Urbane, to comfort them, the quaker librarian purred:
— And we have, have we not, those priceless pages of Wilhelm Meister. A great poet on a great brother poet. A hesitating soul taking arms against a sea of troubles, torn by conflicting doubts as one sees in real life.
He made a step a sinkapace forward on creaking neatsleather and a step backward creaking a sinkapace on the solemn floor.
A noiseless attendant setting open the door but slightly made him a noiseless beck.
— Directly, he said, creaking to go, albeit lingering. The beautiful ineffectual dreamer who comes to grief against hard facts. One always feels that Goethe's judgments are so true. True in the larger analysis.
Twicreakingly analysis he corantoed off. Bald, zealous, by the door he gave his large ear all to the attendant's words. Heard them: and was gone.
— Monsieur de la Paliceº, Stephen sneered, was alive fifteen minutes before his death.
— Have you found those six brave medicals, John Eglinton asked with elder's gall, to write Paradise Lostº at your dictation.
Smile. Smile Cranly's smile.
First he tickled her,
Then he patted her
Then he passed the female catheter
For he was a medical
Jolly old medi
— I feel you would need one more for Hamlet. Seven is
dear is to the mystic mind. The shining seven WB calls them.
Glittereyed his rufous skull close to his greencapped desklamp sought the face bearded amid darkgreener shadow, an ollav, holyeyed. He laughed low: a sizar's laugh of Trinity: unanswered.
Orchestral Satan, weeping many a rood
Tears such as angels weep
Ed egli avea del cul fatto trombetta
He holds my follies hostage.
Cranly's eleven true Wicklowmen to free their sireland. Gaptoothed Kathleen her four beautiful green fields, the stranger in her house. And one to hail him: ave, rabbi: the Tinahely twelve. In the shadow of the glen he cooees for them. My Soul's youth I gave him, night by night. God speed. Good hunting.
Mulligan has my telegram.
— Our young Irish bards, John Eglinton censured, have yet to create a figure which the world will set beside Saxon Shakespeare's Hamlet though I admire him, as old Ben did, on this side idolatry.
— All these questions are purely academic, Russell said out of his shadow. I mean, if Hamlet is Shakespeare or James I or Essex. Clergymen's discussions of the historicity of Jesus. Art has to reveal to us ideas, formless spiritual essences. The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring. The painting of Gustave Moreau is the painting of ideas. The deepest poetry of Shelley, the words of Hamlet bring our minds into contact with the eternal wisdom, Plato's world of ideas. All the rest is the speculation of schoolboys for schoolboys.
Well, tarnation strike me. A.E has been telling an interviewer.
— The schoolmen were schoolboys once, Stephen said superpolitely. Aristotle was once Plato's prize schoolboy.
— And has remained so, one should hope, John Eglinton
sedately said. One can see him. A prize schoolboy with his diploma under his arm.
He laughed again at the now smiling bearded face.
Formless spiritual. Father, Son and Holy Breath. This verily is that. I am the fire upon the altar. I am the sacrificial butter.
Dunlop, Judge, the noblest Roman of them all, A. E. Arval in heaven
hight: K. H,
their master. Adepts of the great white lodge
always watching to see if they can
help. The Christ with the bridesister, moisture of light, born of a virgin, repentant sophia, departed to the plane of buddhi. Mrs Cooper Oakley once glimpsed our very illustrious sister H. P. B's elemental.
O, fie! Out on't! Pfuiteufel! You naughtn't to look, missus, so you naughtn't when a lady's ashowing of her elemental.
Mr Best entered, tall, young, mild, light. He bore in his hand with grace a notebook, new, large, clean, bright.
— That model schoolboy, Stephen said, would find Hamlet musings about his princely soul, the improbable, insignificant and undramatic monologue, as shallow as Plato's.
John Eglinton, frowning, said, waxing wroth:
— Upon my word it makes my blood boil to hear anyone compare Aristotle with Plato.
— Which of the two, Stephen asked, would have banished Shakespeare from his commonwealth.
Unsheathe your dagger definitions. Streams of tendency and eons they worship. God: noise in the street: very peripatetic. Space: what you damn well have to see. Through spaces smaller than red globules of man's blood they creepycrawl after Blake's buttocks into eternity of which this vegetable world is but a shadow. Hold to the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past.
Mr Best came forward, amiable, towards his colleague.
— Haines is gone, he said.
— Is he?
— I was showing him Jubainville's book. He's quite
enthusiastic, don't you know, about Hyde's Lovesongs of
Connacht. I couldn't bring him in to hear the discussion. He's gone to Gill's to buy it.
Bound thee, forth, my booklet quick
To greet the callous public,
Writ, I ween, 'twas not my wish
In lean unlovely English.
— The peatsmoke is going to his head, John Eglinton opined.
We feel in England. Penitent thief. Gone. I smoked his baccy. Green twinkling stone. An emerald set in the ring of the sea.
— People do not know how dangerous lovesongs can be, the
auric egg of Russell said occultly. The movements which work revolutions in the
world are born out of the dreams and visions in a peasant's heart on the hillside. For
them the earth is not an exploitable ground but the living mother. The rarefied air of the academy and the arena produce the sixshilling novel, the musichall song.º France produces the finest flower of corruption in Mallarmé but the desirable life is revealed only to the poor of heart, the life of Homer's Phaeecians.
From these words Mr Best turned an unoffending face to Stephen.
— Mallarmé, don't you know, he said, has written those wonderful prose poems Stephen MacKenna used to read to me in Paris. The one about Hamlet. He says: il se promène, lisant au livre de lui-même, don't you know, reading the book of himself. He describes Hamlet given in a French town, don't you know, a provincial town. They advertised it.
His free hand graciously wrote tiny signs in air.
pièce de Shakespeare
He repeated to John Eglinton's newgathered frown:
— Pièce de Shakespeare, don't you know. It's so French. The French point of view. Hamlet ou …
— The absentminded beggar, Stephen ended.
John Eglinton laughed.
— Yes, I suppose it would be, he said. Excellent people, no doubt, but distressingly shortsighted in some matters.
Sumptuous and stagnant exaggeration of murder.
— A deathsman of the soul Robert Greene called him, Stephen said. Not for nothing was he a butcher's son,º wielding the sledded poleaxe and spitting in his palms. Nine lives are taken off for his father's one.º Our Father who art in purgatoryº. Khaki Hamlets don't hesitate to shoot. The shambles in act five is a forecast of the concentration camp sung by Algy Swinburne.
Whelps and dams of murderous foes whom none
But we had spared …
— He will have it that Hamlet is a ghoststory, John Eglinton
said for Mr Best's behoof. Like the fat boy in Pickwick he wants to make our flesh creep.
List! List! O list!
My flesh hears him: creeping, hears.
