Ulysses
Messenger took out his matchbox thoughtfully and lit his cigar.
I have often thought since on looking back over that strange time that
it was that small act, trivial in itself, that striking of that match,
that determined the whole aftercourse of both our lives.
A POLISHED PERIOD
J. J. O’Molloy resumed, moulding his words:
—He said of it: _that stony effigy in frozen music, horned and
terrible, of the human form divine, that eternal symbol of wisdom and
of prophecy which, if aught that the imagination or the hand of
sculptor has wrought in marble of soultransfigured and of
soultransfiguring deserves to live, deserves to live._
His slim hand with a wave graced echo and fall.
—Fine! Myles Crawford said at once.
—The divine afflatus, Mr O’Madden Burke said.
—You like it? J. J. O’Molloy asked Stephen.
Stephen, his blood wooed by grace of language and gesture, blushed. He
took a cigarette from the case. J. J. O’Molloy offered his case to
Myles Crawford. Lenehan lit their cigarettes as before and took his
trophy, saying:
—Muchibus thankibus.
A MAN OF HIGH MORALE
—Professor Magennis was speaking to me about you, J. J. O’Molloy said
to Stephen. What do you think really of that hermetic crowd, the opal
hush poets: A. E. the mastermystic? That Blavatsky woman started it.
She was a nice old bag of tricks. A. E. has been telling some yankee
interviewer that you came to him in the small hours of the morning to
ask him about planes of consciousness. Magennis thinks you must have
been pulling A. E.’s leg. He is a man of the very highest morale,
Magennis.
Speaking about me. What did he say? What did he say? What did he say
about me? Don’t ask.
—No, thanks, professor MacHugh said, waving the cigarettecase aside.
Wait a moment. Let me say one thing. The finest display of oratory I
ever heard was a speech made by John F Taylor at the college historical
society. Mr Justice Fitzgibbon, the present lord justice of appeal, had
spoken and the paper under debate was an essay (new for those days),
advocating the revival of the Irish tongue.
He turned towards Myles Crawford and said:
—You know Gerald Fitzgibbon. Then you can imagine the style of his
discourse.
—He is sitting with Tim Healy, J. J. O’Molloy said, rumour has it, on
the Trinity college estates commission.
—He is sitting with a sweet thing, Myles Crawford said, in a child’s
frock. Go on. Well?
—It was the speech, mark you, the professor said, of a finished orator,
full of courteous haughtiness and pouring in chastened diction I will
not say the vials of his wrath but pouring the proud man’s contumely
upon the new movement. It was then a new movement. We were weak,
therefore worthless.
He closed his long thin lips an instant but, eager to be on, raised an
outspanned hand to his spectacles and, with trembling thumb and
ringfinger touching lightly the black rims, steadied them to a new
focus.
IMPROMPTU
In ferial tone he addressed J. J. O’Molloy:
—Taylor had come there, you must know, from a sickbed. That he had
prepared his speech I do not believe for there was not even one
shorthandwriter in the hall. His dark lean face had a growth of shaggy
beard round it. He wore a loose white silk neckcloth and altogether he
looked (though he was not) a dying man.
His gaze turned at once but slowly from J. J. O’Molloy’s towards
Stephen’s face and then bent at once to the ground, seeking. His
unglazed linen collar appeared behind his bent head, soiled by his
withering hair. Still seeking, he said:
—When Fitzgibbon’s speech had ended John F Taylor rose to reply.
Briefly, as well as I can bring them to mind, his words were these.
He raised his head firmly. His eyes bethought themselves once more.
Witless shellfish swam in the gross lenses to and fro, seeking outlet.
He began:
_—Mr Chairman, ladies and gentlemen: Great was my admiration in
listening to the remarks addressed to the youth of Ireland a moment
since by my learned friend. It seemed to me that I had been transported
into a country far away from this country, into an age remote from this
age, that I stood in ancient Egypt and that I was listening to the
speech of some highpriest of that land addressed to the youthful
Moses._
His listeners held their cigarettes poised to hear, their smokes
ascending in frail stalks that flowered with his speech. _And let our
crooked smokes._ Noble words coming. Look out. Could you try your hand
at it yourself?
_—And it seemed to me that I heard the voice of that Egyptian
highpriest raised in a tone of like haughtiness and like pride. I heard
his words and their meaning was revealed to me._
FROM THE FATHERS
It was revealed to me that those things are good which yet are
corrupted which neither if they were supremely good nor unless they
were good could be corrupted. Ah, curse you! That’s saint Augustine.
_—Why will you jews not accept our culture, our religion and our
language? You are a tribe of nomad herdsmen: we are a mighty people.
You have no cities nor no wealth: our cities are hives of humanity and
our galleys, trireme and quadrireme, laden with all manner merchandise
furrow the waters of the known globe. You have but emerged from
primitive conditions: we have a literature, a priesthood, an agelong
history and a polity._
Nile.
Child, man, effigy.
By the Nilebank the babemaries kneel, cradle of bulrushes: a man supple
in combat: stonehorned, stonebearded, heart of stone.
_—You pray to a local and obscure idol: our temples, majestic and
mysterious, are the abodes of Isis and Osiris, of Horus and Ammon Ra.
