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I

Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of

lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. A yellow dressinggown,

ungirdled, was sustained gently behind him on the mild morning air. He

held the bowl aloft and intoned:

—Introibo ad altare Dei.

Halted, he peered down the dark winding stairs and called out coarsely:

—Come up, Kinch! Come up, you fearful jesuit!

Solemnly he came forward and mounted the round gunrest. He faced about

and blessed gravely thrice the tower, the surrounding land and the

awaking mountains. Then, catching sight of Stephen Dedalus, he bent

towards him and made rapid crosses in the air, gurgling in his throat

and shaking his head. Stephen Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned

his arms on the top of the staircase and looked coldly at the shaking

gurgling face that blessed him, equine in its length, and at the light

untonsured hair, grained and hued like pale oak.

Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under the mirror and then covered the

bowl smartly.

—Back to barracks! he said sternly.

He added in a preacher's tone:

—For this, O dearly beloved, is the genuine Christine: body and soul

and blood and ouns. Slow music, please. Shut your eyes, gents. One

moment. A little trouble about those white corpuscles. Silence, all.

He peered sideways up and gave a long slow whistle of call, then paused

awhile in rapt attention, his even white teeth glistening here and there

with gold points. Chrysostomos. Two strong shrill whistles answered

through the calm.

—Thanks, old chap, he cried briskly. That will do nicely. Switch off

the current, will you?

He skipped off the gunrest and looked gravely at his watcher, gathering

about his legs the loose folds of his gown. The plump shadowed face and

sullen oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in the middle ages.

A pleasant smile broke quietly over his lips.

—The mockery of it! he said gaily. Your absurd name, an ancient Greek!

He pointed his finger in friendly jest and went over to the parapet,

laughing to himself. Stephen Dedalus stepped up, followed him wearily

halfway and sat down on the edge of the gunrest, watching him still as

he propped his mirror on the parapet, dipped the brush in the bowl and

lathered cheeks and neck.

Buck Mulligan's gay voice went on.

—My name is absurd too: Malachi Mulligan, two dactyls. But it has a

Hellenic ring, hasn't it? Tripping and sunny like the buck himself.

We must go to Athens. Will you come if I can get the aunt to fork out

twenty quid?

He laid the brush aside and, laughing with delight, cried:

—Will he come? The jejune jesuit!

Ceasing, he began to shave with care.

—Tell me, Mulligan, Stephen said quietly.

—Yes, my love?

—How long is Haines going to stay in this tower?

Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his right shoulder.

—God, isn't he dreadful? he said frankly. A ponderous Saxon. He thinks

you're not a gentleman. God, these bloody English! Bursting with money

and indigestion. Because he comes from Oxford. You know, Dedalus, you

have the real Oxford manner. He can't make you out. O, my name for you

is the best: Kinch, the knife-blade.

He shaved warily over his chin.

—He was raving all night about a black panther, Stephen said. Where is

his guncase?

—A woful lunatic! Mulligan said. Were you in a funk?

—I was, Stephen said with energy and growing fear. Out here in the dark

with a man I don't know raving and moaning to himself about shooting a

black panther. You saved men from drowning. I'm not a hero, however. If

he stays on here I am off.

Buck Mulligan frowned at the lather on his razorblade. He hopped down

from his perch and began to search his trouser pockets hastily.

—Scutter! he cried thickly.

He came over to the gunrest and, thrusting a hand into Stephen's upper

pocket, said:

—Lend us a loan of your noserag to wipe my razor.

Stephen suffered him to pull out and hold up on show by its corner a

dirty crumpled handkerchief. Buck Mulligan wiped the razorblade neatly.

Then, gazing over the handkerchief, he said:

—The bard's noserag! A new art colour for our Irish poets: snotgreen.

You can almost taste it, can't you?

He mounted to the parapet again and gazed out over Dublin bay, his fair

oakpale hair stirring slightly.

—God! he said quietly. Isn't the sea what Algy calls it: a grey

sweet mother? The snotgreen sea. The scrotumtightening sea. Epi oinopa

ponton. Ah, Dedalus, the Greeks! I must teach you. You must read them

in the original. Thalatta! Thalatta! She is our great sweet mother.

Come and look.

Stephen stood up and went over to the parapet. Leaning on it he looked

down on the water and on the mailboat clearing the harbourmouth of

Kingstown.

—Our mighty mother! Buck Mulligan said.

He turned abruptly his grey searching eyes from the sea to Stephen's

face.

—The aunt thinks you killed your mother, he said. That's why she won't

let me have anything to do with you.

—Someone killed her, Stephen said gloomily.

—You could have knelt down, damn it, Kinch, when your dying mother

asked you, Buck Mulligan said. I'm hyperborean as much as you. But to

think of your mother begging you with her last breath to kneel down and

pray for her. And you refused. There is something sinister in you...

He broke off and lathered again lightly his farther cheek. A tolerant

smile curled his lips.

—But a lovely mummer! he murmured to himself. Kinch, the loveliest

mummer of them all!

He shaved evenly and with care, in silence, seriously.

Stephen, an elbow rested on the jagged granite, leaned his palm against

his brow and gazed at the fraying edge of his shiny black coat-sleeve.

Pain, that was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart. Silently, in

a dream she had come to him after her death, her wasted body within its

loose brown graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her

breath, that had bent upon him, mute, reproachful, a faint odour of

wetted ashes. Across the threadbare cuffedge he saw the sea hailed as a

great sweet mother by the wellfed voice beside him. The ring of bay

and skyline held a dull green mass of liquid. A bowl of white china had

stood beside her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which she had

torn up from her rotting liver by fits of loud groaning vomiting.

Buck Mulligan wiped again his razorblade.

—Ah, poor dogsbody! he said in a kind voice. I must give you a shirt

and a few noserags. How are the secondhand breeks?

—They fit well enough, Stephen answered.

Buck Mulligan attacked the hollow beneath his underlip.

—The mockery of it, he said contentedly. Secondleg they should be. God

knows what poxy bowsy left them off. I have a lovely pair with a hair

stripe, grey. You'll look spiffing in them. I'm not joking, Kinch. You

look damn well when you're dressed.

—Thanks, Stephen said. I can't wear them if they are grey.

—He can't wear them, Buck Mulligan told his face in the mirror.

Etiquette is etiquette. He kills his mother but he can't wear grey

trousers.

He folded his razor neatly and with stroking palps of fingers felt the

smooth skin.

Stephen turned his gaze from the sea and to the plump face with its

smokeblue mobile eyes.

—That fellow I was with in the Ship last night, said Buck Mulligan,

says you have g.p.i. He's up in Dottyville with Connolly Norman. General

paralysis of the insane!

He swept the mirror a half circle in the air to flash the tidings abroad

in sunlight now radiant on the sea. His curling shaven lips laughed and

the edges of his white glittering teeth. Laughter seized all his strong

wellknit trunk.

—Look at yourself, he said, you dreadful bard!

Stephen bent forward and peered at the mirror held out to him, cleft by

a crooked crack. Hair on end. As he and others see me. Who chose this

face for me? This dogsbody to rid of vermin. It asks me too.

—I pinched it out of the skivvy's room, Buck Mulligan said. It does her

all right. The aunt always keeps plainlooking servants for Malachi. Lead

him not into temptation. And her name is Ursula.

Laughing again, he brought the mirror away from Stephen's peering eyes.

—The rage of Caliban at not seeing his face in a mirror, he said. If

Wilde were only alive to see you!

Drawing back and pointing, Stephen said with bitterness:

—It is a symbol of Irish art. The cracked looking-glass of a servant.

Buck Mulligan suddenly linked his arm in Stephen's and walked with him

round the tower, his razor and mirror clacking in the pocket where he

had thrust them.

—It's not fair to tease you like that, Kinch, is it? he said kindly.

God knows you have more spirit than any of them.

Parried again. He fears the lancet of my art as I fear that of his. The

cold steelpen.

—Cracked lookingglass of a servant! Tell that to the oxy chap

downstairs and touch him for a guinea. He's stinking with money and

thinks you're not a gentleman. His old fellow made his tin by selling

jalap to Zulus or some bloody swindle or other. God, Kinch, if you and I

could only work together we might do something for the island. Hellenise

it.

Cranly's arm. His arm.

—And to think of your having to beg from these swine. I'm the only one

that knows what you are. Why don't you trust me more? What have you

up your nose against me? Is it Haines? If he makes any noise here I'll

bring down Seymour and we'll give him a ragging worse than they gave

Clive Kempthorpe.