If thou didst ever …
— What is a ghost? Stephen said with tingling energy. One who has faded into impalpability through death, through absence, through change of manners. Elizabethan London lay as far from Stratford as corrupt Paris lies from virgin Dublin. Who is the ghost, returning to the world that has forgotten him? Who is King Hamlet?
John Eglinton shifted his spare body, leaning back to judge.
— It is this hour of a June day, Stephen said, begging with a swift glance their hearing. The flag is up on the playhouse by the bankside. The bear Sackerson growls in the bearpit near it, Paris garden. Canvasclimbersº who sailed with Drake chew their sausages among the groundlings.
Local colour. Work in all you know. Make them accomplices.
— Shakespeare has left the huguenot's house in Silver street and walks by the swanmews along the riverbank. But he does not stay to feed the pen chivying her brood towards the rushes. The swan of Avon has other thoughts.
Composition of place. Ignatius Loyola, make haste to help me!
— The play begins. A player comes on under the shadow, clad in the castoff mail of a court buck, a wellset man with a bass voice. It is the ghost, King Hamlet: and the player is Shakespeare. He speaks the words of his part to Burbage, the young player who stands before him, calling him by a name,
Hamlet, I am thy father's spirit,
bidding him list. To a son he speaks, the son of his soul, the prince, young Hamlet and to the son of his body, Hamlet Shakespeare who has died in Stratford that his namesake may live for ever.
Isº it possible that that player Shakespeare, a ghost by absence, and in the vesture of the elder Hamlet, a ghost by death, speaking his own words to his own son's name (had Hamlet Shakespeare lived he would have been prince Hamlet's twin) is it possible or probable, I want to know, that he did not draw or foresee the logical conclusion of those premises? I am the murdered father: you are the dispossessed son: your mother is the guilty queen, Ann Shakespeare, born Hathaway?
— But this prying into the family life of a great man, Russell began impatiently.
Art thou there, truepenny?
— Interesting only to the parish clerk. I mean, we have the plays. I mean when we read the poetry of King Lear what is it to us how the poet lived? As for living our servants can do that for us, Villiers de l'Isle said. Peeping and prying into the greenroom gossip of the day, the poet's drinking, the poets' debts. We have King Lear. And it is immortal.
Mr Best's face,º appealed to, agreed.
Flow over them with your waves and with your waters, Mananaan,
Mananaan MacLir …..
By the way that pound he lent you when you were hungry?
I wanted it.
Take thou this noble.
You spent most of it in Georgina Johnson's bed, clergyman's daughter.
Do you intend to pay it back?
Well … No.
I paid my way. I paid my way.
Steady on. He's from north of Boyne water. You owe it.
Wait. Five months. Molecules all change. I am other I now. Other I got pound.
But I, entelechy, form of forms, am I by memory under everchanging forms.
I that sinned and prayed and fasted.
A child Conmee saved from pandies.
I, I and I.
A. E. I. O. U.
— Do you mean to fly in the face of the tradition of three
centuries, John Eglinton's carping voice asked. Her ghost at least has been
laid for ever. She died, for literature at least, before she was born.
— She died, Stephen retorted, sixtyseven years after she was born. She saw him into and out of the world. She took his first embraces. She bore and bred his children and she put pennies on his eyes to keep his eyelids closed when he lay on his deathbed.
Mother's deathbed. Candle. The sheeted mirror. Who brought me into this world lies there, bronzelidded, under few cheap flowers. Liliata rutilantium.
I wept alone.
John Eglinton looked in the tangled glowworm of his lamp.
— The world believes that Shakespeare made a mistake, he said, and got out of it as quickly and as best he could.
— Bosh! Stephen said rudely. A man of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are volitional and are the portals of discovery.
Portal of discovery opened to let in the quaker librarian, softcreakfooted, assiduous, bald and eared.
— A shrew, John Eglinton said shrewdly, is not a useful
portal of discovery, one should imagine. What useful discovery did Socrates learn from his wife Xanthippe?
— Dialectic, Stephen answered: and from his mother how to bring thought into the world. But neither the midwife's lore nor the caudlelectures saved him from the archons of Sinn Fein and their cup of hemlock.
— But Ann Hathaway? Mr Best's quiet voice said forgetfully. Yes, we seem to have forgotten her as Shakespeare himself forgot her.
His face went from brooder's beard to carper's skull, to remind, to chide them kindly, then to the pinkbald quaker pumpkin, guiltlessº though maligned.
— He had a good groatsworth of wit, Stephen said, and no truant memory. He carried a memory in his wallet as he trudged to Romeville whistling The Girl I left behind me. If the earthquake did not time Venus and Adonis we should know where to place poor Wat, sitting in his form; the studded bridle and her blue windows. That memory lay in the bedchamberº of every light-of-love in London. Is Katharine the shrew illfavoured? Hortensio calls her young and beautiful. Do you think the writer of Antony and Cleopatra, a passionate pilgrim, had his eyes in the back of his head that he chose the ugliest doxy in all Warwickshire to lie withal?º Good: he left her and gained the world of men: But his boywomen are the women of a boy. Their life, thought, speech are lent them by males. He chose badly? He was chosen, it seems to me. If others have their will Ann hath a way. By cock, she was to blame. She put the comether on him, sweet and twentysix. The goddess who bends over the boy Adonis is a boldfaced Stratford wench who tumbles in a cornfield a lover younger than herself.
And my turn? When?
— Ryefield, Mr Best said brightly, gladly, raising his new book, gladly, brightly.
He murmured then with blond delight for all:
— Betweenº the acres of the rye
These pretty countryfolk would lie
Paris: the wellpleased pleaser.
A tall figure in bearded homespun rose from its shadow and unchained its cooperative watch.
— I am afraid I am due at the Homestead.
Whither away? Exploitable ground.
— Are you going? John Eglinton's eyebrows asked. Shall we see you at Moore's tonight. Piper is coming.
— Piper! Mr Best said. Is Piper back?
Peter Piper pecked a peck of pick of peck of pickled pepper.
— I don't know if I can. Thursday. We have our meeting. If I can get away in time.
Yogibogeybox in Dawsons Chambers. Isis Unveiled. Their Pali book we tried to pawn. Crosslegged under an umbrel umbershoot he broods an Aztec logos, functioning on astral levels, mahamahatma. The faithful hermetists await the light, ringroundabout him. Louis, H. Victory. T. Caulfield Irwin. Lotus ladies watch the pineal glands aglow. Filled with his god, he thrones, Buddh under plantain. Gulfer of souls, engulfer. Hesouls, shesouls, shoals of souls. Engulfed with wailing creecries, whirled, whirling, they bewail.
In quintessential triviality
For years in this fleshcase a shesoul dwelt
— They say we are to have a literary surprise, the quaker librarian said, friendly and earnest Mr Russell, rumour has it, has gathered together a sheaf of our younger poets' verses. We are all looking forward anxiously.
Anxiously he glanced in the cone of lamplight where three lighted faces shone.
See this. Remember.
