ULYSSES

Protodrafts

First draft §2H, Spring-Summer 1920, draft level 1

MS Buffalo V.A.19 24-27 Draft details


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Stephen

|1No Dane, Roman or Norman ever conquered this |aland pontine marsh. Delightful climate |bexcept for the E windb|. East that is for England that eats usa| which you still occupy in virtue of the fifth of M George or the seventh of Edward.1| It seems history |1not you1| is to blame. |1|xfabled by daughters of memoryx|1| In the alive opinion of Dr Swift one man in armour will beat ten men in their shirts. You are at present my uninvited guests |1in this the commonwoe of Ireland1|. You may not be aware of it but you were sent to burgle on the premises. That is the wisdom of the State. Guilt is not brought home to the individual. In a firing party each man believes his neighbour killed the
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victim
. You are hired to assassinate. |1Enfin, ce sont vos oignons.1|

Lord Tennyson

(|1Lord Ten |agentleman poet with |bbrandnewb| tennis racketa|1| in Union Jack Blazer, flannels. He is bareheaded, flowing bearded and has a silver postboy's horn slung round his neck)

Lord Tennyson

There's not to reason why. |1Kind hearts & coronets |a(He shakes hands with both soldiers vigorously)a|1|

|1Private Staples

|aBiff him one, George.a| He doesn't half want a thick ear.1|

Private Carr

(to Stephen) How would it be if I was to bash in your |1eye jaw1|?

|1Stephen

How? |aI detest action myself.a| Unpleasant. I have not learned the noble art of self pretence.1|

Bloom

(tugs Stephen's sleeve) Come

Stephen

|1(to the soldiers) I'm not afraid of what I can talk to1| (shoving away his hand) Struggle is the law of life.

|1|aDolly Gray

(|bwaving her handkerchiefb| from her balcony) Goodbye, cook's soon. |bSafe home to Dollyb| Will always Dre Think of you, Dolly Gray |b|cThink Dreamc| of the girl you left behind & she she'll dream of youb| & she'll dream of you

(The soldiers turn their swimming eyes)

Corporal Punishment

(in |bundress,b| forage cap, with blank) Eyes front.a|

Bloom

(|aholding proppinga| him) |aMind Retaina| your own |acentre of gravitya|.

Stephen

(laughs emptily) & |aMy centre of gravity is displaced. I have forgotten the tricka|1| But human beings |1who walk upright on this orange retaining the perpendicular1| have invented arbitration. Your king, for instance.

Private Carr

(pushing forward) What's that you're saying. What about my king.

(King Edward the Seventh appears under |1the a rainbow1| archway, levitated, in the costume of a master mason with apron and trowel |1sucking a jujube1|)

Edward the Seventh

(|1a red jujube in his mouth1| solemnly |1& slowly but indistinctly1|) Peace, perfect peace! |1Cheerio|a, boysa|!1|

|1(Hornblower, a loyal kingsman in tallyho cap, calls)

Hornblower

A stag, your Majesty.

(Edward the Seventh raises his gun & fires. The quarry falls)

Edward VII

(sucking a yellow jujube) Grassed that one.1|

Stephen

(nervously |1friendly1|) I understand your feeling though I have no king myself. I say, he is travelling about with a new patent medicine

(King Edward, assuming the garb, |1|xphosphorescent face,x|1| voice and halo of |1Jesus Christ Joking Jesus1|)

Edward the Seventh

|1(a white jujube in his mouth)1|
My methods are new & are causing surprise
To make the blind see I throw dust in their eyes.

Private Compton

Eh, George. |1Do him in. Stick one into Jerry.1| Give him
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a kick in the knockers.

Bloom

(to the soldiers |1softly1|) He doesn't know what he's saying. He's a student who has taken |1a little1| more than is good for him. |1|xupset his mental balancex|1| I know him. He's a gentleman.

|1Stephen

Gentleman, patriot, scholar & judge of blank1|

Private Carr

I don't give a bugger who he is.

Private Compton

We don't give a bugger who he is.

|1Kevin Egan of Paris, in black Spanish tasselled shirt & peep o'day boy's hat stands & |asigns signalsa| to Stephen

Kevin Egan

Hlo! bonjour. (he laughs vacantly) |aOld hag Vieille ogressea| with the dents jaunes.1|

Stephen

(swaying) Allow me. I know what I'm saying.

Private Carr

Here. What are you saying about my king.

Stephen

Nothing. He wants |1some of1| my money |1and my life1|. |1But as I have none want must be his master.1|

Private Compton

Who wants your bleeding money?

Stephen

He's no worse than the rest

Private Carr

(violently |1tugging at his belt1|) I'll wring the neck of any fucker says a word against my fucking king.

|1(Old gummy granny, |ain witch's |bsugarloafb| hat,a| a milkcan on her arm, |astands by Stephen appears seated on a toadstoola|)

Old Gummy Granny

(mumbling |arocking to & froa|) |aIreland's sweetheart, honey alanna.a| Strangers in my house. Snuff in the candle.1|

Bloom

(terrified) He said nothing. Not a word. A misunderstanding.

Stephen

Did I? |1|aI seem to annoy him like a green rag to a bull.a| (tries to move off) Will someone inform me |aina| what part of the world I am least likely to meet these people. ça se voit à Paris aussi. |aNo On the contrary. The Irish missile troops, isn't that so?a|1|

|1(Major Tweedy, in uniform of Dublin Fusiliers, his breast bright with orders, |agood conduct, epaulettes|b, sabretacheb| and gilt chevrons |bputtees army breeches forage capb|a| calls gruffly under large moustache)

Major Tweedy

|aRorke's Drift!a| Up guards and at them!

Private Compton

Go it, Harry. |aDo him one in the eye.a| Make a bleeding butcher's shop of the bugger1|

Private Carr (his belt?)

(shouts) I'll wring the bleeding
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neck of any fucking bastard says a word against my bleeding fucking king. I'll wring his fucking neck, I will. I'll do him in, so help me fucking Christ. |1(with ferocious articulation)1| I'll wring the |1bastard1| fucker's |1bleeding bastard1| fucking windpipe.