Young shouts of moneyed voices in Clive Kempthorpe's rooms. Palefaces:

they hold their ribs with laughter, one clasping another. O, I shall

expire! Break the news to her gently, Aubrey! I shall die! With slit

ribbons of his shirt whipping the air he hops and hobbles round the

table, with trousers down at heels, chased by Ades of Magdalen with the

tailor's shears. A scared calf's face gilded with marmalade. I don't

want to be debagged! Don't you play the giddy ox with me!

Shouts from the open window startling evening in the quadrangle. A deaf

gardener, aproned, masked with Matthew Arnold's face, pushes his mower

on the sombre lawn watching narrowly the dancing motes of grasshalms.

To ourselves... new paganism... omphalos.

—Let him stay, Stephen said. There's nothing wrong with him except at

night.

—Then what is it? Buck Mulligan asked impatiently. Cough it up. I'm

quite frank with you. What have you against me now?

They halted, looking towards the blunt cape of Bray Head that lay on the

water like the snout of a sleeping whale. Stephen freed his arm quietly.

—Do you wish me to tell you? he asked.

—Yes, what is it? Buck Mulligan answered. I don't remember anything.

He looked in Stephen's face as he spoke. A light wind passed his brow,

fanning softly his fair uncombed hair and stirring silver points of

anxiety in his eyes.

Stephen, depressed by his own voice, said:

—Do you remember the first day I went to your house after my mother's

death?

Buck Mulligan frowned quickly and said:

—What? Where? I can't remember anything. I remember only ideas and

sensations. Why? What happened in the name of God?

—You were making tea, Stephen said, and went across the landing to

get more hot water. Your mother and some visitor came out of the

drawingroom. She asked you who was in your room.

—Yes? Buck Mulligan said. What did I say? I forget.

—You said, Stephen answered, O, it's only Dedalus whose mother is

beastly dead.

A flush which made him seem younger and more engaging rose to Buck

Mulligan's cheek.

—Did I say that? he asked. Well? What harm is that?

He shook his constraint from him nervously.

—And what is death, he asked, your mother's or yours or my own? You

saw only your mother die. I see them pop off every day in the Mater and

Richmond and cut up into tripes in the dissectingroom. It's a beastly

thing and nothing else. It simply doesn't matter. You wouldn't kneel

down to pray for your mother on her deathbed when she asked you. Why?

Because you have the cursed jesuit strain in you, only it's injected the

wrong way. To me it's all a mockery and beastly. Her cerebral lobes

are not functioning. She calls the doctor sir Peter Teazle and picks

buttercups off the quilt. Humour her till it's over. You crossed her

last wish in death and yet you sulk with me because I don't whinge like

some hired mute from Lalouette's. Absurd! I suppose I did say it. I

didn't mean to offend the memory of your mother.

He had spoken himself into boldness. Stephen, shielding the gaping

wounds which the words had left in his heart, said very coldly:

—I am not thinking of the offence to my mother.

—Of what then? Buck Mulligan asked.

—Of the offence to me, Stephen answered.

Buck Mulligan swung round on his heel.

—O, an impossible person! he exclaimed.

He walked off quickly round the parapet. Stephen stood at his post,

gazing over the calm sea towards the headland. Sea and headland now grew

dim. Pulses were beating in his eyes, veiling their sight, and he felt

the fever of his cheeks.

A voice within the tower called loudly:

—Are you up there, Mulligan?

—I'm coming, Buck Mulligan answered.

He turned towards Stephen and said:

—Look at the sea. What does it care about offences? Chuck Loyola,

Kinch, and come on down. The Sassenach wants his morning rashers.

His head halted again for a moment at the top of the staircase, level

with the roof:

—Don't mope over it all day, he said. I'm inconsequent. Give up the

moody brooding.

His head vanished but the drone of his descending voice boomed out of

the stairhead:

And no more turn aside and brood

Upon love's bitter mystery

For Fergus rules the brazen cars.

Woodshadows floated silently by through the morning peace from the

stairhead seaward where he gazed. Inshore and farther out the mirror of

water whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet. White breast of

the dim sea. The twining stresses, two by two. A hand plucking the

harpstrings, merging their twining chords. Wavewhite wedded words

shimmering on the dim tide.

A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly, shadowing the bay in

deeper green. It lay beneath him, a bowl of bitter waters. Fergus' song:

I sang it alone in the house, holding down the long dark chords. Her

door was open: she wanted to hear my music. Silent with awe and pity

I went to her bedside. She was crying in her wretched bed. For those

words, Stephen: love's bitter mystery.

Where now?

Her secrets: old featherfans, tasselled dancecards, powdered with musk,

a gaud of amber beads in her locked drawer. A birdcage hung in the sunny

window of her house when she was a girl. She heard old Royce sing in the

pantomime of Turko the Terrible and laughed with others when he sang:

I am the boy

That can enjoy

Invisibility.

Phantasmal mirth, folded away: muskperfumed.

And no more turn aside and brood.

Folded away in the memory of nature with her toys. Memories beset his

brooding brain. Her glass of water from the kitchen tap when she had

approached the sacrament. A cored apple, filled with brown sugar,

roasting for her at the hob on a dark autumn evening. Her shapely

fingernails reddened by the blood of squashed lice from the children's

shirts.

In a dream, silently, she had come to him, her wasted body within its

loose graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath,

bent over him with mute secret words, a faint odour of wetted ashes.

Her glazing eyes, staring out of death, to shake and bend my soul. On me

alone. The ghostcandle to light her agony. Ghostly light on the tortured

face. Her hoarse loud breath rattling in horror, while all prayed on

their knees. Her eyes on me to strike me down. Liliata rutilantium te

confessorum turma circumdet: iubilantium te virginum chorus excipiat.

Ghoul! Chewer of corpses!

No, mother! Let me be and let me live.

—Kinch ahoy!

Buck Mulligan's voice sang from within the tower. It came nearer up the

staircase, calling again. Stephen, still trembling at his soul's cry,

heard warm running sunlight and in the air behind him friendly words.

—Dedalus, come down, like a good mosey. Breakfast is ready. Haines is

apologising for waking us last night. It's all right.

—I'm coming, Stephen said, turning.

—Do, for Jesus' sake, Buck Mulligan said. For my sake and for all our

sakes.

His head disappeared and reappeared.

—I told him your symbol of Irish art. He says it's very clever. Touch

him for a quid, will you? A guinea, I mean.

—I get paid this morning, Stephen said.

—The school kip? Buck Mulligan said. How much? Four quid? Lend us one.

—If you want it, Stephen said.

—Four shining sovereigns, Buck Mulligan cried with delight. We'll

have a glorious drunk to astonish the druidy druids. Four omnipotent

sovereigns.

He flung up his hands and tramped down the stone stairs, singing out of

tune with a Cockney accent:

O, won't we have a merry time,

Drinking whisky, beer and wine!

On coronation,

Coronation day!

O, won't we have a merry time

On coronation day!

Warm sunshine merrying over the sea. The nickel shavingbowl shone,

forgotten, on the parapet. Why should I bring it down? Or leave it there

all day, forgotten friendship?

He went over to it, held it in his hands awhile, feeling its coolness,

smelling the clammy slaver of the lather in which the brush was stuck.

So I carried the boat of incense then at Clongowes. I am another now and

yet the same. A servant too. A server of a servant.

In the gloomy domed livingroom of the tower Buck Mulligan's gowned form

moved briskly to and fro about the hearth, hiding and revealing its

yellow glow. Two shafts of soft daylight fell across the flagged floor

from the high barbacans: and at the meeting of their rays a cloud of

coalsmoke and fumes of fried grease floated, turning.

—We'll be choked, Buck Mulligan said. Haines, open that door, will you?

Stephen laid the shavingbowl on the locker. A tall figure rose from the

hammock where it had been sitting, went to the doorway and pulled open

the inner doors.

—Have you the key? a voice asked.

—Dedalus has it, Buck Mulligan said. Janey Mack, I'm choked!

He howled, without looking up from the fire:

—Kinch!

—It's in the lock, Stephen said, coming forward.

The key scraped round harshly twice and, when the heavy door had been

set ajar, welcome light and bright air entered. Haines stood at the

doorway, looking out. Stephen haled his upended valise to the table and

sat down to wait. Buck Mulligan tossed the fry on to the dish beside

him. Then he carried the dish and a large teapot over to the table, set

them down heavily and sighed with relief.