Stephen looked down on a wide headless caubeen, hung on his ashplant handle over his knee. My casque and sword.
Young Colum and Starkey. George Roberts is doing the commercial part.
Longworth will give it a good puff in the Express. O, will he? I liked
Colum's Drover. Yes, I think he has that queer thing genius. Do you
think he has genius really? Yeats admired his phrase as in wild earth a Grecian vase. Did he?
I hope you'll be able to come tonight. Malachi Mulligan is coming too. Moore asked him to bring Haines. Did you hear Miss Mitchell's joke about Moore and Martyn. That Moore is Martyn's wild oats? Awfully clever, isn't it? They remind one of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. Our national epic has yet to come. Moore is the man for it. A knight of the rueful countenance here in Dublin. With a saffron kilt? O'Neill Russell? O, yes, he must speak the grand old tongue. And his Dulcinea? James Stephens is doing some clever sketches. We are becoming important, it seems.
Cordelia. Cordoglio. Lir's loneliest daughter.
Now your best French polish.
— Thank you very much, Mr Russell, Stephen said, rising. If you will be so kind as to give the letter to Mr Norman …
— O, yes. If he considers it important of course it will go in. We have so much correspondence.
— I understand, Stephen said. Thank you.
The pigs' paper. Bullockbefriending.
Syngeº has promised me an article for Dana too. Are we going to be read? I feel we are. The Gaelic League wants something in Irish. I hope you will come round tonight. Bring Starkey.
Stephen sat down.
The quaker librarian came from the leavetakers. Blushing,º his mask said:
— Mr Dedalus, your views are most illuminating.
He creaked to and fro, tiptoing up the altitude of a chopine, and, covered by the noise of outgoing, said:
— Is it your view, then, that she was not faithful to the poet?
Alarmed face asks me. Why did he come? Courtesy or an inner light?
— Where there is a reconciliation, Stephen said, there must have been first a sundering.
Christfox in leather trews, hiding, a runaway in
treeforks from hue and cry. Knowing no vixen, walking lonely in the chase.
Women he won to him, tender people, a whore of Babylon, justices' ladies,
wives of tapsters. Fox and geese. And in New Place a slack dishonoured body that once
was comely, once as sweet, as fresh as cinnamon, now her leaves falling, all, bare, frighted of the narrow grave and unforgiven.
— Yes. So you think …
The door closed behind the outgoer.
Rest, suddenly, possessed the discreet vaulted cell, the rest of warm and brooding air.
A vestal's lamp.
Here he ponders things that were not: what Caesarº would have done had he believed the soothsayer: what might have been: possibilities of the possible as possible: on things not known: what name Achilles bore when he lived among women.
Coffined thoughts around me, in mummy cases, embalmed in spice of words. Thoth, god of libraries, a birdgod, moonycrowned. And I heard the voice of that Egyptian highpriest. In “painted chambers loaded with tilebooks”.
They are still. Once quick in the live brains of men. Still: but the itch of death is in them, to tell me in my ear a maudlin tale, urge me to wreak their will.
— Certainly, John Eglinton mused, of all great men he is the most enigmatic. We know nothing but that he lived and suffered. A shadow hangs over all the rest.
— But Hamletº is so personal, isn't it, Mr Best pleaded. I mean, a kind of personal private paper, don't you know, of his private life. I mean, I don't care a button, don't you know, who is killed or who is guilty …
He rested an innocent book, smiling his defiance, on the edge of the desk. His private papers. Ta an bad ar an tir. Taim in mo sagart. In my priest. Littlejohn, put beurlaº on it.
Littlejohn Eglinton said:
— I was prepared for paradoxes from what Malachi Mulligan told me but I may as well warn you that if you want to shake my belief that Shakespeare is Hamlet you have a stern task before you.
Bear with me.
Stephen withstood the bane of miscreant eyes glinting from under stern wrinkled brows. Basilisk eyes. E quando vede l'uomo l'attosca. Messer Brunetto, I thank thee for the word.
— As we, or Dana,
weave and unweave
our bodies, Stephen said, from day to day, their molecules shuttled to and
fro, so does the artist
weave and unweave
his image. And as the mole on my right shoulder is where it was when I was
born, though all my body has been woven of new stuff time after time, so through
the ghost of the unquiet father the image of the unliving son looks forth. In
the intense instant of imagination, wherein the mind, Shelley says, is a fading
coal,º that which I was is that which I am and that which in
possibility I shall come to be. So, in the future, sister of the past, I see that I shall see
myself as I sit here now today but by reflection from that which then I shall be.
Drummond of Hawthornden helped you at that stile.
Has the wrong sow by the ear.
— That mole is the last to go, Stephen said, laughing.
— If that were the birthmark of genius, John Eglinton said with a sour mow, genius would be a drug in the market. The plays of Shakespeare's later years which Renan admired so much breathe another spirit.
— The spirit of reconciliation, the quaker librarian said appeasingly.
— There can be no reconciliation, Stephen said, if there has not been a sundering.
— If you want to know what are the events which cast their shadow over the period of King Lear, Othello, Hamlet,º Troilus and Cressida look to see when and how the shadow lifts. What softens the heart of a man, shipwrecked in life's storms, tried, like another Ulysses, Pericles, prince of Tyre?
Head, redconecapped, buffeted, brineblinded.
— A child, a girl, placed in his arms, Marina.
— The leaning of sophists towards the bypaths of apocrypha is a constant quantity, John Eglinton detected. The highroads are dreary but they lead to the town.
Good Bacon: smoked musty. Cypherjugglers going the highroads. What town, good masters? Mummed in names: A. E, eon: Magee, John Eglinton. East of the sun, west of the moon: Tir nan Og. Booted the twain and staved.
How many miles to Dublin?
Three score and ten, sir.
Will we be there by candlelight?
— Mr Brandes accepts it, Stephen said, as the first play of the closing period.
— Does he? What does Mr Sidney Lee, or Mr Simon Lazarus as some aver his name is, say of it?
— Marina, Stephen said, a child of storm, Miranda, a wonder,
Perdita, that which was lost. What was lost is given back to him: his daughter's child.
dearest wife, Pericles says, was like this maid. Will any man love the daughter if he has not loved the mother?
— The art of being a grandfather, Mr Best murmured.
— Will he not see reborn in her, with the memory of his own youth added, another image?
Do you know what you are talking about? Love, yes. Word known to all men. Amor vero aliquid alicui bonum vult unde et ea quae concupiscimus …
— His own image to a man with that queer thing genius is the standard of all experience, material and moral. Such an appeal will touch him. The images of other males of his brood will repel him. He will see in them grotesque attempts of nature to foretell or to repeat himself.
The benign forehead of the quaker librarian enkindled rosily with hope.
— I hope Mr Dedalus will work out his theory for the enlightenment of the public. And we ought to mention another Irish commentator Mr Frank Harris. His articles on Shakespeare in the Saturday Review were surely brilliant. Oddly enough he too draws for us an unhappy relation with the dark lady of the sonnets. The favoured rival is William Herbert, earl of Pembroke. I own that if the poet is to be rejectedº such a rejection would seem more in harmony with — what shall I say? — our notions of what ought not to have been.
Felicitously he ceased and held a meek head among them, auk's egg, prize of their fray.
He thous her with grave husbandwords. Dost love, Miriam? Dost love thy man?
— That may be too, Stephen said. There is a saying of Goethe's which Mr Magee likes to quote. Beware of what you wish for in youth because you will get it in middle life. Why does he send to one who is a buonaroba, a bay where all men ride, a maid of honour with a scandalous girlhood, a lordling to woo for him. He was himself a lord of language and had made himself a coistrel gentleman and he had written Romeo and Juliet. Why? Belief in himself has been untimely killed. He was overborne in a cornfield first, (aº ryefield, I should say) and he will never be a victor in his own eyes after. Nor play victoriously the game of laugh and lie down. Assumed dongiovannism will not save him. No later undoing will undo the first undoing. If the shrew is worsted there remains to her woman's invisible weapon. There is, I feel in the words, some goad of the flesh driving him into a new passion, a darker shadow of the first, darkening also his own understanding of himself. A like fate awaits him and the double rages commingle in a whirlpool.
They listen. And in the porches of their ears I pour.
— Those who are done to death in sleep cannot know the
manner of their quell unless the creator endows their souls with that
knowledge in the life to come. The soul has been before stricken mortally, a poison poured in the porch of a sleeping ear. The poisoning and the lust that urged it the ghost of King Hamlet could not know of were it not endowed with knowledge by its creator. That is why the speech is always turned elsewhere, backward. Ravisher and ravished go with him from Lucrece to Imogen. He goes back, weary of the creation he has piled up to hide himself from himself, to lick his sore. But, because loss is his gain, he passes on towards eternity in undiminished personality, untaught by the wisdom he has uttered or by the laws he has revealed. His beaver is up. He is a ghost a shadow now or the wind around Elsinore's rocks or the sea's voice, a voice heard only in the heart of him who is the substance of his shadow, the son consubstantial with the father.
— Amen! was responded from the doorway.
Hast thou found me, O mine enemy?
A ribald face, sullen an instant, Buck Mulligan came forward, blithe in his motley towards the greeting of their smiles. My telegram.
— You were speaking of the gaseous vertebrate if I mistake not? he asked of Stephen.
Primrosevested he greeted gaily with his doffed Panama as with a bauble.
They make him welcome.
Brood of mockers: Photius, pseudo Malachiº, Johann Most.
He Who Himself begot middles the Holy Ghost and Himself sent Himself, agenbuyer, between Himself and others, Who, put upon by His fiends, stripped and whipped, was nailed like a bat on a barndoor, starved on crosstree, Who let Him bury, stood up, harrowed hell, fared into heaven and there these nineteen hundred years sitteth on the right hand of His Own Self but yet shall come in the latter day to doom the quick and dead when all the quick shall be dead already.
Glo-ria in ex-cel-sis De-o.
He lifts his hands. Veils fall. O, flowers! Bells with bells with bells aquiring.
— Yes, indeed, the quaker librarian said. A most interesting
discussion. Mr Mulligan, I'll be bound, has his theory too of the play and
of Shakespeare. All sides of life should be represented.
He smiled on all sides equally.
Buck Mulligan, thought, puzzled:
— Shakespeare? he said. I seem to know the name.
A flying sunny smile rayed in his loose features.
— To be sure, he said, remembering brightly. The chap that writes like Synge.
Mr Best turned to him.
— Haines missed you, he said. Did you meet him? He'll meet you after at the D. B. C. He's gone to Gill's to buy Hyde's Lovesongs of Connacht.
— I came through the museum, Buck Mulligan said. Was he here?
— The bard's fellowcountrymen, John Eglinton answered, are rather tired perhaps of our brilliancies of theorising. I hear that an actress is playing Hamlet in Dublin. Has no-one made him out to be an Irishman? He swears by saint Patrick.
— The most brilliant of all is that story of Wilde's, Mr Best said, lifting his brilliant notebook. That Portrait of Mr W.H. where he proves that the sonnets were written by a Willie Hughes, a man all hues.
— For Willie Hughes, is it not? the quaker librarian asked.
Or Hughy Wills?
— I mean, for Willie Hughes, Mr Best said, amending his gloss easily. Of course it's all paradox, don't you know, Hughes and hews and hues, the colour, but it's so typical the way he works it out. It's the very essence of Wilde, don't you know. The light touch.
His glance touched their faces lightly as he smiled, a blond ephebe. Tame essence of Wilde.
You're damn witty. Three drams of usquebaugh you drank with Dan Deasy's ducats.
How much did I spend. O, few shillings.
For a plump of pressmen. Humour wet and dry.
Witty. You would give your five wits for his youth's proud livery,
the lineaments of gratified desire.
Take her for me. In pairing time. Yea, turtledove her.
Eve. O naked wheatbellied sin. A snakeº coils her. Fang in's kiss.
— Do you think it is only a paradox? the quaker librarian was asking. The mocker is never taken seriously when he is serious.
They talked seriously of mocker's seriousness.
Buck Mulligan's again heavy face eyed Stephen awhile. Then, shaking his head
, he came near, drew a folded telegram from his pocket. His mobile lips read, smiling with new delight.
— Telegram! heº said. Wonderful inspiration! Telegram! A papal bull!
He sat on a corner of the unlit desk, reading aloud joyfully:
— The sentimentalist is he who would enjoy without incurring the immense debtorship for a thing done. Signed: Dedalus. Where did you launch it from. The kips? No. College Green. Have you drunk the four quid? Telegram! Malachi Mulligan, Theº Ship, Middle Abbey Street. O, you peerless mummer! O, you priestified Kinchite!
Joyfully he thrust message and envelope into his pocket but crooned in a querulous brogue:
— It's what I'm telling you, mister honey, it's queer and sick we were, Haines and myself, the time himself brought it in. And we one hour and two hours and three hours in Connery's sitting civil waiting for pints apiece. He wailed softly: And we to be there and you to be unbeknownst sending your conglomerations the way we to have our tongues out a yard long like the drouthy clerics do be fainting for a pussful.
Quickly and warningfully Buck Mulligan bent down.
— The tramper Synge is looking for you, he said, to murder you. He heard you pissed on his halldoor in Glasthule. He's out to murder you in pampooties.
— Me! Stephen exclaimed. That was your contribution to literature.
Buck Mulligan gleefully bent back, laughing up at the dark eavesdropping ceiling.
— Murder you! he laughed.
face that warred against over our mess of hash of
lights in rue Saint André des Arts. In words of words for words, palabras. Oisin with Patrick. Faunman he met in Clamart woods, brandishing a winebottle. C'est vendredi saint! His image, wandering, he met. I mine. I met a fool i'the forest.
