Ulysses
kimono gown. She glides sidling and bowing, twirling japanesily.)_
MRS CUNNINGHAM: _(Sings.)_
And they call me the jewel of Asia!
MARTIN CUNNINGHAM: _(Gazes on her, impassive.)_ Immense! Most bloody
awful demirep!
STEPHEN: _Et exaltabuntur cornua iusti._ Queens lay with prize bulls.
Remember Pasiphae for whose lust my grandoldgrossfather made the first
confessionbox. Forget not Madam Grissel Steevens nor the suine scions
of the house of Lambert. And Noah was drunk with wine. And his ark was
open.
BELLA: None of that here. Come to the wrong shop.
LYNCH: Let him alone. He’s back from Paris.
ZOE: _(Runs to stephen and links him.)_ O go on! Give us some
parleyvoo.
_(Stephen claps hat on head and leaps over to the fireplace where he
stands with shrugged shoulders, finny hands outspread, a painted smile
on his face.)_
LYNCH: _(Pommelling on the sofa.)_ Rmm Rmm Rmm Rrrrrrmmmmm.
STEPHEN: _(Gabbles with marionette jerks.)_ Thousand places of
entertainment to expense your evenings with lovely ladies saling gloves
and other things perhaps hers heart beerchops perfect fashionable house
very eccentric where lots cocottes beautiful dressed much about
princesses like are dancing cancan and walking there parisian
clowneries extra foolish for bachelors foreigns the same if talking a
poor english how much smart they are on things love and sensations
voluptuous. Misters very selects for is pleasure must to visit heaven
and hell show with mortuary candles and they tears silver which occur
every night. Perfectly shocking terrific of religion’s things mockery
seen in universal world. All chic womans which arrive full of modesty
then disrobe and squeal loud to see vampire man debauch nun very fresh
young with _dessous troublants_. _(He clacks his tongue loudly.)_ _Ho,
là là! Ce pif qu’il a!_
LYNCH: _Vive le vampire!_
THE WHORES: Bravo! Parleyvoo!
STEPHEN: _(Grimacing with head back, laughs loudly, clapping himself.)_
Great success of laughing. Angels much prostitutes like and holy
apostles big damn ruffians. _Demimondaines_ nicely handsome sparkling
of diamonds very amiable costumed. Or do you are fond better what
belongs they moderns pleasure turpitude of old mans? _(He points about
him with grotesque gestures which Lynch and the whores reply to.)_
Caoutchouc statue woman reversible or lifesize tompeeptom of virgins
nudities very lesbic the kiss five ten times. Enter, gentleman, to see
in mirror every positions trapezes all that machine there besides also
if desire act awfully bestial butcher’s boy pollutes in warm veal liver
or omlet on the belly _pièce de Shakespeare._
BELLA: _(Clapping her belly sinks back on the sofa, with a shout of
laughter.)_ An omelette on the... Ho! ho! ho! ho!... omelette on the...
STEPHEN: _(Mincingly.)_ I love you, sir darling. Speak you englishman
tongue for _double entente cordiale._ O yes, _mon loup_. How much cost?
Waterloo. Watercloset. _(He ceases suddenly and holds up a
forefinger.)_
BELLA: _(Laughing.)_ Omelette...
THE WHORES: _(Laughing.)_ Encore! Encore!
STEPHEN: Mark me. I dreamt of a watermelon.
ZOE: Go abroad and love a foreign lady.
LYNCH: Across the world for a wife.
FLORRY: Dreams goes by contraries.
STEPHEN: _(Extends his arms.)_ It was here. Street of harlots. In
Serpentine avenue Beelzebub showed me her, a fubsy widow. Where’s the
red carpet spread?
BLOOM: _(Approaching Stephen.)_ Look...
STEPHEN: No, I flew. My foes beneath me. And ever shall be. World
without end. _(He cries.) Pater!_ Free!
BLOOM: I say, look...
STEPHEN: Break my spirit, will he? _O merde alors! (He cries, his
vulture talons sharpened.)_ Hola! Hillyho!
_(Simon Dedalus’ voice hilloes in answer, somewhat sleepy but ready.)_
SIMON: That’s all right. _(He swoops uncertainly through the air,
wheeling, uttering cries of heartening, on strong ponderous buzzard
wings.)_ Ho, boy! Are you going to win? Hoop! Pschatt! Stable with
those halfcastes. Wouldn’t let them within the bawl of an ass. Head up!
Keep our flag flying! An eagle gules volant in a field argent
displayed. Ulster king at arms! Haihoop! _(He makes the beagle’s call,
giving tongue.)_ Bulbul! Burblblburblbl! Hai, boy!