—I'm melting, he said, as the candle remarked when... But, hush! Not a

word more on that subject! Kinch, wake up! Bread, butter, honey. Haines,

come in. The grub is ready. Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts.

Where's the sugar? O, jay, there's no milk.

Stephen fetched the loaf and the pot of honey and the buttercooler from

the locker. Buck Mulligan sat down in a sudden pet.

—What sort of a kip is this? he said. I told her to come after eight.

—We can drink it black, Stephen said thirstily. There's a lemon in the

locker.

—O, damn you and your Paris fads! Buck Mulligan said. I want Sandycove

milk.

Haines came in from the doorway and said quietly:

—That woman is coming up with the milk.

—The blessings of God on you! Buck Mulligan cried, jumping up from his

chair. Sit down. Pour out the tea there. The sugar is in the bag. Here,

I can't go fumbling at the damned eggs.

He hacked through the fry on the dish and slapped it out on three

plates, saying:

—In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.

Haines sat down to pour out the tea.

—I'm giving you two lumps each, he said. But, I say, Mulligan, you do

make strong tea, don't you?

Buck Mulligan, hewing thick slices from the loaf, said in an old woman's

wheedling voice:

—When I makes tea I makes tea, as old mother Grogan said. And when I

makes water I makes water.

—By Jove, it is tea, Haines said.

Buck Mulligan went on hewing and wheedling:

—So I do, Mrs Cahill, says she. Begob, ma'am, says Mrs Cahill, God

send you don't make them in the one pot.

He lunged towards his messmates in turn a thick slice of bread, impaled

on his knife.

—That's folk, he said very earnestly, for your book, Haines. Five

lines of text and ten pages of notes about the folk and the fishgods of

Dundrum. Printed by the weird sisters in the year of the big wind.

He turned to Stephen and asked in a fine puzzled voice, lifting his

brows:

—Can you recall, brother, is mother Grogan's tea and water pot spoken

of in the Mabinogion or is it in the Upanishads?

—I doubt it, said Stephen gravely.

—Do you now? Buck Mulligan said in the same tone. Your reasons, pray?

—I fancy, Stephen said as he ate, it did not exist in or out of the

Mabinogion. Mother Grogan was, one imagines, a kinswoman of Mary Ann.

Buck Mulligan's face smiled with delight.

—Charming! he said in a finical sweet voice, showing his white teeth

and blinking his eyes pleasantly. Do you think she was? Quite charming!

Then, suddenly overclouding all his features, he growled in a hoarsened

rasping voice as he hewed again vigorously at the loaf:

—For old Mary Ann

She doesn't care a damn.

But, hising up her petticoats...

He crammed his mouth with fry and munched and droned.

The doorway was darkened by an entering form.

—The milk, sir!

—Come in, ma'am, Mulligan said. Kinch, get the jug.

An old woman came forward and stood by Stephen's elbow.

—That's a lovely morning, sir, she said. Glory be to God.

—To whom? Mulligan said, glancing at her. Ah, to be sure!

Stephen reached back and took the milkjug from the locker.

—The islanders, Mulligan said to Haines casually, speak frequently of

the collector of prepuces.

—How much, sir? asked the old woman.

—A quart, Stephen said.

He watched her pour into the measure and thence into the jug rich white

milk, not hers. Old shrunken paps. She poured again a measureful and

a tilly. Old and secret she had entered from a morning world, maybe

a messenger. She praised the goodness of the milk, pouring it out.

Crouching by a patient cow at daybreak in the lush field, a witch on her

toadstool, her wrinkled fingers quick at the squirting dugs. They lowed

about her whom they knew, dewsilky cattle. Silk of the kine and poor old

woman, names given her in old times. A wandering crone, lowly form of

an immortal serving her conqueror and her gay betrayer, their common

cuckquean, a messenger from the secret morning. To serve or to upbraid,

whether he could not tell: but scorned to beg her favour.

—It is indeed, ma'am, Buck Mulligan said, pouring milk into their cups.

—Taste it, sir, she said.

He drank at her bidding.

—If we could live on good food like that, he said to her somewhat

loudly, we wouldn't have the country full of rotten teeth and rotten

guts. Living in a bogswamp, eating cheap food and the streets paved with

dust, horsedung and consumptives' spits.

—Are you a medical student, sir? the old woman asked.

—I am, ma'am, Buck Mulligan answered.

—Look at that now, she said.

Stephen listened in scornful silence. She bows her old head to a voice

that speaks to her loudly, her bonesetter, her medicineman: me she

slights. To the voice that will shrive and oil for the grave all there

is of her but her woman's unclean loins, of man's flesh made not in

God's likeness, the serpent's prey. And to the loud voice that now bids

her be silent with wondering unsteady eyes.

—Do you understand what he says? Stephen asked her.

—Is it French you are talking, sir? the old woman said to Haines.

Haines spoke to her again a longer speech, confidently.

—Irish, Buck Mulligan said. Is there Gaelic on you?

—I thought it was Irish, she said, by the sound of it. Are you from the

west, sir?

—I am an Englishman, Haines answered.

—He's English, Buck Mulligan said, and he thinks we ought to speak

Irish in Ireland.

—Sure we ought to, the old woman said, and I'm ashamed I don't speak

the language myself. I'm told it's a grand language by them that knows.

—Grand is no name for it, said Buck Mulligan. Wonderful entirely. Fill

us out some more tea, Kinch. Would you like a cup, ma'am?

—No, thank you, sir, the old woman said, slipping the ring of the

milkcan on her forearm and about to go.

Haines said to her:

—Have you your bill? We had better pay her, Mulligan, hadn't we?

Stephen filled again the three cups.

—Bill, sir? she said, halting. Well, it's seven mornings a pint at

twopence is seven twos is a shilling and twopence over and these three

mornings a quart at fourpence is three quarts is a shilling. That's a

shilling and one and two is two and two, sir.

Buck Mulligan sighed and, having filled his mouth with a crust thickly

buttered on both sides, stretched forth his legs and began to search his

trouser pockets.

—Pay up and look pleasant, Haines said to him, smiling.

Stephen filled a third cup, a spoonful of tea colouring faintly the

thick rich milk. Buck Mulligan brought up a florin, twisted it round in

his fingers and cried:

—A miracle!

He passed it along the table towards the old woman, saying:

—Ask nothing more of me, sweet. All I can give you I give.

Stephen laid the coin in her uneager hand.

—We'll owe twopence, he said.

—Time enough, sir, she said, taking the coin. Time enough. Good

morning, sir.

She curtseyed and went out, followed by Buck Mulligan's tender chant:

—Heart of my heart, were it more,

More would be laid at your feet.

He turned to Stephen and said:

—Seriously, Dedalus. I'm stony. Hurry out to your school kip and bring

us back some money. Today the bards must drink and junket. Ireland

expects that every man this day will do his duty.

—That reminds me, Haines said, rising, that I have to visit your

national library today.

—Our swim first, Buck Mulligan said.

He turned to Stephen and asked blandly:

—Is this the day for your monthly wash, Kinch?

Then he said to Haines:

—The unclean bard makes a point of washing once a month.

—All Ireland is washed by the gulfstream, Stephen said as he let honey

trickle over a slice of the loaf.

Haines from the corner where he was knotting easily a scarf about the

loose collar of his tennis shirt spoke:

—I intend to make a collection of your sayings if you will let me.

Speaking to me. They wash and tub and scrub. Agenbite of inwit.

Conscience. Yet here's a spot.

—That one about the cracked lookingglass of a servant being the symbol

of Irish art is deuced good.

Buck Mulligan kicked Stephen's foot under the table and said with warmth

of tone:

—Wait till you hear him on Hamlet, Haines.

—Well, I mean it, Haines said, still speaking to Stephen. I was just

thinking of it when that poor old creature came in.

—Would I make any money by it? Stephen asked.

Haines laughed and, as he took his soft grey hat from the holdfast of

the hammock, said:

—I don't know, I'm sure.

He strolled out to the doorway. Buck Mulligan bent across to Stephen and

said with coarse vigour:

—You put your hoof in it now. What did you say that for?

—Well? Stephen said. The problem is to get money. From whom? From the

milkwoman or from him. It's a toss up, I think.

—I blow him out about you, Buck Mulligan said, and then you come along

with your lousy leer and your gloomy jesuit jibes.

—I see little hope, Stephen said, from her or from him.

Buck Mulligan sighed tragically and laid his hand on Stephen's arm.

—From me, Kinch, he said.

In a suddenly changed tone he added:

—To tell you the God's truth I think you're right. Damn all else they

are good for. Why don't you play them as I do? To hell with them all.