— Mr Lyster, an attendant said with the door ajar.
— … in which everyone can find his own. So Mr Justice Madden in his Diary of Master Williamº Silence has found the hunting terms … Yes? What is it?
— There's a gentleman here, sir, the attendant said,
coming forward and offering a card. From the Freeman. He wants to see the
files of the Kilkenny People for last year.
— Certainly, certainly, certainly. Is the gentleman …?º
He took the eager card, glanced, not saw, laid down unglanced looked, asked, creaked, asked:
— Is he …?º O, there!
Brisk as a galliard he was off, out. In the daylit corridor he talked with all the pains of zeal in duty bound, most fair, most kind, most honest broadbrim.
— This gentleman? Freeman's Journal? Kilkenny People?º To be sure. Good day, sir. Kilkenny … We have certainly …
A patient silhouette waited, listening.
— Allº the leading provincial. Northern Whig. Cork Examiner. Enniscorthy Guardian.º Last year. 1903 … Will you please … Evans, conduct this gentleman … If you just follow the atten … Or, please allow me … This way … Please, sir …
Voluble, dutiful, he led the way all the principal papers, a bowing figure following his hasty heels.
The door closed.
— The sheeny! Buck Mulligan cried.º
He jumped up and snatched the card.
— What's his name? Ikey Moses? Bloom.
He rattled on:º
— Jehovah, collector of prepuces, is no more. I found him over in the museum whereº I went to hail the foamborn Aphrodite. The Greek mouth that has never been twisted in prayer. Every day we must do homage to her. Life of life, thy lips enkindle …
Suddenly he turned to Stephen.
— He knows you, he said. He knows your old fellow. O, I fear
me, he is Greeker than the Greeks. His pale Galilean eyes were upon her fatty parts. Venus
Callipyge, the world's desire. O, the thunder of those loins! The god pursuing,º the maiden hid.
— We want to hear more, John Eglinton decided with Mr Best's approval. We begin to be interested in Mrs S. Till now we had thought of her, if at all, as a patient Griselda, a Penelope stay-at-home.
— Antisthenes, pupil of Gorgias, Stephen said, took the palm
of beauty from Kyrios Menelaus' broodmare, Argive Helen, and handed it to
poor Penelope. Twenty years he lived in London and, during part of that time, he
drew a salary equal to that of the lord chancellor of Ireland. His life was
rich. His art, more than the art of feudalism as Walt Whitman called it, is the
art of surfeit. Hot herringpies, green mugs of sack, honeysauces, gooseberried
Walter Raleigh, when they arrested him, had half a million francs on his back. The gombeenwoman
Eliza Tudor had underlinen enough to vie with her of Sheba. Twenty years he dallied there. You know Bannington's story of the burgher's wife who bade Dick Burbage to her bed after she had seen him in Richard III and how Shakespeare took the cow by the horns and, when Burbage knocked, answered from the blankets “William the conqueror came first”. And mistress Fitton, mount and cry O, and his dainty birdsnies, lady Penelope Rich, and the punks of the bankside a penny a time.
Cours la Reine
Encore vingt sous. Nous ferons des petites cochonneries. Minette? Tu veux?
— The height of fine society. And sir William Davenant of Oxford's mother with her cup of canary for any cock canary.
Buck Mulligan prayed with pious eyes:
— Blessed Margaret Mary Anycock!
— And Harry of six wives' daughter. And other lady friends from neighbour seats as Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet, has it. But all those twenty years what do you suppose poor Penelope in Stratford was doing behind the diamond panes?
Do and do. Thing done. Thing done. In A rosery of Fetter
laneº of Gerard, herbalist, he walks,
greyedauburn. An azured harebell like her veins. Violets, the lids of
Juno's eyes. He walks. One life is all. One body. Do. But do. Afar, in a
reek of lust, in squalor, hands are laid on whiteness.
Buck Mulligan rapped John Eglinton's desk sharply.
— Whom do you suspect? he said.
— Say that he is the spurned lover in the sonnets. Once spurned twice spurned. But the court wanton spurned him for a lord, dear my love.
Love that dare not speak its name.
— As an Englishman, you mean, John sturdy Eglinton put in, he loved a lord.
Old wall where sudden lizards flash. At Charenton I watched them.
— It seems so, Stephen said, when he wants to do for him, and for all other and singular uneared wombs, the office an ostler does for the stallion. Maybe, like Socrates, he had a midwife to mother as he had a shrew to wife. But she, the wanton, did not break a bedvow. Two deeds are rank in that ghost's mind a broken vow and the dullbrained yokel on whom her favour has declined. Sweet Anne,º I take it, was hot in the blood. Once a wooer, twice a wooer.
Stephen turned boldly in his chair.
— The burden of proof is with you not with me, he said frowning. If you deny that in the blank scene in Hamlet he has branded her with infamy tell me why there is no mention of her during the thirtyfour years between the day he married her and the day she buried him. O,º yes, there is. In the years when he was living richly in royal London to pay a debt she had to borrow five bob from her father's shepherd. Explain you then. Explain the swansong too wherein he has commended her to posterity.
He faced their silence.
To whom thus Eglinton: Youº mean the will.
But that has been explained, I believe, by jurists.
She was entitled to her widow's dower
At common law. His legal knowledge was great
Our judges tell us.
Him Satan fleers,
And therefore he left out her name
From the first draft but he did not leave out
The presents for his granddaughter, for his daughters,
For his sister, for his old cronies in Stratford
And in London. And therefore when he was urged,
As I believe, to name her
He left her his
— Pretty countryfolk had few chattles then, John Eglinton observed, as they have still if our peasant plays are true to type.
— He was a rich country gentleman, Stephen said, with a coat of arms and landed estate. Why did he not leave her his best bed if he wished her to snore away the rest of her nights in peace?
— It is clear that there were two beds, Mr Best said finely.
— Separatio a mensa et a thalamo, said Buck Mulligan and was smiled on.
— Antiquity mentions famous beds, John Eglinton puckered,
bedsmiling.º Let me think.
— Do you mean he died so? Mr Best asked with concern. I mean …
— He died dead drunk, Buck Mulligan stated. A quart of ale is a dish for a king.º O, I must tell you what Dowden said!
— What? asked Besteglinton.
William Shakespeare and company, limited. The people's William. For terms apply: Edward Dowden, Highfield house …
— Lovely! Buck Mulligan suspired amorously. I asked him what he thought of the charge of pederasty brought against the bard. He lifted his hands and said: All we can say is that life ran very high in those days. Lovely!
— The sense of beauty leads us astray, Mr Best with some sadness said.
Will they wrest from us, from me,º the palm of beauty?
