Fair Copy

Fair copy of §A, February 1921, draft level 2

MS Rosenbach Museum 1-12 Draft details

{ms, 001}

Preparatory to anything else Mr Bloom brushed off the greater bulk of the shavings and handed Stephen the hat and ashplant and bucked him up generally in good Samaritan fashion which he very badly needed. His (Stephen's) mind was not exactly what you would call wandering but a bit unsteady and on his expressed desire for something to drink Mr Bloom in view of the hour it was and there being no pump of Vartry water available for their ablutions let alone drinking purposes hit upon an expedient by suggesting the propriety of the cabman's shelter, as it was called, near Butt bridge. But how to get there was the rub. For the nonce he was rather nonplussed but inasmuchº as the duty devolved upon him he pondered ways and means during which Stephen repeatedly yawned. So far as he could see he was rather pale in the face so that it occurred to him as highly advisable to get a conveyance of some description in thisº then condition always assuming that there was such a thing to be found. Accordingly after a few such preliminaries as brushing they both walked together along Beaver street or, more properly lane as far as the farrier's and the distinctly fetid atmosphere of the livery stables at the corner of Montgomery street. where they made tracks to the left, thence debouching into Amiens street round by the corner of Dan Bergin's. But as he fully anticipated there was not a sign of a Jehu plying for hire anywhere to be seen except a fourwheeler, probably engaged by some fellows inside on the spree, outside the North Star hotel and there was no symptom of its budging an inch when Mr Bloom, who was anything but a loud whistler, endeavoured to hail it by emitting a kind of a whistle, holding his arms arched over his head, twice.

This was a quandary but, bringing common sense to bear on it, evidently there was nothing for it but put a good face on the matter and foot it which they accordingly did. So, bevelling around by Mullett's and the Signal House they proceeded in the direction of Amiens street railway terminus, Mr Bloom being handicapped by the circumstance that one of the back buttons of his trousers had, to vary the adage, gone the way of all buttons though he heroically made light of the mischance. So they dandered along past by where the empty vehicle was waiting without a fare or a jarvey.
{ms, 002}
As it so happened a Dublin United Tramways Company's sandstrewer happening to be returning and the elder man recounted to his companion a propos of the incident his own truly miraculous escape of some little while back. They passed the main entrance of the Great Northern railway station, the starting point for Belfast, where of course all traffic was suspended at that late hour and passing the backdoor of the morgue (a not very enticing locality, not to say gruesome, more especially at night,º ultimately gained the Dock Tavern and in due course turned into Store street, famous for its C division police station. Between this point and the high at present unlit warehouses of Beresford Place Stephen thought to think of Ibsen, associated with Baird's the stonecutter's in his mind somehow in Talbot place, first turning on the right, while the other who was acting as his fidus Achates inhaled with internal satisfaction the smell of James Rourke's city bakery, situated quite close to where they were, the very palatable odour indeed of our daily bread, of all commodities of the public the primary and most indispensable. Bread, the staff of life, earn your bread, O tell me where is fancy bread, at Rourke's the baker's it is said.

En route to his taciturn and, not to put too fine a point on it, not yet perfectly sober companion Mr Bloom who at all events was in complete possession of his faculties, never more so, spoke a word of caution re the dangers of nighttown, which, though barely permissible once in a while though not as a habitual practice, was of the nature of a regular deathtrap for young fellows of his age particularly. Highly providentialº was the appearance on the scene of Corny Kelleher when Stephen was blissfully unconscious but for that man in the gap the finis might have been the bridewell and an appearance |2in the court next day2| before Mr Tobias, or, he being the solicitor rather, old Wall, he meant to say, or Mahony. A lot of those policemen were admittedly unscrupulous and, as Mr Bloom put it, recalling a case or two in the A division in Clanbrassil street, prepared to swear a hole through a ten gallon pot. Never on the spot when wanted but in quiet parts of the city, Pembroke road for example, they were well in evidence, the obvious reason being they were paid to protect the upper classes. Another thing he commented on was equipping soldiers with arms of any kind which was tantamount to inciting them against civilians. You frittered away your time, he very sensibly remarked, and health and also character besides which fast women of the demimonde ran away
{ms, 003}
with a lot of £.s.d. into the bargain and the greatest danger of all was who you got drunk with. Most of all he commented adversely on the desertion of Stephen by all his pubhunting confrères but one, a most glaring piece of ratting under all the circs.