Let us get out of the kip.

He stood up, gravely ungirdled and disrobed himself of his gown, saying

resignedly:

—Mulligan is stripped of his garments.

He emptied his pockets on to the table.

—There's your snotrag, he said.

And putting on his stiff collar and rebellious tie he spoke to them,

chiding them, and to his dangling watchchain. His hands plunged and

rummaged in his trunk while he called for a clean handkerchief. God,

we'll simply have to dress the character. I want puce gloves and

green boots. Contradiction. Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I

contradict myself. Mercurial Malachi. A limp black missile flew out of

his talking hands.

—And there's your Latin quarter hat, he said.

Stephen picked it up and put it on. Haines called to them from the

doorway:

—Are you coming, you fellows?

—I'm ready, Buck Mulligan answered, going towards the door. Come out,

Kinch. You have eaten all we left, I suppose. Resigned he passed out

with grave words and gait, saying, wellnigh with sorrow:

—And going forth he met Butterly.

Stephen, taking his ashplant from its leaningplace, followed them out

and, as they went down the ladder, pulled to the slow iron door and

locked it. He put the huge key in his inner pocket.

At the foot of the ladder Buck Mulligan asked:

—Did you bring the key?

—I have it, Stephen said, preceding them.

He walked on. Behind him he heard Buck Mulligan club with his heavy

bathtowel the leader shoots of ferns or grasses.

—Down, sir! How dare you, sir!

Haines asked:

—Do you pay rent for this tower?

—Twelve quid, Buck Mulligan said.

—To the secretary of state for war, Stephen added over his shoulder.

They halted while Haines surveyed the tower and said at last:

—Rather bleak in wintertime, I should say. Martello you call it?

—Billy Pitt had them built, Buck Mulligan said, when the French were on

the sea. But ours is the omphalos.

—What is your idea of Hamlet? Haines asked Stephen.

—No, no, Buck Mulligan shouted in pain. I'm not equal to Thomas Aquinas

and the fiftyfive reasons he has made out to prop it up. Wait till I

have a few pints in me first.

He turned to Stephen, saying, as he pulled down neatly the peaks of his

primrose waistcoat:

—You couldn't manage it under three pints, Kinch, could you?

—It has waited so long, Stephen said listlessly, it can wait longer.

—You pique my curiosity, Haines said amiably. Is it some paradox?

—Pooh! Buck Mulligan said. We have grown out of Wilde and paradoxes.

It's quite simple. He proves by algebra that Hamlet's grandson is

Shakespeare's grandfather and that he himself is the ghost of his own

father.

—What? Haines said, beginning to point at Stephen. He himself?

Buck Mulligan slung his towel stolewise round his neck and, bending in

loose laughter, said to Stephen's ear:

—O, shade of Kinch the elder! Japhet in search of a father!

—We're always tired in the morning, Stephen said to Haines. And it is

rather long to tell.

Buck Mulligan, walking forward again, raised his hands.

—The sacred pint alone can unbind the tongue of Dedalus, he said.

—I mean to say, Haines explained to Stephen as they followed, this

tower and these cliffs here remind me somehow of Elsinore. That beetles

o'er his base into the sea, isn't it?

Buck Mulligan turned suddenly for an instant towards Stephen but did

not speak. In the bright silent instant Stephen saw his own image in

cheap dusty mourning between their gay attires.

—It's a wonderful tale, Haines said, bringing them to halt again.

Eyes, pale as the sea the wind had freshened, paler, firm and prudent.

The seas' ruler, he gazed southward over the bay, empty save for the

smokeplume of the mailboat vague on the bright skyline and a sail

tacking by the Muglins.

—I read a theological interpretation of it somewhere, he said bemused.

The Father and the Son idea. The Son striving to be atoned with the

Father.

Buck Mulligan at once put on a blithe broadly smiling face. He looked

at them, his wellshaped mouth open happily, his eyes, from which he had

suddenly withdrawn all shrewd sense, blinking with mad gaiety. He moved

a doll's head to and fro, the brims of his Panama hat quivering, and

began to chant in a quiet happy foolish voice:

—I'm the queerest young fellow that ever you heard.

My mother's a jew, my father's a bird.

With Joseph the joiner I cannot agree.

So here's to disciples and Calvary.

He held up a forefinger of warning.

—If anyone thinks that I amn't divine

He'll get no free drinks when I'm making the wine

But have to drink water and wish it were plain

That i make when the wine becomes water again.

He tugged swiftly at Stephen's ashplant in farewell and, running forward

to a brow of the cliff, fluttered his hands at his sides like fins or

wings of one about to rise in the air, and chanted:

—Goodbye, now, goodbye! Write down all I said

And tell Tom, Dick and Harry I rose from the dead.

What's bred in the bone cannot fail me to fly

And Olivet's breezy... Goodbye, now, goodbye!

He capered before them down towards the fortyfoot hole, fluttering his

winglike hands, leaping nimbly, Mercury's hat quivering in the fresh

wind that bore back to them his brief birdsweet cries.

Haines, who had been laughing guardedly, walked on beside Stephen and

said:

—We oughtn't to laugh, I suppose. He's rather blasphemous. I'm not a

believer myself, that is to say. Still his gaiety takes the harm out of

it somehow, doesn't it? What did he call it? Joseph the Joiner?

—The ballad of joking Jesus, Stephen answered.

—O, Haines said, you have heard it before?

—Three times a day, after meals, Stephen said drily.

—You're not a believer, are you? Haines asked. I mean, a believer in

the narrow sense of the word. Creation from nothing and miracles and a

personal God.

—There's only one sense of the word, it seems to me, Stephen said.

Haines stopped to take out a smooth silver case in which twinkled a

green stone. He sprang it open with his thumb and offered it.

—Thank you, Stephen said, taking a cigarette.

Haines helped himself and snapped the case to. He put it back in his

sidepocket and took from his waistcoatpocket a nickel tinderbox, sprang

it open too, and, having lit his cigarette, held the flaming spunk

towards Stephen in the shell of his hands.

—Yes, of course, he said, as they went on again. Either you believe

or you don't, isn't it? Personally I couldn't stomach that idea of a

personal God. You don't stand for that, I suppose?

—You behold in me, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a horrible

example of free thought.

He walked on, waiting to be spoken to, trailing his ashplant by his

side. Its ferrule followed lightly on the path, squealing at his heels.

My familiar, after me, calling, Steeeeeeeeeeeephen! A wavering line

along the path. They will walk on it tonight, coming here in the dark.

He wants that key. It is mine. I paid the rent. Now I eat his salt

bread. Give him the key too. All. He will ask for it. That was in his

eyes.

—After all, Haines began...

Stephen turned and saw that the cold gaze which had measured him was not

all unkind.

—After all, I should think you are able to free yourself. You are your

own master, it seems to me.

—I am a servant of two masters, Stephen said, an English and an

Italian.

—Italian? Haines said.

A crazy queen, old and jealous. Kneel down before me.

—And a third, Stephen said, there is who wants me for odd jobs.

—Italian? Haines said again. What do you mean?

—The imperial British state, Stephen answered, his colour rising, and

the holy Roman catholic and apostolic church.

Haines detached from his underlip some fibres of tobacco before he

spoke.

—I can quite understand that, he said calmly. An Irishman must think

like that, I daresay. We feel in England that we have treated you rather

unfairly. It seems history is to blame.

The proud potent titles clanged over Stephen's memory the triumph

of their brazen bells: et unam sanctam catholicam et apostolicam

ecclesiam: the slow growth and change of rite and dogma like his own

rare thoughts, a chemistry of stars. Symbol of the apostles in the

mass for pope Marcellus, the voices blended, singing alone loud in

affirmation: and behind their chant the vigilant angel of the church

militant disarmed and menaced her heresiarchs. A horde of heresies

fleeing with mitres awry: Photius and the brood of mockers of

whom Mulligan was one, and Arius, warring his life long upon the

consubstantiality of the Son with the Father, and Valentine, spurning

Christ's terrene body, and the subtle African heresiarch Sabellius who

held that the Father was Himself His own Son. Words Mulligan had spoken

a moment since in mockery to the stranger. Idle mockery. The void

awaits surely all them that weave the wind: a menace, a disarming and a

worsting from those embattled angels of the church, Michael's host,

who defend her ever in the hour of conflict with their lances and their

shields.

Hear, hear! Prolonged applause. Zut! Nom de Dieu!

—Of course I'm a Britisher, Haines's voice said, and I feel as one. I

don't want to see my country fall into the hands of German jews either.