— And the sense of property, Stephen said. He drew Shylock
out of his own long pocket. The son of a maltjobber and moneylender he was
himself a cornjobber and moneylender, with ten tods of corn hoarded in famine
years. His borrowers are no doubt the unread divers of worship mentioned by Chettle Falstaff who reported his uprightness of dealing. He sued a fellowplayer for the price of a few bags of malt and exacted his pound of flesh in interest for every money lent. How can could Aubrey's ostler and callboy get rich quick? All events brought grist to his mill. Shylock chimes with the jewbaiting that followed the hanging and quartering of the queen's leech Lopez, his jew's heart being plucked forth while the sheeny was yet alive: Hamlet and Macbeth with the coming to the throne of a Scotch philosophaster with a turn for witchroasting. The lost armada is his jeer in Love's Labour Lost. His pageants, the histories, sail fullbellied on a tide of Mafeking enthusiasm. His sugared sonnets follow Sidney'sº. As for the gross virgin who inspired the Merry Wives of Windsor let her be. A Meinherr from Almany will be her champion.
I think you're getting on very nicely. Just mix up a mixture of mixed
theolololigical philolol. Mingo, minxi, mictum, mingere.
— Prove that he was a jew, John Eglinton dared, expectantly. Your dean of studies holds he was a holy Roman.
— He was made in Germany, Stephen replied, as the champion French polisher of Italian scandals.
— A myriadminded man, Mr Best reminded. Coleridge called him myriadminded.
Amplius. In societate humana hoc est maxime necessarium ut sit amicitia inter multos.
— Saint Thomas, Stephen began …
— Ora pro nobis, Buck Mulligan groaned, sinking to a chair.
He keened to a rune.
— It's destroyed we are from this day, It's destroyed we are surely.
— Saint Thomas, Stephen smiling said, writing of incest from
a standpoint different from that of the Viennese school Mr Magee spoke of,
likens it in his wise and curious way to an avarice of the emotions. He means
that the love so given to one near in blood is covetously withheld from a
stranger who, it may be, hungers for it. Jews, whom christians tax with avarice,
are of all races the most given to intermarriage. But accusations are made in anger. The christian laws
which built up the hoards of the jews (for, like the lollards, storm was their shelter) bound their affections too with hoops of steel. Whether these be sins or virtues old Nobodaddy will tell us at the doomsday leet. But a man who holds so tightly to what he calls his rights over what he calls his debts will hold tightly also to what he calls his rights over her whom he calls his wife. No sir smile neighbour shall covet his ox or his wife or his manservant or his maidservant or his jackass.
— Or jennyass, Buck Mulligan antiphoned.
— Gentle Willº is being roughly handled, gently Mr Best said gently.
— Which will?º asked Buck Mulligan. We are getting mixed.
— The will to live, John Eglinton philosophised. Poor Ann, Will's widow, is the will to die.
— Requiescat, Stephen said.
She lies laid out in stark stiffness in that secondbest bed even though you prove that a bed in those days was as rare as a motorcar is now and that its carvings were the wonder of seven parishes. In old age she takes up with gospellers (one stayed with her at New Place and drank a quart of sack the town council paid for but in which bed he slept it skills not) and heard she had a soul. Venus has twisted her lips in prayer. Agenbite of inwit, remorse of conscience. It is an age of exhausted whoredom groping for its god.
— That appears to be true, John Eglinton said, chronolologos. The ages succeed one another. But it has been said that a man's worst enemies shall be those of his own house and family. I feel that A. E. is right. What do we care for his wife or father?º I should say that only family poets have family lives. Falstaff was not a family man. I feel that the fat knight is his supreme creation.
Lean, he lay back. Shy, deny thy kindred, the unco guid.
Shy,º supping with blasphemers, he sneaks
the cup. A sire in Ultonian Antrim bade it him. Visits him here at quarter
tense. Mr Magee, sir, there's a gentleman to see you. Me? Says he's
your father, sir. Give me a Wordsworth. Enter Magee Mor Matthew, a rugged,
rough, rugheaded kern, his nether socks signed with clauber of ten forests, a wilding in his hand.
Your own? He knows your old fellow.
Hurrying to her squalid deathlair from gay Paris on the quayside I touched his hand. The voice, new warmth, speaking. Dr Bob Kenny is attending her. The eyes that wish me well. But do not know me.
— A father, Stephen said, battling with against
hopelessness, is a necessary evil. He wrote the play in the months that followed
his father's death. If you hold that he, a greying man with two
marriageable daughters with thirty five years of life, nel mezzo del cammin, and
fifty of experience is the beardless undergraduate from
Wittenbergº then you must hold that his
seventyyear old mother is the lustful queen. No. The corpse of John Shakespeare
does not walk the night. From hour to hour he rots and rots. He rests,
disarmed of fatherhood, having devised that mystical estate upon his son. Boccaccio's Calandrino was the first and last man who felt himself with child. Fatherhood, in the sense of conscious begetting, is unknown to man. It is a mystical estate, an apostolic succession, from only begetter to only begotten. On this mystery and not on the madonna whom the cunning Italian intellect flung to the mob of Europe the church is founded and founded irremovably because founded, like the world, macro and microcosm, upon the void. Upon incertitude, upon unlikelihood.º Amor matris, subjective and objective genitive, may be the only true thing in life. Paternity may be a legal fiction. Who is the father of any son that any son should love him or he any son?
What the hell are you driving at?
I know. Shut up. Blast you. I have reasons.
Amplius. Adhuc. Rursus. Postea.
Are you condemned to do this?
— They are sundered by bodily shame so steadfast that the criminal annals of the world, stained with all other incests and bestialities do not record its breach. Sons with mothers, sires with daughters, nephews with grandmothers, queens with prize bulls. The unborn son mars beauty, born, he brings pain, divides affection, increases care. He is a new male: his growth is his father's decline, his youth his father's envy, his friend his father's enemy.
What links them in nature? An instant of blind rut.
Am I a father? If I were?
Shrunken uncertain hand.
— Sabellius, the African, subtlest of heresiarchs held that
the Father was Himself His Own Son. The bulldog of Aquin, with whom no word
shall be impossible, refutes him. Well, if the father who has
not a son be not a father can the son who has not a father be a son? When Rutland-Bacon-Southampton-Shakespeare wrote Hamlet he was not the father of his own son merely but being no more a son, he was and felt himself the father of all his race, the father of his own grandfather, the father of his unborn grandson who, by the same token, never was born for nature, as Mr Magee understands her, abhors perfection.
Eglintoneyes, quick with pleasure, looked up shybrightly.
Flatter. Rarely. But flatter.
— Himself his own father, Buck Mulligan told himself. Wait. I am big with child. I have an unborn child in Minerv my brain. Pallas Athena! A play! The play's the thing! Let me parturiate!
He clasped his paunchbrow with both birthaiding hands.
— As for his family, Stephen said, his mother's name lives in the forest of Arden. Her death brought from him the scene with Volumnia in Coriolanus. His boyson's death the deathscene of prince Arthur in King John. Hamlet The black prince is Hamlet Shakespeare. Who the girls are in The Tempest, in Pericles, in Winter's Tale we know. who Venus and who Cressid we may guess. But there is another member of his family who is recorded.