— And that one was Judas, Stephen said, who up to then had said nothing of any kind.

Discussing these and kindred topics they passed under the Loop Line bridge where a brazier of coke burning in front of a sentrybox or something like one attracted their rather lagging footsteps. Stephen stopped for no special reason to look at the heap of barren cobblestones and by the light emanating from the brazier he could just make out the darker figure of the corporation watchmanº inside the gloom of the sentrybox. He began to remember that this had happened or had been mentioned as having happened before but it cost him no small effort before he remembered that he recognised in the sentry a quondam friend of his father's, Gumley. To avoid a meeting he drew nearer to the pillars of the railway bridge.

— Someone saluted youº Mr Bloom said.

A figure on the prowl evidently under the arches saluted again, calling:

— Night!

Stephen of course started rather dizzilyº and stopped to return the compliment. Mr Bloom actuated by motives of delicacy moved off but nevertheless remained on the qui vive with just a shade of anxiety. Though unusual in Dublin he knew that it was not by any means unknown for desperadoes who had next to nothing to live on to be abroad waylaying and generally terrorising |2respectable peaceable2| pedestrians in some secluded spot outside the city proper, famished loiterers they might be hanging about there or simply marauders ready to decamp with anything and everything at a moment's notice, your money or your life.

Stephen, that is when the accosting figure came to close quarters, though he was not in an over sober state himself recognised Corly's breath redolent of rotten cornjuice. Lord John Corly some called him and his genealogy came about in this wise. He was the eldest son of inspector Corly of the G division, lately
{ms, 004}
deceasedº who had married a certain Katherine Brophy, the daughter of a Louth farmer. His grandfather Patrick Michael Corly of New Ross had married the widow of a publican there whose maiden name had been Katherine (also) Talbot. Rumour had it (though not proved) that she descended from the house of the lords Talbot de Malahide in whose mansion her mother or aunt or some relative|2,2| had a woman, as the tale went, of extreme beauty, had enjoyed the distinction of being in service in the washkitchen. This therefore was the reason why the still comparatively young though dissolute man who now addressed Stephen was spoken of by some with facetious proclivitiesº as |2lord Lord2| John Corly.

Taking Stephen on one side he had the customary doleful ditty to tell. Not as much as a farthing to purchase a night's lodgings. His friends had all deserted him. Furthermore he had a row with Lenehan and called him to Stephen a mean bloody swab with a sprinkling of a number of other uncalled for expressions. He was out of a job and implored of Stephen to tell him where on God's earth he could get something, anything at all, to do. No, it was the daughter of the mother in the washkitchen that was fostersister to the heir of the house, both occurrences happening at the same time. Anyhow he was all in.

— I wouldn't ask you only, pursued he, on my solemn oath and God knows I'm on the rocks

There'll be a job tomorrow or next day, Stephen told him, in a boys' school at Dalkey for a gentleman usher. Mr Garrett Deasy. Try it. You may mention my name.

— Ah, God, Corley replied, sure I couldn't teach in a school, man. I was never one of your bright ones, he added with a half laugh. I got stuck twice in the junior at the christian brothers.

— I have no place to sleep myself, Stephen informed him.

Corley at the first go-off was inclined to suspect it was something to do with Stephen being fired out of his digs for bringing in a bloody tart off the street. There was a dosshouse in Marlborough street, Mrs Maloney's, but it was only a tanner touch and full of undesirables but M'Conachie told him you got
{ms, 005}
a decent enough do in the Brazen Head over in Winetavern street for a bob. He was starving too though he hadn't said a word about it.