That's our national problem, I'm afraid, just now.

Two men stood at the verge of the cliff, watching: businessman, boatman.

—She's making for Bullock harbour.

The boatman nodded towards the north of the bay with some disdain.

—There's five fathoms out there, he said. It'll be swept up that way

when the tide comes in about one. It's nine days today.

The man that was drowned. A sail veering about the blank bay waiting

for a swollen bundle to bob up, roll over to the sun a puffy face,

saltwhite. Here I am.

They followed the winding path down to the creek. Buck Mulligan stood on

a stone, in shirtsleeves, his unclipped tie rippling over his shoulder.

A young man clinging to a spur of rock near him, moved slowly frogwise

his green legs in the deep jelly of the water.

—Is the brother with you, Malachi?

—Down in Westmeath. With the Bannons.

—Still there? I got a card from Bannon. Says he found a sweet young

thing down there. Photo girl he calls her.

—Snapshot, eh? Brief exposure.

Buck Mulligan sat down to unlace his boots. An elderly man shot up near

the spur of rock a blowing red face. He scrambled up by the stones,

water glistening on his pate and on its garland of grey hair, water

rilling over his chest and paunch and spilling jets out of his black

sagging loincloth.

Buck Mulligan made way for him to scramble past and, glancing at Haines

and Stephen, crossed himself piously with his thumbnail at brow and lips

and breastbone.

—Seymour's back in town, the young man said, grasping again his spur of

rock. Chucked medicine and going in for the army.

—Ah, go to God! Buck Mulligan said.

—Going over next week to stew. You know that red Carlisle girl, Lily?

—Yes.

—Spooning with him last night on the pier. The father is rotto with

money.

—Is she up the pole?

—Better ask Seymour that.

—Seymour a bleeding officer! Buck Mulligan said.

He nodded to himself as he drew off his trousers and stood up, saying

tritely:

—Redheaded women buck like goats.

He broke off in alarm, feeling his side under his flapping shirt.

—My twelfth rib is gone, he cried. I'm the Uebermensch. Toothless

Kinch and I, the supermen.

He struggled out of his shirt and flung it behind him to where his

clothes lay.

—Are you going in here, Malachi?

—Yes. Make room in the bed.

The young man shoved himself backward through the water and reached

the middle of the creek in two long clean strokes. Haines sat down on a

stone, smoking.

—Are you not coming in? Buck Mulligan asked.

—Later on, Haines said. Not on my breakfast.

Stephen turned away.

—I'm going, Mulligan, he said.

—Give us that key, Kinch, Buck Mulligan said, to keep my chemise flat.

Stephen handed him the key. Buck Mulligan laid it across his heaped

clothes.

—And twopence, he said, for a pint. Throw it there.

Stephen threw two pennies on the soft heap. Dressing, undressing. Buck

Mulligan erect, with joined hands before him, said solemnly:

—He who stealeth from the poor lendeth to the Lord. Thus spake

Zarathustra.

His plump body plunged.

—We'll see you again, Haines said, turning as Stephen walked up the

path and smiling at wild Irish.

Horn of a bull, hoof of a horse, smile of a Saxon.

—The Ship, Buck Mulligan cried. Half twelve.

—Good, Stephen said.

He walked along the upwardcurving path.

Liliata rutilantium.

Turma circumdet.

Iubilantium te virginum.

The priest's grey nimbus in a niche where he dressed discreetly. I will

not sleep here tonight. Home also I cannot go.

A voice, sweettoned and sustained, called to him from the sea. Turning

the curve he waved his hand. It called again. A sleek brown head, a

seal's, far out on the water, round.

Usurper.

—You, Cochrane, what city sent for him?

—Tarentum, sir.

—Very good. Well?

—There was a battle, sir.

—Very good. Where?

The boy's blank face asked the blank window.

Fabled by the daughters of memory. And yet it was in some way if not as

memory fabled it. A phrase, then, of impatience, thud of Blake's wings

of excess. I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppling

masonry, and time one livid final flame. What's left us then?

—I forget the place, sir. 279 B. C.

—Asculum, Stephen said, glancing at the name and date in the

gorescarred book.

—Yes, sir. And he said: Another victory like that and we are done

for.

That phrase the world had remembered. A dull ease of the mind. From

a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his officers,

leaned upon his spear. Any general to any officers. They lend ear.

—You, Armstrong, Stephen said. What was the end of Pyrrhus?

—End of Pyrrhus, sir?

—I know, sir. Ask me, sir, Comyn said.

—Wait. You, Armstrong. Do you know anything about Pyrrhus?

A bag of figrolls lay snugly in Armstrong's satchel. He curled them

between his palms at whiles and swallowed them softly. Crumbs adhered to

the tissue of his lips. A sweetened boy's breath. Welloff people, proud

that their eldest son was in the navy. Vico road, Dalkey.

—Pyrrhus, sir? Pyrrhus, a pier.

All laughed. Mirthless high malicious laughter. Armstrong looked round

at his classmates, silly glee in profile. In a moment they will laugh

more loudly, aware of my lack of rule and of the fees their papas pay.

—Tell me now, Stephen said, poking the boy's shoulder with the book,

what is a pier.

—A pier, sir, Armstrong said. A thing out in the water. A kind of a

bridge. Kingstown pier, sir.

Some laughed again: mirthless but with meaning. Two in the back bench

whispered. Yes. They knew: had never learned nor ever been innocent.

All. With envy he watched their faces: Edith, Ethel, Gerty, Lily. Their

likes: their breaths, too, sweetened with tea and jam, their bracelets

tittering in the struggle.

—Kingstown pier, Stephen said. Yes, a disappointed bridge.

The words troubled their gaze.

—How, sir? Comyn asked. A bridge is across a river.

For Haines's chapbook. No-one here to hear. Tonight deftly amid wild

drink and talk, to pierce the polished mail of his mind. What then? A

jester at the court of his master, indulged and disesteemed, winning a

clement master's praise. Why had they chosen all that part? Not wholly

for the smooth caress. For them too history was a tale like any other

too often heard, their land a pawnshop.

Had Pyrrhus not fallen by a beldam's hand in Argos or Julius Caesar not

been knifed to death. They are not to be thought away. Time has

branded them and fettered they are lodged in the room of the infinite

possibilities they have ousted. But can those have been possible seeing

that they never were? Or was that only possible which came to pass?

Weave, weaver of the wind.

—Tell us a story, sir.

—O, do, sir. A ghoststory.

—Where do you begin in this? Stephen asked, opening another book.

--Weep no more, Comyn said.

—Go on then, Talbot.

—And the story, sir?

—After, Stephen said. Go on, Talbot.

A swarthy boy opened a book and propped it nimbly under the breastwork

of his satchel. He recited jerks of verse with odd glances at the text:

—Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more

For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,

Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor...

It must be a movement then, an actuality of the possible as possible.

Aristotle's phrase formed itself within the gabbled verses and floated

out into the studious silence of the library of Saint Genevieve where he

had read, sheltered from the sin of Paris, night by night. By his elbow

a delicate Siamese conned a handbook of strategy. Fed and feeding brains

about me: under glowlamps, impaled, with faintly beating feelers: and

in my mind's darkness a sloth of the underworld, reluctant, shy of

brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds. Thought is the thought of

thought. Tranquil brightness. The soul is in a manner all that is: the

soul is the form of forms. Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form of

forms.

Talbot repeated:

—Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,

Through the dear might...

—Turn over, Stephen said quietly. I don't see anything.

—What, sir? Talbot asked simply, bending forward.

His hand turned the page over. He leaned back and went on again, having

just remembered. Of him that walked the waves. Here also over these

craven hearts his shadow lies and on the scoffer's heart and lips and

on mine. It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a coin of the

tribute. To Caesar what is Caesar's, to God what is God's. A long

look from dark eyes, a riddling sentence to be woven and woven on the

church's looms. Ay.

Riddle me, riddle me, randy ro.

My father gave me seeds to sow.

Talbot slid his closed book into his satchel.

—Have I heard all? Stephen asked.

—Yes, sir. Hockey at ten, sir.

—Half day, sir. Thursday.

—Who can answer a riddle? Stephen asked.

They bundled their books away, pencils clacking, pages rustling.

Crowding together they strapped and buckled their satchels, all gabbling

gaily:

—A riddle, sir? Ask me, sir.

—O, ask me, sir.

—A hard one, sir.

—This is the riddle, Stephen said:

The cock crew,

The sky was blue:

The bells in heaven

Were striking eleven.