— The plot thickens, John Eglinton said.
The quaker librarian here quaking tiptoed in, quake, his mask, quake, with haste, quake, quack.
Closed door. Cell. Day.
They list. Three. They.
I you he they.
He had three brothers, Gilbert, Edmund, Richard. Gilbert in his old age told some cavaliers he seen his brud wud a man on his back in a play one time. The playhouse sausage filled Gilbert's soul. An Edmund and a Richard are recorded in the plays of William.
Names! What's in a name?
That is my name, Richard. I hope you are going to say something favourably about Richard, for my sake, don't you know.
(piano, piano diminuendo)
There once was a medical Dick
Who possessed a phenomenal — stick
Though burly and blunt …
In his trinity of stagevillains Richard Crookback, Iago, Edmund in King Lear, two bear his brothers' names. Nay, that play was written or being written while his brother Edmund was dying in Southwark.
I thank providence there was no brother John.
I hope Edmund is going to catch it. I don't want Richard, my name …
But he that filches from me my good name …
He has hidden his own name in the plays, a super here, a clown there, as a painter in old Italy put his face in a dark corner of his canvas. He has revealed it in the sonnets where there is will in overplus. Like John o' Gauntº his name is dear to him, as dear as the coat and crest he toadied for, dearer than his glory of the greatest shakescene in the country. What's in his name? That is what we ask ourselves in childhood when we write the name that we are told is ours. A star, a star shining by day, a firedrake, rose at his birth. It shone by day in the heavens alone and by night it shone over delta in Cassiopeia, the recumbent constellation which is the signature of his initial among the stars. Pillar of cloud and pillar of fire, eh? His eyes watched it, lowlying on the horizon, eastward of the bear, as he walked by the slumberous summer fields at midnight returning from Shottery and from her arms.
Both satisfied. I too.
Wait to be wooed and won. Ay, imbecile. Who would woo you?
Read the skies. Autontimorumenos. Bous Stephanoumenos. Where's your configuration? S. D: sua donna. Già: di lui. Gelindo risolve di non amare S. D.
— What is that, Mr Dedalus? the quaker librarian asked. Was it a celestial phenomenon?
What more's to say?
Stephen looked on his hat, his stick, his boots.
My crown. My sword. His boots are spoiling the shape of my feet. Buy a pair. Holes in my socks.
— You make good use of the name, John Eglinton allowed. Your own is strange enough. I suppose it explains your fantastical humour.
Me, Magee and Mulligan.
Fabulous artificer. The hawklike man. You flew. Whereto? Newhaven-Dieppe, steerage passenger. Paris and back. Lapwing. Icarus. Pater, ait. Seabedabbled, fallen, weltering. Lapwing you are. Lapwing be.
Mr Best eagerquietly lifted his book to say:
— That's very interesting because that brother motive, don't you know, we find also in the old Irish myths. Just what you say. The three brothers Shakespeare. In Grimm too, don't you know, the fairytale. The third brother that marries the sleeping beauty and gets the best prize always.
Best of Best brothers. Good, better, best.
The quaker librarian came anear.
— I should like to know, he said, which brother you … I understand you to suggest there was misconduct with one of the brothers … But perhaps I am anticipating?
He caught himself in the act: looked at all: refrained.
An attendant from the doorway called:
— Mr Lyster! Father Dineenº wants …
— O, Father Dineen! Directly.
Swiftly rectly creaking rectly rectly rectly he was rectly gone.
John Eglinton touched the foil.
— Come, he said. Let us hear what you have to say of Richard and Edmund. You kept them for the last, didn't you?
— In asking you to remember nuncle Richie
and nuncle Edmund, Stephen answered, I feel I am asking too much perhaps. A brother is as easily forgotten as an umbrella.
Where is your brother? Apothecaries' Hall. My whetstone. Him, then Cranly, Mulligan: now these. Speech, speech. But act. Act speech. They mock to try you. Act.
I am tired of my voice.
— You will say those names were already in the chronicles from which he took the stuff of his plays. Why did he take them rather than others? Richard, a crookback, misbegotten, makes love to a widowed Ann, woos and wins her. Richard the conqueror came after William the conquered. The other four acts of the play hang limply from that first. Of all his kings Richard is the only king unshielded by Shakespeare's reverence, the angel of the world. Why is the underplot of King Lear in which Edmund figures lifted out of Sidney's Arcadia and spatchcocked on to a Celtic legend older than history.
— That was Will's way, John Eglinton defended. We should not now combine a Norse saga with an excerpt from a novel by George Meredith. Que voulez-vous? George Moore would say. He puts Bohemia on the seacoast and makes Ulysses quote Aristotle.
— Why? Stephen answered himself. Because the theme of the
false or the usurping or the adulterous brother or all three in one is to
Shakespeare, what the poor are not, always with him. The note of banishment,
banished from the heart, banished from the home, sounds uninterruptedly from
The Two Gentlemenº of
Verona onward till Prospero lays down his wand and burns his books. It
doubles itself in the middle of his life, reflects itself in another, repeats
itself. But it was an original sin that darkened his understanding, weakened his
will and left in him a strong inclination to evil. The words are those of the
lords bishops of Maynooth. An original sin and, like original sin, committed by
another in whom he sinned. It is between the lines of his last written words, it
is petrified on his tombstone under which her four bones are not to be laid. Age
has not withered it. Beauty and peace have not done it away. It is in
infinite variety everywhere in the world he has created, in Much Ado about Nothing, twice in As You Likeº It, in The Tempest, in Hamlet, in Measure for Measure — andº in the other plays which I have not read.
He laughed to free his mind from his mind's bondage.
Judge Eglinton summed up.
— The truth is midway, he affirmed. He is the ghost and the prince too. He is all in all.
— Yes, Stephen said. The boy of act one becomes a mature man in act five. All in all. In Cymbeline in Othello he is pimp and cuckold. He acts and is acted on. His unremitting intellect is the Iago ceaselessly willing that the moor in him shall suffer.
— Cuckoo! cuckoo! Buck Mulligan cooed softly. O word of fear!
— And what a character is Iago! undaunted John Eglinton exclaimed. When all is said Dumas (or is it Victor Hugo?) is right. After God Shakespeare has created most.
— Man delights him not nor woman neither, Stephen said. He
returns after a life of absence to that spot of earth where he was born, where
he has been always a silent witness. and there, his journey of life ended, he
plants his mulberry tree. Then dies. Gravediggers bury Hamlet and they buried
Hamlet's father. If you like the last scene look long on it: prosperous
Propero, the good man, Lizzie, grandpa's lump of love, and nuncle Richie,
the bad man taken off by providence to the place where the bad niggers go. He
found in his world without as actual that which was in his world within as
possible. Maeterlinck says: If Socrates leave his house today he will find the
sage seated on the doorstep. If Judas go forth tonight it is to Judas his steps
will go. Every life is many days, day after day. We walk through ourselves
meeting robbers, giants, ghosts, old men, young men,
butº always meeting ourselves. The
dramatist who wrote this world and wrote it badly (He gave us light first and
the sun two days later), the lord of things as they are whom the most Roman of
catholics call dio boia, hangman god, is also all in all in all of us,
ostler and butcher and would be coupler and
cuckold also but that in the economy of heaven there are no more marriages, the glorified man being a wife unto himself.
