff of the briny trudged through
Irishtown along London bridge road, one with a sanded tired umbrella,
one with a midwife's bag in which eleven cockles rolled.
The whirr of flapping leathern bands and hum of dynamos from the
powerhouse urged Stephen to be on. Beingless beings. Stop! Throb
always without you and the throb always within. Your heart you sing
of. I between them. Where? Between two roaring worlds where they
swirl, I. Shatter them, one and both. But stun myself too in the blow.
Shatter me you who can. Bawd and butcher were the words. I say! Not
yet awhile. A look around.
Yes, quite true. Very large and wonderful and keeps famous time. You
say right, sir. A Monday morning, 'twas so, indeed.
Stephen went down Bedford row, the handle of the ash clacking against
his shoulderblade. In Clohissey's window a faded 1860 print of Heenan
boxing Sayers held his eye. Staring backers with square hats stood
round the roped prizering. The heavyweights in tight loincloths
proposed gently each to other his bulbous fists. And they are
throbbing: heroes' hearts.
He turned and halted by the slanted bookcart.
--Twopence each, the huckster said. Four for sixpence.
Tattered pages. THE IRISH BEEKEEPER. LIFE AND MIRACLES OF THE CURE' OF
ARS. POCKET GUIDE TO KILLARNEY.
I might find here one of my pawned schoolprizes. STEPHANO DEDALO,
ALUMNO OPTIMO, PALMAM FERENTI.
Father Conmee, having read his little hours, walked through the hamlet
of Donnycarney, murmuring vespers.
Binding too good probably. What is this? Eighth and ninth book of
Moses. Secret of all secrets. Seal of King David. Thumbed pages: read
and read. Who has passed here before me? How to soften chapped hands.
Recipe for white wine vinegar. How to win a woman's love. For me this.
Say the following talisman three times with hands folded:
--SE EL YILO NEBRAKADA FEMININUM! AMOR ME SOLO! SANKTUS! AMEN.
Who wrote this? Charms and invocations of the most blessed abbot Peter
Salanka to all true believers divulged. As good as any other abbot's
charms, as mumbling Joachim's. Down, baldynoddle, or we'll wool your
wool.
--What are you doing here, Stephen?
Dilly's high shoulders and shabby dress.
Shut the book quick. Don't let see.
--What are you doing? Stephen said.
A Stuart face of nonesuch Charles, lank locks falling at its sides. It
glowed as she crouched feeding the fire with broken boots. I told her
of Paris. Late lieabed under a quilt of old overcoats, fingering a
pinchbeck bracelet, Dan Kelly's token. NEBRAKADA FEMININUM.
--What have you there? Stephen asked.
--I bought it from the other cart for a penny, Dilly said, laughing
nervously. Is it any good?
My eyes they say she has. Do others see me so? Quick, far and daring.
Shadow of my mind.
He took the coverless book from her hand. Chardenal's French primer.
--What did you buy that for? he asked. To learn French?
She nodded, reddening and closing tight her lips.
Show no surprise. Quite natural.
--Here, Stephen said. It's all right. Mind Maggy doesn't pawn it on
you. I suppose all my books are gone.
--Some, Dilly said. We had to.
She is drowning. Agenbite. Save her. Agenbite. All against us. She
will drown me with her, eyes and hair. Lank coils of seaweed hair
around me, my heart, my soul. Salt green death.
We.
Agenbite of inwit. Inwit's agenbite.
Misery! Misery!
* * * * *
--Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said. How are things?
--Hello, Bob, old man, Mr Dedalus answered, stopping.
They clasped hands loudly outside Reddy and Daughter's. Father Cowley
brushed his moustache often downward with a scooping hand.
--What's the best news? Mr Dedalus said.
--Why then not much, Father Cowley said. I'm barricaded up, Simon,
with two men prowling around the house trying to effect an entrance.
--Jolly, Mr Dedalus said. Who is it?
--O, Father Cowley said. A certain gombeen man of our acquaintance.
--With a broken back, is it? Mr Dedalus asked.
--The same, Simon, Father Cowley answered. Reuben of that ilk. I'm
just waiting for Ben Dollard. He's going to say a word to long John to
get him to take those two men off. All I want is a little time.
He looked with vague hope up and down the quay, a big apple bulging in
his neck.
--I know, Mr Dedalus said, nodding. Poor old bockedy Ben! He's always
doing a good turn for someone. Hold hard!
He put on his glasses and gazed towards the metal bridge an instant.
--There he is, by God, he said, arse and pockets.