'Tis time for this poor soul

To go to heaven.

What is that?

—What, sir?

—Again, sir. We didn't hear.

Their eyes grew bigger as the lines were repeated. After a silence

Cochrane said:

—What is it, sir? We give it up.

Stephen, his throat itching, answered:

—The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush.

He stood up and gave a shout of nervous laughter to which their cries

echoed dismay.

A stick struck the door and a voice in the corridor called:

—Hockey!

They broke asunder, sidling out of their benches, leaping them. Quickly

they were gone and from the lumberroom came the rattle of sticks and

clamour of their boots and tongues.

Sargent who alone had lingered came forward slowly, showing an open

copybook. His thick hair and scraggy neck gave witness of unreadiness

and through his misty glasses weak eyes looked up pleading. On his

cheek, dull and bloodless, a soft stain of ink lay, dateshaped, recent

and damp as a snail's bed.

He held out his copybook. The word Sums was written on the headline.

Beneath were sloping figures and at the foot a crooked signature with

blind loops and a blot. Cyril Sargent: his name and seal.

—Mr Deasy told me to write them out all again, he said, and show them

to you, sir.

Stephen touched the edges of the book. Futility.

—Do you understand how to do them now? he asked.

—Numbers eleven to fifteen, Sargent answered. Mr Deasy said I was to

copy them off the board, sir.

—Can you do them yourself? Stephen asked.

—No, sir.

Ugly and futile: lean neck and thick hair and a stain of ink, a snail's

bed. Yet someone had loved him, borne him in her arms and in her heart.

But for her the race of the world would have trampled him underfoot,

a squashed boneless snail. She had loved his weak watery blood drained

from her own. Was that then real? The only true thing in life? His

mother's prostrate body the fiery Columbanus in holy zeal bestrode.

She was no more: the trembling skeleton of a twig burnt in the fire,

an odour of rosewood and wetted ashes. She had saved him from being

trampled underfoot and had gone, scarcely having been. A poor soul

gone to heaven: and on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red reek

of rapine in his fur, with merciless bright eyes scraped in the earth,

listened, scraped up the earth, listened, scraped and scraped.

Sitting at his side Stephen solved out the problem. He proves by algebra

that Shakespeare's ghost is Hamlet's grandfather. Sargent peered askance

through his slanted glasses. Hockeysticks rattled in the lumberroom: the

hollow knock of a ball and calls from the field.

Across the page the symbols moved in grave morrice, in the mummery of

their letters, wearing quaint caps of squares and cubes. Give hands,

traverse, bow to partner: so: imps of fancy of the Moors. Gone too from

the world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien and movement,

flashing in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of the world, a

darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not comprehend.

—Do you understand now? Can you work the second for yourself?

—Yes, sir.

In long shaky strokes Sargent copied the data. Waiting always for a word

of help his hand moved faithfully the unsteady symbols, a faint hue of

shame flickering behind his dull skin. Amor matris: subjective and

objective genitive. With her weak blood and wheysour milk she had fed

him and hid from sight of others his swaddling bands.

Like him was I, these sloping shoulders, this gracelessness. My

childhood bends beside me. Too far for me to lay a hand there once or

lightly. Mine is far and his secret as our eyes. Secrets, silent, stony

sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their

tyranny: tyrants, willing to be dethroned.

The sum was done.

—It is very simple, Stephen said as he stood up.

—Yes, sir. Thanks, Sargent answered.

He dried the page with a sheet of thin blottingpaper and carried his

copybook back to his bench.

—You had better get your stick and go out to the others, Stephen said

as he followed towards the door the boy's graceless form.

—Yes, sir.

In the corridor his name was heard, called from the playfield.

—Sargent!

—Run on, Stephen said. Mr Deasy is calling you.

He stood in the porch and watched the laggard hurry towards the scrappy

field where sharp voices were in strife. They were sorted in teams and

Mr Deasy came away stepping over wisps of grass with gaitered feet. When

he had reached the schoolhouse voices again contending called to him. He

turned his angry white moustache.

—What is it now? he cried continually without listening.

—Cochrane and Halliday are on the same side, sir, Stephen said.

—Will you wait in my study for a moment, Mr Deasy said, till I restore

order here.

And as he stepped fussily back across the field his old man's voice

cried sternly:

—What is the matter? What is it now?

Their sharp voices cried about him on all sides: their many forms closed

round him, the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of his illdyed head.

Stale smoky air hung in the study with the smell of drab abraded leather

of its chairs. As on the first day he bargained with me here. As it was

in the beginning, is now. On the sideboard the tray of Stuart coins,

base treasure of a bog: and ever shall be. And snug in their spooncase

of purple plush, faded, the twelve apostles having preached to all the

gentiles: world without end.

A hasty step over the stone porch and in the corridor. Blowing out his

rare moustache Mr Deasy halted at the table.

—First, our little financial settlement, he said.

He brought out of his coat a pocketbook bound by a leather thong. It

slapped open and he took from it two notes, one of joined halves, and

laid them carefully on the table.

—Two, he said, strapping and stowing his pocketbook away.

And now his strongroom for the gold. Stephen's embarrassed hand moved

over the shells heaped in the cold stone mortar: whelks and money

cowries and leopard shells: and this, whorled as an emir's turban, and

this, the scallop of saint James. An old pilgrim's hoard, dead treasure,

hollow shells.

A sovereign fell, bright and new, on the soft pile of the tablecloth.

—Three, Mr Deasy said, turning his little savingsbox about in his hand.

These are handy things to have. See. This is for sovereigns. This is for

shillings. Sixpences, halfcrowns. And here crowns. See.

He shot from it two crowns and two shillings.

—Three twelve, he said. I think you'll find that's right.

—Thank you, sir, Stephen said, gathering the money together with shy

haste and putting it all in a pocket of his trousers.

—No thanks at all, Mr Deasy said. You have earned it.

Stephen's hand, free again, went back to the hollow shells. Symbols too

of beauty and of power. A lump in my pocket: symbols soiled by greed and

misery.

—Don't carry it like that, Mr Deasy said. You'll pull it out somewhere

and lose it. You just buy one of these machines. You'll find them very

handy.

Answer something.

—Mine would be often empty, Stephen said.

The same room and hour, the same wisdom: and I the same. Three times

now. Three nooses round me here. Well? I can break them in this instant

if I will.

—Because you don't save, Mr Deasy said, pointing his finger. You don't

know yet what money is. Money is power. When you have lived as long as I

have. I know, I know. If youth but knew. But what does Shakespeare say?

Put but money in thy purse.

—Iago, Stephen murmured.

He lifted his gaze from the idle shells to the old man's stare.

—He knew what money was, Mr Deasy said. He made money. A poet, yes, but

an Englishman too. Do you know what is the pride of the English? Do you

know what is the proudest word you will ever hear from an Englishman's

mouth?

The seas' ruler. His seacold eyes looked on the empty bay: it seems

history is to blame: on me and on my words, unhating.

—That on his empire, Stephen said, the sun never sets.

—Ba! Mr Deasy cried. That's not English. A French Celt said that. He

tapped his savingsbox against his thumbnail.

—I will tell you, he said solemnly, what is his proudest boast. I paid

my way.

Good man, good man.

—I paid my way. I never borrowed a shilling in my life. Can you feel

that? I owe nothing. Can you?

Mulligan, nine pounds, three pairs of socks, one pair brogues, ties.

Curran, ten guineas. McCann, one guinea. Fred Ryan, two shillings.

Temple, two lunches. Russell, one guinea, Cousins, ten shillings, Bob

Reynolds, half a guinea, Koehler, three guineas, Mrs MacKernan, five

weeks' board. The lump I have is useless.

—For the moment, no, Stephen answered.

Mr Deasy laughed with rich delight, putting back his savingsbox.

—I knew you couldn't, he said joyously. But one day you must feel it.

We are a generous people but we must also be just.

—I fear those big words, Stephen said, which make us so unhappy.

Mr Deasy stared sternly for some moments over the mantelpiece at the

shapely bulk of a man in tartan filibegs: Albert Edward, prince of

Wales.

—You think me an old fogey and an old tory, his thoughtful voice said.

I saw three generations since O'Connell's time. I remember the famine in

'46. Do you know that the orange lodges agitated for repeal of the

union twenty years before O'Connell did or before the prelates of your

communion denounced him as a demagogue? You fenians forget some things.

Glorious, pious and immortal memory. The lodge of Diamond in Armagh the

splendid behung with corpses of papishes. Hoarse, masked and armed, the

planters' covenant. The black north and true blue bible. Croppies lie

down.