— Eureka! Buck Mulligan cried. Eureka!
At once happied, he jumped up and reached in a stride John Eglinton's desk.
— May I? he said.
He began to scribble on a slip of paper.
— Those who are married, Mr Best said quoted, all save one, shall live. The rest shall keep as they are.
He laughed, unmarried, at John Eglinton, of arts a bachelor.
Uncaught, unfancied, they of wiles, they fingerponder nightly each his variorum edition of The Taming of the Shrew.
— You are a delusion, said roundly John Eglinton to Stephen. You have brought us all this way to show us a French triangle. Do you believe your own theory?
— No, Stephen said promptly.
— Are you going to write it?º Mr Bests asked. You ought to make it a dialogue, don't you know, like the Platonian dialogues Wilde wrote.
John Eglinton smiled doubly.
— Well, in that case, he said, I don't see why you should expect payment for it since you don't believe it yourself. Dowden believes there is a mystery in Hamlet but will say no more. Piper met that man in Berlin, the Mr Bleibtreu I mentioned. He believes the secret is hidden in the Stratford monument. The Rutland theory. He is going to visit the present duke. But he believes his theory.
I believe, O Lord, help my unbelief. That is, help me to believe or help me to unbelieve? Who helps to believe? I myself. Who to unbelieve? Other chap.
— You are the only contributor to Dana who asks for pieces of silver. Then I don't know about the next number. Fred Ryan wants space for an article on economics.
Fred Ryan. Two pieces of silver he lent me. To tide you over. Economics.
— For a guinea, Stephen said, you can publish this interview.
Buck Mulligan stood up from his laughing scribbling, laughing: and then gravely said, honeying malice:
— I called upon the bard Kinch at his summer residence in Mecklenburgh street and found him deep in the study of the Summa contra Gentiles in the company of two gonorrheal ladies, Fresh Nelly and Rosalie, the coalquay whore.
He broke away.
— Come, Kinch. Come, wandering Aengusº of the birds.
Come, Kinch. You have eaten all we left. Ay. I will serve you your orts and offals.
Life is many days. This will end.
— We shall see you tonight, John Eglinton said. Notre
ami Moore says Malachi Mulligan must be there.
Buck Mulligan waved his slip and panama.
— Lecturer on French letters to young Ireland, he said. I'll be there. Come, Kinch, the bards must drink. Can you walk straight?
Laughing, he …
Swill till midnight. Irish nights entertainment.
Stephen followed a lubber …
One day in the national library we had a I a discussion. Shakes. After. His lub back: I followed.
A lubber jester out of the vaulted cell out of into shattering daylight of no thought.
What did I learn? Of them? Of me?
The constant readers' room. In the readers' book Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell parafes his polysyllables. Item, was Hamlet mad? The quaker's pate godlily with a priesteen in booktalk.
The curving balustrade, smoothsliding Mincius.
Puck Mulligan, panamahelmeted, went step by step, iambing, trolling:
He spluttered to the air:
— O, the chinless Chinaman! We went over to their playbox, the plumbers' hall. Abbey Theatre! I smell the pubicº sweat of monks.
He spat blank.
Forgot: any more than he forgot the whipping lousy Lucy gave him. And left her, femme de trente ans. And why no other children born?
Afterwit. Go back.
The dour recluse still there and the douce youngling, minion of pleasure, Phedo's toyable fair hair.
Eh … I just eh … wanted … I forgot … eh …º
— Longworth and M'Curdy Atkinson were there …
Buck Mulligan footed featly, trilling:
—º I hardly hear a purlieu cry
Or a Tommy talk as I pass one by
Before my thoughts begin to run
On F. McCurdy Atkinson
The same that had the wooden leg
And that filibustering filibeg
That never dared to slake his drouth
Magee that had the chinless mouth.
Jest on. Know thyself.
Halted, below me, a quizzer looks at me. I halt.
— Mournful mummer, Buck Mulligan moaned. Synge has left off wearing black to be like nature. Only crows, priests and English coal are black.
A laugh tripped over his lips.
— Longworth is awfully sick, he said, after what you wrote about that old hake Gregory. O you inquisitional drunken jewjesuitº! She gets you a job on the paper and then you go and slate her book to Jaysus. Couldn't you do the Yeatsº touch?
He went on and down, chanting with waving graceful arms:
— The most beautiful book that has come out of Ireland in my time.
He stopped at the stairfoot.
— I have conceived a play for the mummers, he said solemnly.
The pillared Moorish hall, shadows entwined. Gone the nine men's morrice with caps of indices.
With sweetly varying voices Buck Mulligan read his tablet:
— Everyman His Own Wife
A Honeymoon in the Hand
(a national immorality in three orgasms)
He turned a happy patch's smirk to Stephen, saying:
— The disguise, I fear, is thin. But listen.
He read, marking:
He laughed, lolling a to and fro head, walking on, followed by Stephen: and mirthfully he told the shadows, souls of moors:
— O, the night in the Camden hall the daughters of Erin had to lift
their skirts to step over you as you lay in your mulberrycoloured multicoloured, multitudinous vomit!
— The most innocent son of Erin, Stephen said, for whom they ever lifted them.
About to pass through the doorway, feeling one behind, he stood aside:
Part. The moment is now. Where then? If Socrates leave his house today, if Judas go forth tonight. Why? That lies in space which I in time must come to, ineluctably.
My will, his will that fronts me. Seas between.
A man passed out between them, bowing, greeting:
— Good day again, Buck Mulligan said.
Here I watched the birds for augury. Aengusº of the birds. They go, they come. Last night I flew. Easily flew. Men wondered. Street of harlots after. The creamfruit melon he held to me. In. You will see.
— The wandering jew, Buck Mulligan whispered with clown's awe. Did you see his eye? He looked upon you to lust after you. I fear thee, ancient mariner. O, Kinch, thou art in peril. Get thee a breechpad.
Manner of Oxenford.
Day. Wheelbarrow sun over arch of bridge.
A dark back went before them, stepº of a pard, down, out by the gateway, under portcullis barbs.
Offend me still. Speak on.
Kind air defined the coigns of houses in Kildare street. No birds. Frail from the housetops two plumes of smoke ascended, pluming, and in a flaw of softness, softly were blown.
Cease to strive. Peace of the druid priests of Cymbeline: hierophantic: from wide earth an altar.
Laud we the gods
And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils
From our bless'd altars.