Ulysses
Sassenach tried to starve the nation at home while the land was full of
crops that the British hyenas bought and sold in Rio de Janeiro. Ay,
they drove out the peasants in hordes. Twenty thousand of them died in
the coffinships. But those that came to the land of the free remember
the land of bondage. And they will come again and with a vengeance, no
cravens, the sons of Granuaile, the champions of Kathleen ni Houlihan.
—Perfectly true, says Bloom. But my point was...
—We are a long time waiting for that day, citizen, says Ned. Since the
poor old woman told us that the French were on the sea and landed at
Killala.
—Ay, says John Wyse. We fought for the royal Stuarts that reneged us
against the Williamites and they betrayed us. Remember Limerick and the
broken treatystone. We gave our best blood to France and Spain, the
wild geese. Fontenoy, eh? And Sarsfield and O’Donnell, duke of Tetuan
in Spain, and Ulysses Browne of Camus that was fieldmarshal to Maria
Teresa. But what did we ever get for it?
—The French! says the citizen. Set of dancing masters! Do you know what
it is? They were never worth a roasted fart to Ireland. Aren’t they
trying to make an _Entente cordiale_ now at Tay Pay’s dinnerparty with
perfidious Albion? Firebrands of Europe and they always were.
—_Conspuez les Français_, says Lenehan, nobbling his beer.
—And as for the Prooshians and the Hanoverians, says Joe, haven’t we
had enough of those sausageeating bastards on the throne from George
the elector down to the German lad and the flatulent old bitch that’s
dead?
Jesus, I had to laugh at the way he came out with that about the old
one with the winkers on her, blind drunk in her royal palace every
night of God, old Vic, with her jorum of mountain dew and her coachman
carting her up body and bones to roll into bed and she pulling him by
the whiskers and singing him old bits of songs about _Ehren on the
Rhine_ and come where the boose is cheaper.
—Well, says J. J. We have Edward the peacemaker now.
—Tell that to a fool, says the citizen. There’s a bloody sight more pox
than pax about that boyo. Edward Guelph-Wettin!
—And what do you think, says Joe, of the holy boys, the priests and
bishops of Ireland doing up his room in Maynooth in His Satanic
Majesty’s racing colours and sticking up pictures of all the horses his
jockeys rode. The earl of Dublin, no less.
—They ought to have stuck up all the women he rode himself, says little
Alf.
And says J. J.:
—Considerations of space influenced their lordships’ decision.
—Will you try another, citizen? says Joe.
—Yes, sir, says he. I will.
—You? says Joe.
—Beholden to you, Joe, says I. May your shadow never grow less.
—Repeat that dose, says Joe.
Bloom was talking and talking with John Wyse and he quite excited with
his dunducketymudcoloured mug on him and his old plumeyes rolling
about.
—Persecution, says he, all the history of the world is full of it.
Perpetuating national hatred among nations.
—But do you know what a nation means? says John Wyse.
—Yes, says Bloom.
—What is it? says John Wyse.
—A nation? says Bloom. A nation is the same people living in the same
place.
—By God, then, says Ned, laughing, if that’s so I’m a nation for I’m
living in the same place for the past five years.
So of course everyone had the laugh at Bloom and says he, trying to
muck out of it:
—Or also living in different places.
—That covers my case, says Joe.
—What is your nation if I may ask? says the citizen.
—Ireland, says Bloom. I was born here. Ireland.
The citizen said nothing only cleared the spit out of his gullet and,
gob, he spat a Red bank oyster out of him right in the corner.
—After you with the push, Joe, says he, taking out his handkerchief to
swab himself dry.
—Here you are, citizen, says Joe. Take that in your right hand and
repeat after me the following words.
The muchtreasured and intricately embroidered ancient Irish facecloth
attributed to Solomon of Droma and Manus Tomaltach og MacDonogh,
authors of the Book of Ballymote, was then carefully produced and
called forth prolonged admiration. No need to dwell on the legendary
beauty of the cornerpieces, the acme of art, wherein one can distinctly
discern each of the four evangelists in turn presenting to each of the
four masters his evangelical symbol, a bogoak sceptre, a North American
puma (a far nobler king of beasts than the British article, be it said
in passing), a Kerry calf and a golden eagle from Carrantuohill. The
scenes depicted on the emunctory field, showing our ancient duns and
raths and cromlechs and grianauns and seats of learning and maledictive
stones, are as wonderfully beautiful and the pigments as delicate as
when the Sligo illuminators gave free rein to their artistic fantasy
long long ago in the time of the Barmecides. Glendalough, the lovely
lakes of Killarney, the ruins of Clonmacnois, Cong Abbey, Glen Inagh
and the Twelve Pins, Ireland’s Eye, the Green Hills of Tallaght, Croagh
Patrick, the brewery of Messrs Arthur Guinness, Son and Company
(Limited), Lough Neagh’s banks, the vale of Ovoca, Isolde’s tower, the
Mapas obelisk, Sir Patrick Dun’s hospital, Cape Clear, the glen of
Aherlow, Lynch’s castle, the Scotch house, Rathdown Union Workhouse at
Loughlinstown, Tullamore jail, Castleconnel rapids,
Kilballymacshonakill, the cross at Monasterboice, Jury’s Hotel, S.
Patrick’s Purgatory, the Salmon Leap, Maynooth college refectory,
Curley’s hole, the three birthplaces of the first duke of Wellington,
the rock of Cashel, the bog of Allen, the Henry Street Warehouse,
Fingal’s Cave—all these moving scenes are still there for us today
rendered more beautiful still by the waters of sorrow which have passed
over them and by the rich incrustations of time.
—Show us over the drink, says I. Which is which?