Stephen sketched a brief gesture.

—I have rebel blood in me too, Mr Deasy said. On the spindle side. But

I am descended from sir John Blackwood who voted for the union. We are

all Irish, all kings' sons.

—Alas, Stephen said.

—Per vias rectas, Mr Deasy said firmly, was his motto. He voted for

it and put on his topboots to ride to Dublin from the Ards of Down to do

so.

Lal the ral the ra

The rocky road to Dublin.

A gruff squire on horseback with shiny topboots. Soft day, sir John!

Soft day, your honour!... Day!... Day!... Two topboots jog dangling

on to Dublin. Lal the ral the ra. Lal the ral the raddy.

—That reminds me, Mr Deasy said. You can do me a favour, Mr Dedalus,

with some of your literary friends. I have a letter here for the press.

Sit down a moment. I have just to copy the end.

He went to the desk near the window, pulled in his chair twice and read

off some words from the sheet on the drum of his typewriter.

—Sit down. Excuse me, he said over his shoulder, the dictates of

common sense. Just a moment.

He peered from under his shaggy brows at the manuscript by his elbow

and, muttering, began to prod the stiff buttons of the keyboard slowly,

sometimes blowing as he screwed up the drum to erase an error.

Stephen seated himself noiselessly before the princely presence. Framed

around the walls images of vanished horses stood in homage, their meek

heads poised in air: lord Hastings' Repulse, the duke of Westminster's

Shotover, the duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, prix de Paris, 1866. Elfin

riders sat them, watchful of a sign. He saw their speeds, backing king's

colours, and shouted with the shouts of vanished crowds.

—Full stop, Mr Deasy bade his keys. But prompt ventilation of this

allimportant question...

Where Cranly led me to get rich quick, hunting his winners among the

mudsplashed brakes, amid the bawls of bookies on their pitches and reek

of the canteen, over the motley slush. Fair Rebel! Fair Rebel! Even

money the favourite: ten to one the field. Dicers and thimbleriggers

we hurried by after the hoofs, the vying caps and jackets and past

the meatfaced woman, a butcher's dame, nuzzling thirstily her clove of

orange.

Shouts rang shrill from the boys' playfield and a whirring whistle.

Again: a goal. I am among them, among their battling bodies in a medley,

the joust of life. You mean that knockkneed mother's darling who seems

to be slightly crawsick? Jousts. Time shocked rebounds, shock by shock.

Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the frozen deathspew of the slain,

a shout of spearspikes baited with men's bloodied guts.

—Now then, Mr Deasy said, rising.

He came to the table, pinning together his sheets. Stephen stood up.

—I have put the matter into a nutshell, Mr Deasy said. It's about

the foot and mouth disease. Just look through it. There can be no two

opinions on the matter.

May I trespass on your valuable space. That doctrine of laissez faire

which so often in our history. Our cattle trade. The way of all our old

industries. Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme.

European conflagration. Grain supplies through the narrow waters of

the channel. The pluterperfect imperturbability of the department of

agriculture. Pardoned a classical allusion. Cassandra. By a woman who

was no better than she should be. To come to the point at issue.

—I don't mince words, do I? Mr Deasy asked as Stephen read on.

Foot and mouth disease. Known as Koch's preparation. Serum and virus.

Percentage of salted horses. Rinderpest. Emperor's horses at Murzsteg,

lower Austria. Veterinary surgeons. Mr Henry Blackwood Price. Courteous

offer a fair trial. Dictates of common sense. Allimportant question. In

every sense of the word take the bull by the horns. Thanking you for the

hospitality of your columns.

—I want that to be printed and read, Mr Deasy said. You will see at the

next outbreak they will put an embargo on Irish cattle. And it can

be cured. It is cured. My cousin, Blackwood Price, writes to me it is

regularly treated and cured in Austria by cattledoctors there. They

offer to come over here. I am trying to work up influence with

the department. Now I'm going to try publicity. I am surrounded by

difficulties, by... intrigues by... backstairs influence by...

He raised his forefinger and beat the air oldly before his voice spoke.

—Mark my words, Mr Dedalus, he said. England is in the hands of the

jews. In all the highest places: her finance, her press. And they are

the signs of a nation's decay. Wherever they gather they eat up the

nation's vital strength. I have seen it coming these years. As sure

as we are standing here the jew merchants are already at their work of

destruction. Old England is dying.

He stepped swiftly off, his eyes coming to blue life as they passed a

broad sunbeam. He faced about and back again.

—Dying, he said again, if not dead by now.

The harlot's cry from street to street

Shall weave old England's windingsheet.

His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly across the sunbeam in which

he halted.

—A merchant, Stephen said, is one who buys cheap and sells dear, jew or

gentile, is he not?

—They sinned against the light, Mr Deasy said gravely. And you can see

the darkness in their eyes. And that is why they are wanderers on the

earth to this day.

On the steps of the Paris stock exchange the goldskinned men quoting

prices on their gemmed fingers. Gabble of geese. They swarmed loud,

uncouth about the temple, their heads thickplotting under maladroit silk

hats. Not theirs: these clothes, this speech, these gestures. Their full

slow eyes belied the words, the gestures eager and unoffending, but

knew the rancours massed about them and knew their zeal was vain. Vain

patience to heap and hoard. Time surely would scatter all. A hoard

heaped by the roadside: plundered and passing on. Their eyes knew their

years of wandering and, patient, knew the dishonours of their flesh.

—Who has not? Stephen said.

—What do you mean? Mr Deasy asked.

He came forward a pace and stood by the table. His underjaw fell

sideways open uncertainly. Is this old wisdom? He waits to hear from me.

—History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.

From the playfield the boys raised a shout. A whirring whistle: goal.

What if that nightmare gave you a back kick?

—The ways of the Creator are not our ways, Mr Deasy said. All human

history moves towards one great goal, the manifestation of God.

Stephen jerked his thumb towards the window, saying:

—That is God.

Hooray! Ay! Whrrwhee!

—What? Mr Deasy asked.

—A shout in the street, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders.

Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings of his nose tweaked

between his fingers. Looking up again he set them free.

—I am happier than you are, he said. We have committed many errors and

many sins. A woman brought sin into the world. For a woman who was no

better than she should be, Helen, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten

years the Greeks made war on Troy. A faithless wife first brought the

strangers to our shore here, MacMurrough's wife and her leman, O'Rourke,

prince of Breffni. A woman too brought Parnell low. Many errors, many

failures but not the one sin. I am a struggler now at the end of my

days. But I will fight for the right till the end.

For Ulster will fight

And Ulster will be right.

Stephen raised the sheets in his hand.

—Well, sir, he began...

—I foresee, Mr Deasy said, that you will not remain here very long

at this work. You were not born to be a teacher, I think. Perhaps I am

wrong.

—A learner rather, Stephen said.

And here what will you learn more?

Mr Deasy shook his head.

—Who knows? he said. To learn one must be humble. But life is the great

teacher.

Stephen rustled the sheets again.

—As regards these, he began.

—Yes, Mr Deasy said. You have two copies there. If you can have them

published at once.

Telegraph. Irish Homestead.

—I will try, Stephen said, and let you know tomorrow. I know two

editors slightly.

—That will do, Mr Deasy said briskly. I wrote last night to Mr Field,

M.P. There is a meeting of the cattletraders' association today at the

City Arms hotel. I asked him to lay my letter before the meeting. You

see if you can get it into your two papers. What are they?

—The Evening Telegraph...

—That will do, Mr Deasy said. There is no time to lose. Now I have to

answer that letter from my cousin.

—Good morning, sir, Stephen said, putting the sheets in his pocket.

Thank you.

—Not at all, Mr Deasy said as he searched the papers on his desk. I

like to break a lance with you, old as I am.

—Good morning, sir, Stephen said again, bowing to his bent back.

He went out by the open porch and down the gravel path under the trees,

hearing the cries of voices and crack of sticks from the playfield.

The lions couchant on the pillars as he passed out through the gate:

toothless terrors. Still I will help him in his fight. Mulligan will dub

me a new name: the bullockbefriending bard.

—Mr Dedalus!

Running after me. No more letters, I hope.

—Just one moment.

—Yes, sir, Stephen said, turning back at the gate.

Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath.

—I just wanted to say, he said. Ireland, they say, has the honour of

being the only country which never persecuted the jews. Do you know

that? No. And do you know why?

He frowned sternly on the bright air.