Though this sort of thing went on every other night or very near it still Stephen's feelings got the better of him though he knew that Corley's brandnew rigmarole on a par with the others was hardly deserving of much credence. However haud ignarus malorum miseris succurrere disco etcetera especially as luck would have it he got paid his screw after every middle of the month on the sixteenth which was the date of the month as a matter of fact. But the cream of the joke was nothing would get it out of Corley's head that he was living in affluence and hadn't a thing to do but hand out the needful. Whereas. He put his hand in a pocket anyhow not with the idea of finding any food there but thinking he might lend him anything up to a bob or so in lieu so that he might endeavour at all events and get sufficient to eat but the result was in the negative for he found his money missing. A few broken biscuits were all. He tried |2his hardest2| to recollect for the moment whether he had lost as well he might have or left because in that contingency it was not a pleasant lookout, very much the reverse in fact. He was altogether too fagged out to institute a thorough search though he tried to recollect. About biscuits he dimly remembered. Who now exactly gave them he wondered or where was or did he buy. However in another pocket he came across what he surmised in the dark were pennies, erroneously however.

— Those are halfcrowns, man, Corley corrected him.

And so in point of fact they turned out to be. Stephen anyhow lent him one of them.

— Thanks, Corley answered, you're a gentleman. I'll pay you back one time. Who's that with you? I saw him a few times with Boylan, the billsticker. You might put in a good word for us to get me taken on there. I'd carry a sandwichboard only the girl in the office told me they're full up for the next three weeks, man. God, you've to book ahead, man, you'd think it was for |2the2| Carl Rosa. I don't give a shite anyway so long as I get a job.

Subsequently being not quite so down in the mouth after the two and six he got he informed Stephen about a fellow by the name
{ms, 006}
of Bags Comisky that he said Stephen knew well out of Fulham's, the shipchandler's, bookkeeperº there that used to be often round in Nagle's back with O'Mara and a little chap with a stutter called Tighe. Anyhow he was lagged the night before last and fined ten bob for a drunk and disorderly and refusing to go with the constable.

Mr Bloom in the meanwhile kept dodging about in the vicinity of the cobblestones near the brazier of coke in front of the corporation watchman's sentrybox who evidently a glutton for work, it struck him, was having a quiet forty winks on his own private account while Dublin slept. He threw an odd eye at the same time now and then at Stephen's interlocutor as if he had seen that nobleman somewhere or other. |2He Being a person who could give points to not a few in point of shrewd observation he2| also remarked on his very dilapidated hat and slouchy wearing apparel generally testifying to a chronic impecuniosity. Palpably he was one of his hangers on but for the matter of that of that it was merely a question of one preying on another all round, in every deep, so to put it, a deeper depth. In any case he had a consummate amount of assurance intercepting people at that hour of the night or morning. Pretty thick that was certainly.

The pair parted company and Stephen rejoined Mr Bloom who was not without perceiving that he had succumbed to the blandiloquence of the other parasite. Alluding to the encounter he said, laughing, Stephen, that is:

— He is down on his luck. He asked me to ask you to ask somebody named Boylan, a billsticker, to give him a job as a sandwichman.

At this intelligence Mr Bloom gazed abstractedly for the space of a moment or so in the direction of Burgh quay whereupon he observed evasively:

— Everybody gets a certain ration of luck, they say. Now you mention it his face was familiar to me. But, leaving that for the moment, how much did you part with, he queried, if I am not too inquisitive?

— Half a crown, Stephen responded. I daresay he needs it to sleep somewhere.

— Needs! Mr Bloom ejaculated, I guarantee he invariably does. Everyone according to his needs or everyone according to his deeds. Where will you sleep yourself? Walking to Sandycove is out of the question. And even
{ms, 006a}
you did you won't get in after what occurred at Westland row station
{ms, 007}
|2simply Simply2| fag out there for nothing. I don't mean to presume to dictate to you in the slightest |2degree2| but why did you leave your father's house?

— To seek misfortune, Stephen replied.

— I met your respected father |2on a recent occasion2|, Mr Bloom remarked, today |2in fact2|, or to be strictly accurate, on yesterday. Where does he live at present? I gathered in the course of conversation that he had moved.

I believe he is in Dublin somewhere, Stephen answered unconcernedly. Why?

— A gifted man, Mr Bloom said |2of Mr Dedalus senior2|, in more respects than one. He takes great pride, quite legitimate, out of you. You could go back perhaps, he hasarded, still thinking of the very unpleasant scene at Westland Row terminus when it was perfectly evident that the other two, Mulligan, that is, and that English tourist friend of his were patently trying |2as if the whole station belonged to them2| to give Stephen the slip in the confusion, which they did.

There was no response forthcoming to the suggestion however, such as it was, Stephen's mind's eye being too busily engaged in repicturing his family hearth the last time he saw it with his sister Dilly sitting by the ingle, her hair hanging down waiting for some weak Trinidad shell cocoa that was in the sootcoated kettle to be done so that she and he could drink it with the oatmealwater for milk after the Friday herrings they had eaten at two a penny with an egg apiece for Maggie, Boody and Katey, the cat meanwhile under the mangle devoured devouring a mess of eggshells and charred fish heads and bones on a square of brown paper, in accordance with the third precept of the church to fast and abstain on the days commanded, it being quarter tense or if not, ember days.

— No, Mr Bloom repeated again, I wouldn't personally |2repose much2| trust |2in2| that boon companion of yours |2who contributes the humorous element2|, Dr Mulligan, as a guide, philosopher and friend. if I were you. He knows which side his bread is buttered on though in all probability he never realised what it is to be without regular meals. Of course you didn't notice as much as I did. But it wouldn't occasion me the least surprise to learn that a pinch of tobacco or some narcotic was put in your drink for some ulterior object.

He understood however from
{ms, 008}
all he heard that Dr Mulligan was a versatile allround man who was rapidly coming to the fore in his line in addition to which professional status his rescue of that man from certain drowning at Skerries, or Malahide was it?, was, he was bound to admitº an exceedingly plucky deed so that he was utterly at a loss to fathom what earthly reason could be at the back of it except he put it down to jealousy.

— Except he is what they call picking your brains, he ventured to say.

The glance of half solicitude half curiosity augmented by friendliness which he gave at Stephen's at present morose expression of features did not throw a flood of light, none at all in factº on the problem as to whether he had let himself be badly taken in to judge by two or three remarks he let drop or on the other hand saw through the affair and for some reason or other best known to himself allowed matters to more or less. Grinding poverty did have that effect and he more than conjectured that, highly educated though he was, he experienced no little difficulty in making both ends meet.

Adjacent to the men's public urinal they perceived an icecream car round round which a group of presumably Italians were getting rid of voluble expressions in their language in a particularly animated way.

— Puttana madonna, che ci dia i quattrini! Ho ragione? Culo rotto!

— Intendiamoci. Mezzo sovrano più ….

— Dice lui però!

— Mezzo.

— Farabutto! Mortacci sui!

— Ma ascolta! Cinque la testa più …

Mr Bloom and Stephen entered the cabman's shelter, an unpretentious wooden structure, where, prior to then, he had rarely if ever been before, the former having previouslyº whispered to the latter a few hints anent the keeper of it said to be the once famous Skin-the-Goat, Fitzharris, the invincible, though he could not vouch for the actual facts which quite possibly there was not one vestige of truth in. They took their seats in a discreet corner only to be greeted by stares from the decidedly miscellaneous collection of waifs and strays already there engaged in eating and drinking diversified by conversation for whom they seemingly formed an object of curiosity.