—That’s mine, says Joe, as the devil said to the dead policeman.
—And I belong to a race too, says Bloom, that is hated and persecuted.
Also now. This very moment. This very instant.
Gob, he near burnt his fingers with the butt of his old cigar.
—Robbed, says he. Plundered. Insulted. Persecuted. Taking what belongs
to us by right. At this very moment, says he, putting up his fist, sold
by auction in Morocco like slaves or cattle.
—Are you talking about the new Jerusalem? says the citizen.
—I’m talking about injustice, says Bloom.
—Right, says John Wyse. Stand up to it then with force like men.
That’s an almanac picture for you. Mark for a softnosed bullet. Old
lardyface standing up to the business end of a gun. Gob, he’d adorn a
sweepingbrush, so he would, if he only had a nurse’s apron on him. And
then he collapses all of a sudden, twisting around all the opposite, as
limp as a wet rag.
—But it’s no use, says he. Force, hatred, history, all that. That’s not
life for men and women, insult and hatred. And everybody knows that
it’s the very opposite of that that is really life.
—What? says Alf.
—Love, says Bloom. I mean the opposite of hatred. I must go now, says
he to John Wyse. Just round to the court a moment to see if Martin is
there. If he comes just say I’ll be back in a second. Just a moment.
Who’s hindering you? And off he pops like greased lightning.
—A new apostle to the gentiles, says the citizen. Universal love.
—Well, says John Wyse. Isn’t that what we’re told. Love your neighbour.
—That chap? says the citizen. Beggar my neighbour is his motto. Love,
moya! He’s a nice pattern of a Romeo and Juliet.
Love loves to love love. Nurse loves the new chemist. Constable 14A
loves Mary Kelly. Gerty MacDowell loves the boy that has the bicycle.
M. B. loves a fair gentleman. Li Chi Han lovey up kissy Cha Pu Chow.
Jumbo, the elephant, loves Alice, the elephant. Old Mr Verschoyle with
the ear trumpet loves old Mrs Verschoyle with the turnedin eye. The man
in the brown macintosh loves a lady who is dead. His Majesty the King
loves Her Majesty the Queen. Mrs Norman W. Tupper loves officer Taylor.
You love a certain person. And this person loves that other person
because everybody loves somebody but God loves everybody.
—Well, Joe, says I, your very good health and song. More power,
citizen.
—Hurrah, there, says Joe.
—The blessing of God and Mary and Patrick on you, says the citizen.
And he ups with his pint to wet his whistle.
—We know those canters, says he, preaching and picking your pocket.
What about sanctimonious Cromwell and his ironsides that put the women
and children of Drogheda to the sword with the bible text _God is love_
pasted round the mouth of his cannon? The bible! Did you read that skit
in the _United Irishman_ today about that Zulu chief that’s visiting
England?
—What’s that? says Joe.
So the citizen takes up one of his paraphernalia papers and he starts
reading out:
—A delegation of the chief cotton magnates of Manchester was presented
yesterday to His Majesty the Alaki of Abeakuta by Gold Stick in
Waiting, Lord Walkup of Walkup on Eggs, to tender to His Majesty the
heartfelt thanks of British traders for the facilities afforded them in
his dominions. The delegation partook of luncheon at the conclusion of
which the dusky potentate, in the course of a happy speech, freely
translated by the British chaplain, the reverend Ananias Praisegod
Barebones, tendered his best thanks to Massa Walkup and emphasised the
cordial relations existing between Abeakuta and the British empire,
stating that he treasured as one of his dearest possessions an
illuminated bible, the volume of the word of God and the secret of
England’s greatness, graciously presented to him by the white chief
woman, the great squaw Victoria, with a personal dedication from the
august hand of the Royal Donor. The Alaki then drank a lovingcup of
firstshot usquebaugh to the toast _Black and White_ from the skull of
his immediate predecessor in the dynasty Kakachakachak, surnamed Forty
Warts, after which he visited the chief factory of Cottonopolis and
signed his mark in the visitors’ book, subsequently executing a
charming old Abeakutic wardance, in the course of which he swallowed
several knives and forks, amid hilarious applause from the girl hands.
—Widow woman, says Ned. I wouldn’t doubt her. Wonder did he put that
bible to the same use as I would.
—Same only more so, says Lenehan. And thereafter in that fruitful land
the broadleaved mango flourished exceedingly.
—Is that by Griffith? says John Wyse.
—No, says the citizen. It’s not signed Shanganagh. It’s only
initialled: P.
—And a very good initial too, says Joe.
—That’s how it’s worked, says the citizen. Trade follows the flag.
—Well, says J. J., if they’re any worse than those Belgians in the
Congo Free State they must be bad. Did you read that report by a man
what’s this his name is?
—Casement, says the citizen. He’s an Irishman.
—Yes, that’s the man, says J. J. Raping the women and girls and
flogging the natives on the belly to squeeze all the red rubber they
can out of them.
—I know where he’s gone, says Lenehan, cracking his fingers.
—Who? says I.
—Bloom, says he. The courthouse is a blind. He had a few bob on
_Throwaway_ and he’s gone to gather in the shekels.
—Is it that whiteeyed kaffir? says the citizen, that never backed a
horse in anger in his life?
—That’s where he’s gone, says Lenehan. I met Bantam Lyons going to back
that horse only I put him off it and he told me Bloom gave him the tip.
Bet you what you like he has a hundred shillings to five on. He’s the
only man in Dublin has it. A dark horse.
—He’s a bloody dark horse himself, says Joe.
—Mind, Joe, says I. Show us the entrance out.
—There you are, says Terry.
Goodbye Ireland I’m going to Gort. So I just went round the back of the