—Why, sir? Stephen asked, beginning to smile.

—Because she never let them in, Mr Deasy said solemnly.

A coughball of laughter leaped from his throat dragging after it a

rattling chain of phlegm. He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing,

his lifted arms waving to the air.

—She never let them in, he cried again through his laughter as he

stamped on gaitered feet over the gravel of the path. That's why.

On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun flung

spangles, dancing coins.

Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought

through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn

and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen, bluesilver,

rust: coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane. 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. Limit of the diaphane in. Why

in? Diaphane, adiaphane. 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. 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, fell through the nebeneinander ineluctably! I am

getting on nicely in the dark. My ash sword hangs at my side. Tap with

it: they do. My two feet in his boots are at the ends of his legs,

nebeneinander. Sounds solid: made by the mallet of Los Demiurgos.

Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? Crush, crack, crick,

crick. Wild sea money. Dominie Deasy kens them a'. Won't you come to

Sandymount, Madeline the mare?

Rhythm begins, you see. I hear. Acatalectic tetrameter 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! 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:

and down the shelving shore flabbily, their splayed feet sinking in

the silted sand. Like me, like Algy, coming down to our mighty mother.

Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the other's gamp poked in

the beach. From the liberties, out for the day. Mrs Florence MacCabe,

relict of the late Patk MacCabe, 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.

Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon: Heva, 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.

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.

They clasped and sundered, did the coupler's will. From before the ages

He willed me and now may not will me away or ever. A lex eterna stays

about Him. Is that then the divine substance wherein Father and Son are

consubstantial? Where is poor dear Arius to try conclusions? Warring

his life long upon the contransmagnificandjewbangtantiality. Illstarred

heresiarch' 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.

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.

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!

I pull the wheezy bell of their shuttered cottage: and wait. They take

me for a dun, peer out from a coign of vantage.

—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

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. A bogoak frame over his

bald head: Wilde's Requiescat. The drone of his misleading whistle

brings Walter back.

—Yes, sir?

—Malt 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. 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 airs

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!

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. 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. For whom?

The hundredheaded rabble of the cathedral close. A hater of his kind

ran from them to the wood of madness, his mane foaming in the moon,

his eyeballs stars. Houyhnhnm, horsenostrilled. The oval equine

faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. Abbas

father,—furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? Paff!

Descende, calve, ut ne amplius decalveris. A garland of grey hair

on his comminated head see him me clambering down to the footpace

(descende!), clutching a monstrance, basiliskeyed. Get down, baldpoll!

A choir gives back menace and echo, assisting about the altar's 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.

Dringadring! And in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his own

cheek. Dringdring! Down, up, forward, back. Dan Occam 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. Isle of saints. 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! 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! 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 epiphanies written 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. Pico della Mirandola like. Ay, very

like a whale. 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, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in seafire under a

midden of man's ashes. He coasted them, walking warily. A porterbottle

stood up, stogged to its waist, in the cakey sand dough. A sentinel:

isle of dreadful thirst. 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.

—Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position?

—c'est le pigeon, Joseph.

Patrice, home on furlough, lapped warm milk with me in the bar MacMahon.

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.

—C'est tordant, vous savez. Moi, je suis socialiste. Je ne crois pas

en l'existence de Dieu. Faut pas le dire a mon p-re.

—Il croit?

—Mon pere, oui.

Schluss. He 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. Aha. Eating your groatsworth of mou en civet, fleshpots

of Egypt, elbowed by belching cabmen. Just say in the most natural

tone: when I was in Paris; boul' Mich', I 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. 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. Look clock. Must 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.

You were going to do wonders, what? Missionary to Europe after fiery

Columbanus. Fiacre and Scotus on their creepystools in heaven spilt from

their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: Euge! Euge! 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; a

blue French telegram, curiosity to show:

—Mother dying come home father.

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

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

farls 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 breton. Faces of Paris men go by, their wellpleased

pleasers, curled conquistadores.

Noon slumbers. Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes through fingers

smeared with printer's ink, sipping his green fairy as Patrice his

white. About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets. Un demi

setier! A jet of coffee steam from the burnished caldron. She serves me

at his beck. Il 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 that word? Postprandial.

There was a fellow I knew once in Barcelona, queer fellow, used to call

it his postprandial. Well: slainte! 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, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. 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, 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. The froeken,

bonne a tout faire, who rubs male nakedness in the bath at Upsala.

Moi faire, she said, Tous les messieurs. 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

tobaccoshreds 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.

Spurned lover. I was a strapping young gossoon 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, under the walls

of Clerkenwell 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 printingcase, 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 Pat you saw me, won't you? I wanted to

get poor Pat a job one time. Mon fils, 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. Goes like this. O, O. He takes me, Napper Tandy, by

the hand.

O, O THE BOYS OF

KILKENNY...

Weak wasting hand on mine. They have forgotten Kevin Egan, not he them.

Remembering thee, O Sion.

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 tower waits. Through the

barbacans 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. 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. 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.

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.

A bloated carcass of a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack. Before him the

gunwale of a boat, sunk in sand. Un coche ensablé Louis Veuillot

called Gautier's prose. These heavy sands are language tide and wind

have silted here. And these, 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 odz

an Iridzman.

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 Lochlanns ran here to beach, in quest of prey, their

bloodbeaked prows riding low on a molten pewter surf. Dane vikings,

torcs of tomahawks 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. 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. All kings' sons. Paradise of pretenders then and now. He saved

men from drowning 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. Natürlich, 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 sand 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. 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. At the lacefringe of

the tide he halted with stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. His

snout lifted barked at the wavenoise, herds of seamorse. They serpented

towards his feet, curling, unfurling many crests, every ninth, breaking,

plashing, from far, from farther out, waves and waves.

Cocklepickers. 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 lay on his path. He stopped, sniffed, stalked

round it, brother, nosing closer, went round it, sniffling 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! Out of that, 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 again his hindleg, pissed

quick short at an unsmelt rock. The simple pleasures of the poor. His

hindpaws then scattered the sand: then his forepaws dabbled and delved.

Something he buried there, his grandmother. 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, 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. 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. 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. Spoils slung at her back. Loose sand and

shellgrit crusted her bare feet. About her windraw face hair trailed.

Behind her lord, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville. 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! 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.

Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, frate porcospino.

Unfallen Adam rode and not rutted. Call away let him: thy quarrons

dainty is. Language no whit worse than his. Monkwords, marybeads jabber

on their girdles: roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their pockets.

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. A tide westering, moondrawn, in

her wake. Tides, myriadislanded, within her, blood not mine, oinopa

ponton, 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. 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.

Here. Put a pin in that chap, will you? My tablets. 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 moomb.

Oomb, allwombing tomb. His mouth moulded issuing breath, unspeeched:

ooeeehah: roar of cataractic planets, globed, blazing, roaring

wayawayawayawayaway. 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. 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.

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 Cloyne

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? 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 to write. Keen glance you gave her. Wrist through the

braided jesse of her sunshade. She lives in Leeson park with a grief

and kickshaws, a lady of letters. Talk that to someone 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. 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 pock his hat. His hat down on his eyes. That is

Kevin Egan's movement I made, nodding for his nap, sabbath sleep. Et

vidit Deus. Et erant valde bona. 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.

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!

Staunch friend, a brother soul: Wilde's love that dare not speak its

name. His arm: Cranly's arm. 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

greengoldenly 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 foampool, flower unfurling.

Under the upswelling tide he saw the writhing weeds lift languidly and

sway reluctant arms, hising up their petticoats, 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. 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. At one, he

said. Found drowned. High water at Dublin bar. Driving before it a loose

drift of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells. A corpse rising

saltwhite from the undertow, bobbing a pace a pace a porpoise landward.

There he is. Hook it quick. Pull. 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 gunwale he breathes

upward the stench of his green grave, his leprous nosehole snoring to

the sun.

A seachange this, brown eyes saltblue. Seadeath, mildest of all deaths

known to man. Old Father Ocean. Prix de paris: 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. No. My cockle hat and staff and

hismy sandal shoon. Where? 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, the rum tum tiddledy tum. Lawn

Tennyson, gentleman poet. Già. For the old hag with the yellow teeth.

And Monsieur Drumont, gentleman journalist. Già. My teeth are very

bad. Why, I wonder. Feel. That one is going too. Shells. Ought I go to a

dentist, I wonder, with that money? That one. This. 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. Moving through the

air high spars of a threemaster, her sails brailed up on the crosstrees,

homing, upstream, silently moving, a silent ship. +