— Now touching a cup of coffee, Mr Bloom suggested, and something in the shape of solid food, say, a roll of some sort.

He ordered these commodities quietly. The jarvies or stevedores or whatever they were turned their eyes, apparently dissatisfied, away though one redbearded bibulous individual, a sailor probably, still stared for some appreciable time before transferring his attention to the floor.
{ms, 008a}
Mr Bloom, availing himself of the right of free speech, remarked to
{ms, 009}
his protegé |2in an audible tone of voice2| à propos of the wrangle in the street which was still raging fast and furious.

— A beautiful language. I mean for singing purposes. Why do you not write your poetry in that language? Bella Poetria. It is so melodious and full. Bella Donna. |2Voglio.2|

Stephen, who was trying his |2dead2| best to yawn |2if he couldº |asuffering from lassitude generallya|2|, replied:

— To fill the ear of a cow elephant. They were haggling over money.

— Is that so? Mr Bloom asked. Of course, he subjoined pensively, it may be only the southern glamour that surrounds it.

The keeper of the shelter put a boiling swimming cup of |2a concoction labelled2| coffee on the table and a rather antediluvian specimen of a bun, or so it seemed. After which he retreated to his counter, Mr Bloom determining to have a good look at him later on so as notº appear to. |2For for2| which reason he encouraged Stephen to proceed with his eyes while surreptitiously pushing the cup of what was supposed to be called coffee gradually nearer him

— Sounds are impostures, Stephen said, like names. Cicero, Podmore. Napoleon, Mr Goodbody. Jesus, Mr Doyle. Shakespeares were as common as Murphies. What's in a name?

— Of course, Mr Bloom thoroughly agreed. Our name was changed too., he added, pushing the socalled roll across.

The redbearded sailor who had his eye on the newcomers boarded Stephen squarely by asking:

— And what might your name be?

Just in the nick of time Mr Bloom touched his companion's boot but Stephen, |2apparently2| disregarding the warm pressure |2apparently2|, answered:

— Dedalus.

The sailor stared at him heavily from a pair of drowsy eyes.

— You know Simon Dedalus,? he asked at lenght length.

— I've heard of him, Stephen said.

Mr Bloom was all at sea for a moment, seeing the others evidently listening |2erased too2|.

— He's Irish, the |2sailor said seaman affirmed2|, staring still in much the same way and
{ms, 010}
nodding. All Irish.

— All too Irish, Stephen rejoined.

As for Mr Bloom he could neither make head or tail of the business and he was just asking himself what possible connection when the sailor of his own accord turned to the |2others other occupants2| in the shelter with the remark:

— I seen him shoot two eggs ofº two bottles at fifty yards over his shoulder. The lefthand dead shot.

Though he was slightly hampered by an occasional stammer and his gestures being also clumsy |2as it was2| still he did his best to explain.

— Bottles out there, say. Fifty yards measured. Eggs on the bottles. Cocks his gun over his shoulder. Aims.

He turned his body half round, shut up his right eye completely. Then he screwed his features up someway sideways and glared out into the night with an unprepossessing eye.

Pom! he then shouted once!

The entire audience waited, anticipating a still further dem detonation, there being a second egg.

Pom! he shouted twice.

A silence ensued till Mr Bloom for agreeableness' sake |2just2| asked whether it was for a marksmanship competition.

— Beg pardon, the sailor said.

— Long ago? Mr Bloom pursued.

— Why, the sailor replied, relaxing to a certain extent, it might be a matter of ten years. He toured the wide world with Hengler's Royal Circus. I seen him do that in Stockholm.

— Curious coincidence, Mr Bloom confided to Stephen unobtrusively.

— Murphy's my name, the sailor continued. D.B. Murphy of Carrigaloe. Know where that is?

— Queenstown harbour, Stephen replied.