Yours serfdom, awe and humbleness: ours thunder and the seas. Israel is
weak and few are her children: Egypt is an host and terrible are her
arms. Vagrants and daylabourers are you called: the world trembles at
our name._
A dumb belch of hunger cleft his speech. He lifted his voice above it
boldly:
_—But, ladies and gentlemen, had the youthful Moses listened to and
accepted that view of life, had he bowed his head and bowed his will
and bowed his spirit before that arrogant admonition he would never
have brought the chosen people out of their house of bondage, nor
followed the pillar of the cloud by day. He would never have spoken
with the Eternal amid lightnings on Sinai’s mountaintop nor ever have
come down with the light of inspiration shining in his countenance and
bearing in his arms the tables of the law, graven in the language of
the outlaw._
He ceased and looked at them, enjoying a silence.
OMINOUS—FOR HIM!
J. J. O’Molloy said not without regret:
—And yet he died without having entered the land of promise.
—A—sudden—at—the—moment—though—from—lingering—illness—often—previously—
expectorated—demise, Lenehan added. And with a great future behind him.
The troop of bare feet was heard rushing along the hallway and
pattering up the staircase.
—That is oratory, the professor said uncontradicted.
Gone with the wind. Hosts at Mullaghmast and Tara of the kings. Miles
of ears of porches. The tribune’s words, howled and scattered to the
four winds. A people sheltered within his voice. Dead noise. Akasic
records of all that ever anywhere wherever was. Love and laud him: me
no more.
I have money.
—Gentlemen, Stephen said. As the next motion on the agenda paper may I
suggest that the house do now adjourn?
—You take my breath away. It is not perchance a French compliment? Mr
O’Madden Burke asked. ’Tis the hour, methinks, when the winejug,
metaphorically speaking, is most grateful in Ye ancient hostelry.
—That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved. All that are in favour
say ay, Lenehan announced. The contrary no. I declare it carried. To
which particular boosing shed...? My casting vote is: Mooney’s!
He led the way, admonishing:
—We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, will we not? Yes,
we will not. By no manner of means.
Mr O’Madden Burke, following close, said with an ally’s lunge of his
umbrella:
—Lay on, Macduff!
—Chip of the old block! the editor cried, clapping Stephen on the
shoulder. Let us go. Where are those blasted keys?
He fumbled in his pocket pulling out the crushed typesheets.
—Foot and mouth. I know. That’ll be all right. That’ll go in. Where are
they? That’s all right.
He thrust the sheets back and went into the inner office.
LET US HOPE
J. J. O’Molloy, about to follow him in, said quietly to Stephen:
—I hope you will live to see it published. Myles, one moment.
He went into the inner office, closing the door behind him.
—Come along, Stephen, the professor said. That is fine, isn’t it? It
has the prophetic vision. _Fuit Ilium!_ The sack of windy Troy.
Kingdoms of this world. The masters of the Mediterranean are fellaheen
today.
The first newsboy came pattering down the stairs at their heels and
rushed out into the street, yelling:
—Racing special!
Dublin. I have much, much to learn.
They turned to the left along Abbey street.
—I have a vision too, Stephen said.
—Yes? the professor said, skipping to get into step. Crawford will
follow.
Another newsboy shot past them, yelling as he ran:
—Racing special!
DEAR DIRTY DUBLIN
Dubliners.
—Two Dublin vestals, Stephen said, elderly and pious, have lived fifty
and fiftythree years in Fumbally’s lane.
—Where is that? the professor asked.
—Off Blackpitts, Stephen said.
Damp night reeking of hungry dough. Against the wall. Face glistering
tallow under her fustian shawl. Frantic hearts. Akasic records.
Quicker, darlint!
On now. Dare it. Let there be life.
—They want to see the views of Dublin from the top of Nelson’s pillar.
They save up three and tenpence in a red tin letterbox moneybox. They
shake out the threepenny bits and sixpences and coax out the pennies
with the blade of a knife. Two and three in silver and one and seven in
coppers. They put on their bonnets and best clothes and take their
umbrellas for fear it may come on to rain.
—Wise virgins, professor MacHugh said.
LIFE ON THE RAW
—They buy one and fourpenceworth of brawn and four slices of panloaf at
the north city diningrooms in Marlborough street from Miss Kate
Collins, proprietress... They purchase four and twenty ripe plums from
a girl at the foot of Nelson’s pillar to take off the thirst of the
brawn. They give two threepenny bits to the gentleman at the turnstile
and begin to waddle slowly up the winding staircase, grunting,
encouraging each other, afraid of the dark, panting, one asking the
other have you the brawn, praising God and the Blessed Virgin,
threatening to come down, peeping at the airslits. Glory be to God.
They had no idea it was that high.
Their names are Anne Kearns and Florence MacCabe. Anne Kearns has the
lumbago for which she rubs on Lourdes water, given her by a lady who
got a bottleful from a passionist father. Florence MacCabe takes a
crubeen and a bottle of double X for supper every Saturday.
—Antithesis, the professor said nodding twice. Vestal virgins. I can
see them. What’s keeping our friend?
He turned.
A bevy of scampering newsboys rushed down the steps, scattering in all
directions, yelling, their white papers fluttering. Hard after them
Myles Crawford appeared on the steps, his hat aureoling his scarlet
face, talking with J. J. O’Molloy.
—Come along, the professor cried, waving his arm.
He set off again to walk by Stephen’s side.
RETURN OF BLOOM
—Yes, he said. I see them.
Mr Bloom, breathless, caught in a whirl of wild newsboys near the
offices of the _Irish Catholic_ and _Dublin Penny Journal_, called:
—Mr Crawford! A moment!
—_Telegraph_! Racing special!
—What is it? Myles Crawford said, falling back a pace.
A newsboy cried in Mr Bloom’s face: