Ulysses
his purse. Passing the ivy church he reflected that the ticket
inspector usually made his visit when one had carelessly thrown away
the ticket. The solemnity of the occupants of the car seemed to Father
Conmee excessive for a journey so short and cheap. Father Conmee liked
cheerful decorum.
It was a peaceful day. The gentleman with the glasses opposite Father
Conmee had finished explaining and looked down. His wife, Father Conmee
supposed. A tiny yawn opened the mouth of the wife of the gentleman
with the glasses. She raised her small gloved fist, yawned ever so
gently, tiptapping her small gloved fist on her opening mouth and
smiled tinily, sweetly.
Father Conmee perceived her perfume in the car. He perceived also that
the awkward man at the other side of her was sitting on the edge of the
seat.
Father Conmee at the altarrails placed the host with difficulty in the
mouth of the awkward old man who had the shaky head.
At Annesley bridge the tram halted and, when it was about to go, an old
woman rose suddenly from her place to alight. The conductor pulled the
bellstrap to stay the car for her. She passed out with her basket and a
marketnet: and Father Conmee saw the conductor help her and net and
basket down: and Father Conmee thought that, as she had nearly passed
the end of the penny fare, she was one of those good souls who had
always to be told twice _bless you, my child,_ that they have been
absolved, _pray for me._ But they had so many worries in life, so many
cares, poor creatures.
From the hoardings Mr Eugene Stratton grimaced with thick niggerlips at
Father Conmee.
Father Conmee thought of the souls of black and brown and yellow men
and of his sermon on saint Peter Claver S. J. and the African mission
and of the propagation of the faith and of the millions of black and
brown and yellow souls that had not received the baptism of water when
their last hour came like a thief in the night. That book by the
Belgian jesuit, _Le Nombre des Élus,_ seemed to Father Conmee a
reasonable plea. Those were millions of human souls created by God in
His Own likeness to whom the faith had not (D.V.) been brought. But
they were God’s souls, created by God. It seemed to Father Conmee a
pity that they should all be lost, a waste, if one might say.
At the Howth road stop Father Conmee alighted, was saluted by the
conductor and saluted in his turn.
The Malahide road was quiet. It pleased Father Conmee, road and name.
The joybells were ringing in gay Malahide. Lord Talbot de Malahide,
immediate hereditary lord admiral of Malahide and the seas adjoining.
Then came the call to arms and she was maid, wife and widow in one day.
Those were old worldish days, loyal times in joyous townlands, old
times in the barony.
Father Conmee, walking, thought of his little book _Old Times in the
Barony_ and of the book that might be written about jesuit houses and
of Mary Rochfort, daughter of lord Molesworth, first countess of
Belvedere.
A listless lady, no more young, walked alone the shore of lough Ennel,
Mary, first countess of Belvedere, listlessly walking in the evening,
not startled when an otter plunged. Who could know the truth? Not the
jealous lord Belvedere and not her confessor if she had not committed
adultery fully, _eiaculatio seminis inter vas naturale mulieris,_ with
her husband’s brother? She would half confess if she had not all sinned
as women did. Only God knew and she and he, her husband’s brother.
Father Conmee thought of that tyrannous incontinence, needed however
for man’s race on earth, and of the ways of God which were not our
ways.
Don John Conmee walked and moved in times of yore. He was humane and
honoured there. He bore in mind secrets confessed and he smiled at
smiling noble faces in a beeswaxed drawingroom, ceiled with full fruit
clusters. And the hands of a bride and of a bridegroom, noble to noble,
were impalmed by Don John Conmee.
It was a charming day.
The lychgate of a field showed Father Conmee breadths of cabbages,
curtseying to him with ample underleaves. The sky showed him a flock of
small white clouds going slowly down the wind. _Moutonner,_ the French
said. A just and homely word.
Father Conmee, reading his office, watched a flock of muttoning clouds
over Rathcoffey. His thinsocked ankles were tickled by the stubble of
Clongowes field. He walked there, reading in the evening, and heard the
cries of the boys’ lines at their play, young cries in the quiet
evening. He was their rector: his reign was mild.
Father Conmee drew off his gloves and took his rededged breviary out.
An ivory bookmark told him the page.
Nones. He should have read that before lunch. But lady Maxwell had
come.
Father Conmee read in secret _Pater_ and _Ave_ and crossed his breast.
_Deus in adiutorium._
He walked calmly and read mutely the nones, walking and reading till he
came to _Res_ in _Beati immaculati: Principium verborum tuorum veritas:
in eternum omnia iudicia iustitiæ tuæ._
A flushed young man came from a gap of a hedge and after him came a
young woman with wild nodding daisies in her hand. The young man raised
his cap abruptly: the young woman abruptly bent and with slow care
detached from her light skirt a clinging twig.
Father Conmee blessed both gravely and turned a thin page of his
breviary. _Sin: Principes persecuti sunt me gratis: et a verbis tuis
formidavit cor meum._
* * *
Corny Kelleher closed his long daybook and glanced with his drooping
eye at a pine coffinlid sentried in a corner. He pulled himself erect,
went to it and, spinning it on its axle, viewed its shape and brass
furnishings. Chewing his blade of hay he laid the coffinlid by and came
to the doorway. There he tilted his hatbrim to give shade to his eyes
and leaned against the doorcase, looking idly out.
Father John Conmee stepped into the Dollymount tram on Newcomen bridge.
Corny Kelleher locked his largefooted boots and gazed, his hat
downtilted, chewing his blade of hay.
Constable 57C, on his beat, stood to pass the time of day.
—That’s a fine day, Mr Kelleher.
—Ay, Corny Kelleher said.
—It’s very close, the constable said.
Corny Kelleher sped a silent jet of hayjuice arching from his mouth
while a generous white arm from a window in Eccles street flung forth a
coin.
—What’s the best news? he asked.
—I seen that particular party last evening, the constable said with
bated breath.
* * *
A onelegged sailor crutched himself round MacConnell’s corner, skirting
Rabaiotti’s icecream car, and jerked himself up Eccles street. Towards
Larry O’Rourke, in shirtsleeves in his doorway, he growled unamiably:
—_For England_...
He swung himself violently forward past Katey and Boody Dedalus, halted
and growled:
—_home and beauty._
J. J. O’Molloy’s white careworn face was told that Mr Lambert was in
the warehouse with a visitor.
A stout lady stopped, took a copper coin from her purse and dropped it
into the cap held out to her. The sailor grumbled thanks, glanced
sourly at the unheeding windows, sank his head and swung himself
forward four strides.
He halted and growled angrily:
—_For England_...
Two barefoot urchins, sucking long liquorice laces, halted near him,
gaping at his stump with their yellowslobbered mouths.
He swung himself forward in vigorous jerks, halted, lifted his head
towards a window and bayed deeply:
—_home and beauty._
The gay sweet chirping whistling within went on a bar or two, ceased.
The blind of the window was drawn aside. A card _Unfurnished
Apartments_ slipped from the sash and fell. A plump bare generous arm
shone, was seen, held forth from a white petticoatbodice and taut
shiftstraps. A woman’s hand flung forth a coin over the area railings.
It fell on the path.
One of the urchins ran to it, picked it up and dropped it into the
minstrel’s cap, saying:
—There, sir.
* * *
Katey and Boody Dedalus shoved in the door of the closesteaming
kitchen.
—Did you put in the books? Boody asked.
Maggy at the range rammed down a greyish mass beneath bubbling suds
twice with her potstick and wiped her brow.
—They wouldn’t give anything on them, she said.
Father Conmee walked through Clongowes fields, his thinsocked ankles
tickled by stubble.
—Where did you try? Boody asked.
—M’Guinness’s.
Boody stamped her foot and threw her satchel on the table.
—Bad cess to her big face! she cried.
Katey went to the range and peered with squinting eyes.
—What’s in the pot? she asked.
—Shirts, Maggy said.
Boody cried angrily:
—Crickey, is there nothing for us to eat?
Katey, lifting the kettlelid in a pad of her stained skirt, asked:
—And what’s in this?
A heavy fume gushed in answer.
—Peasoup, Maggy said.
—Where did you get it? Katey asked.
—Sister Mary Patrick, Maggy said.
The lacquey rang his bell.
—Barang!
Boody sat down at the table and said hungrily:
—Give us it here.
Maggy poured yellow thick soup from the kettle into a bowl. Katey,
sitting opposite Boody, said quietly, as her fingertip lifted to her
mouth random crumbs:
—A good job we have that much. Where’s Dilly?
—Gone to meet father, Maggy said.
Boody, breaking big chunks of bread into the yellow soup, added:
—Our father who art not in heaven.
Maggy, pouring yellow soup in Katey’s bowl, exclaimed:
—Boody! For shame!
A skiff, a crumpled throwaway, Elijah is coming, rode lightly down the
Liffey, under Loopline bridge, shooting the rapids where water chafed
around the bridgepiers, sailing eastward past hulls and anchorchains,
between the Customhouse old dock and George’s quay.
* * *
The blond girl in Thornton’s bedded the wicker basket with rustling
fibre. Blazes Boylan handed her the bottle swathed in pink tissue paper
and a small jar.
—Put these in first, will you? he said.
—Yes, sir, the blond girl said. And the fruit on top.
—That’ll do, game ball, Blazes Boylan said.
She bestowed fat pears neatly, head by tail, and among them ripe
shamefaced peaches.
Blazes Boylan walked here and there in new tan shoes about the
fruitsmelling shop, lifting fruits, young juicy crinkled and plump red
tomatoes, sniffing smells.
H. E. L. Y.’S filed before him, tallwhitehatted, past Tangier lane,
plodding towards their goal.
He turned suddenly from a chip of strawberries, drew a gold watch from
his fob and held it at its chain’s length.
—Can you send them by tram? Now?
A darkbacked figure under Merchants’ arch scanned books on the hawker’s
cart.
—Certainly, sir. Is it in the city?
—O, yes, Blazes Boylan said. Ten minutes.
The blond girl handed him a docket and pencil.
—Will you write the address, sir?
Blazes Boylan at the counter wrote and pushed the docket to her.
—Send it at once, will you? he said. It’s for an invalid.
—Yes, sir. I will, sir.
Blazes Boylan rattled merry money in his trousers’ pocket.
—What’s the damage? he asked.
The blond girl’s slim fingers reckoned the fruits.
Blazes Boylan looked into the cut of her blouse. A young pullet. He
took a red carnation from the tall stemglass.
—This for me? he asked gallantly.
The blond girl glanced sideways at him, got up regardless, with his tie
a bit crooked, blushing.
—Yes, sir, she said.
Bending archly she reckoned again fat pears and blushing peaches.
Blazes Boylan looked in her blouse with more favour, the stalk of the
red flower between his smiling teeth.
—May I say a word to your telephone, missy? he asked roguishly.
* * *
_—Ma!_ Almidano Artifoni said.
He gazed over Stephen’s shoulder at Goldsmith’s knobby poll.
Two carfuls of tourists passed slowly, their women sitting fore,
gripping the handrests. Palefaces. Men’s arms frankly round their