— That's right, the sailor said. |2That's where I hails from.2| I belongs there. That's where I hails from. My little woman's down there. She's waiting for me, I know. For England, home and beauty. She's my own own true wife I haven't seen for seven years. now, sailing about.

Mr Bloom could easily picture his advent on this scene, homecoming to the mariner's roadside shieling |2a rainy night with a blind moon2|. Quite a number of stories there were on that particular topic, Enoch Arden
{ms, 011}
and Rip van Winkle and does anybody hereabouts remember Caoc O'Leary, a favourite |2and most trying2| declamation piece by the way of poor John Casey. Never about the runaway wife coming back, however |2much2| devoted to him. The face at the window when the awful truth dawned upon him, |2wrecked in his affections.2| You little expected me but I've come to stay and make a fresh start. There she sits, a grasswidow, at the |2selfsame2| fireside. Believes me dead, rocked in the cradle of the deep. And there sits uncle, the publican of the Crown and Anchor, in shirtsleeves, eating rumpsteak and onions. |2No chair for father.2| Broo! The wind! Her brandnew arrival is on her knee, post mortem child. With a high ro and and a randy ro and my galloping tearing tandy, O. |2Bow to the inevitable.2| Grin and bear it. I remain |2with much love2| your brokenhearted husband D B Murphy.

The sailor, who scarcely seemed to be a Dublin resident, turned to one of the jarvies with the request:

You don't happen to have such a thing as a spare chaw about you?

The jarvey addressed as it happened had not but the keeper took a die of plug from his good jacket hanging on a nail and |2it the object2| was passed from hand to hand.

— Thank you, the sailor said.

He deposited the quid in his gob and, chewing and with some slow stammers, proceeded:

We come up this morning eleven o'clock. The threemaster Rosevean from Bridgwater with bricks. I shipped to get over. Paid off this afternoon. There's my discharge. See? D.B. Murphy. A.B.S.

In confirmation of his statement he extricated from an inside pocket and handed to his neighbour a not very clean looking folded document.

— You must have seen a fair share of the world, the keeper remarked, leaning on the counter.

— Why, the sailor answered upon reflection upon it, I've circumnavigated a bit since I first joined on. I was in the Red sea. I was in China and North America and South America. We was chased by pirates one |2time voyage2|. I seen icebergs plenty, growlers. I was in
{ms, 012}
Stockholm and the Black Sea, the Dardanelles under Captain Dalton, the best bloody man that ever scuttled a ship. I seen Russia. Gospodi pomilyou. That's how the Russians prays.

— You seen queer sights, don't be talking, said a jarvey.

— Why, the sailor said, shifting his partially chewed plug. I seen queer things too, ups and downs. I seen a crocodile bite the fluke of an anchor same as I chew that quid.

He took out of his mouth the pulpy quid and, lodging it between his teeth, bit ferociously:

— Khaan! Like that. And I seen maneaters in Peru that eats corpses and the livers of horses. Look here. Here they are. A friend of mine sent me.

He fumbled out a picture postcard from his inside pocket which seemed to be in its way a species of repository and pushed it along the table. The printed matter on it stated: Choza de Indios. Beni, Bolivia.

All focussed their attention at a group of savage women in striped loincloths, squatted, blinking, suckling, frowning, sleeping amid a swarm of infants (there must have been quite a score of them) outside some primitive huts of osier.

Chews coca all day, the communicative sailor added, stomachs like breadgratersº. Cuts off their diddies when they can't bear no more children. See them sitting there stark ballocknaked eating a dead horse's liver raw.

His postcard proved a centre of attraction for several minutes if not more.

— Know how to keep them off? he inquired generally.

Nobody volunteering a statementº he winked, saying:

Glass. That boggles 'em. Glass.

Mr Bloom, without evincing surprise, unostentatiously turned over the card to |2see peruse2| the partially obliterated address and postmark. It ran as follows: Tarjeta Postal, Señor A Boudin, Galeria Becche, Santiago, Chile. There was no