_(The fronds and spaces of the wallpaper file rapidly across country. A
stout fox, drawn from covert, brush pointed, having buried his
grandmother, runs swift for the open, brighteyed, seeking badger earth,
under the leaves. The pack of staghounds follows, nose to the ground,
sniffing their quarry, beaglebaying, burblbrbling to be blooded. Ward
Union huntsmen and huntswomen live with them, hot for a kill. From Six
Mile Point, Flathouse, Nine Mile Stone follow the footpeople with
knotty sticks, hayforks, salmongaffs, lassos, flockmasters with
stockwhips, bearbaiters with tomtoms, toreadors with bullswords, grey
negroes waving torches. The crowd bawls of dicers, crown and anchor
players, thimbleriggers, broadsmen. Crows and touts, hoarse bookies in
high wizard hats clamour deafeningly.)_
THE CROWD:
Card of the races. Racing card!
Ten to one the field!
Tommy on the clay here! Tommy on the clay!
Ten to one bar one! Ten to one bar one!
Try your luck on Spinning Jenny!
Ten to one bar one!
Sell the monkey, boys! Sell the monkey!
I’ll give ten to one!
Ten to one bar one!
_(A dark horse, riderless, bolts like a phantom past the winningpost,
his mane moonfoaming, his eyeballs stars. The field follows, a bunch of
bucking mounts. Skeleton horses, Sceptre, Maximum the Second,
Zinfandel, the Duke of Westminster’s Shotover, Repulse, the Duke of
Beaufort’s Ceylon, prix de Paris. Dwarfs ride them, rustyarmoured,
leaping, leaping in their, in their saddles. Last in a drizzle of rain
on a brokenwinded isabelle nag, Cock of the North, the favourite, honey
cap, green jacket, orange sleeves, Garrett Deasy up, gripping the
reins, a hockeystick at the ready. His nag on spavined whitegaitered
feet jogs along the rocky road.)_
THE ORANGE LODGES: _(Jeering.)_ Get down and push, mister. Last lap!
You’ll be home the night!
GARRETT DEASY: _(Bolt upright, his nailscraped face plastered with
postagestamps, brandishes his hockeystick, his blue eyes flashing in
the prism of the chandelier as his mount lopes by at schooling
gallop.)_
_Per vias rectas!_
_(A yoke of buckets leopards all over him and his rearing nag a torrent
of mutton broth with dancing coins of carrots, barley, onions, turnips,
potatoes.)_
THE GREEN LODGES: Soft day, sir John! Soft day, your honour!
_(Private Carr, Private Compton and Cissy Caffrey pass beneath the
windows, singing in discord.)_
STEPHEN: Hark! Our friend noise in the street.
ZOE: _(Holds up her hand.)_ Stop!
PRIVATE CARR, PRIVATE COMPTON AND CISSY CAFFREY:
Yet I’ve a sort of a
Yorkshire relish for...
ZOE: That’s me. _(She claps her hands.)_ Dance! Dance! _(She runs to
the pianola.)_ Who has twopence?
BLOOM: Who’ll...?
LYNCH: _(Handing her coins.)_ Here.
STEPHEN: _(Cracking his fingers impatiently.)_ Quick! Quick! Where’s my
augur’s rod? _(He runs to the piano and takes his ashplant, beating his
foot in tripudium.)_
ZOE: _(Turns the drumhandle.)_ There.
_(She drops two pennies in the slot. Gold, pink and violet lights start
forth. The drum turns purring in low hesitation waltz. Professor
Goodwin, in a bowknotted periwig, in court dress, wearing a stained
inverness cape, bent in two from incredible age, totters across the
room, his hands fluttering. He sits tinily on the pianostool and lifts
and beats handless sticks of arms on the keyboard, nodding with
damsel’s grace, his bowknot bobbing.)_
ZOE: _(Twirls round herself, heeltapping.)_ Dance. Anybody here for
there? Who’ll dance? Clear the table.
_(The pianola with changing lights plays in waltz time the prelude of_
My Girl’s a Yorkshire Girl. _Stephen throws his ashplant on the table
and seizes Zoe round the waist. Florry and Bella push the table towards
the fireplace. Stephen, arming Zoe with exaggerated grace, begins to
waltz her round the room. Bloom stands aside. Her sleeve falling from
gracing arms, reveals a white fleshflower of vaccination. Between the
curtains Professor Maginni inserts a leg on the toepoint of which spins
a silk hat. With a deft kick he sends it spinning to his crown and
jauntyhatted skates in. He wears a slate frockcoat with claret silk
lapels, a gorget of cream tulle, a green lowcut waistcoat, stock collar
with white kerchief, tight lavender trousers, patent pumps and canary
gloves. In his buttonhole is an immense dahlia. He twirls in reversed
directions a clouded cane, then wedges it tight in his oxter. He places
a hand lightly on his breastbone, bows, and fondles his flower and
buttons.)_
MAGINNI: The poetry of motion, art of calisthenics. No connection with
Madam Legget Byrne’s or Levenston’s. Fancy dress balls arranged.
Deportment. The Katty Lanner step. So. Watch me! My terpsichorean
abilities. _(He minuets forward three paces on tripping bee’s feet.)
Tout le monde en avant! Révérence! Tout le monde en place!_
_(The prelude ceases. Professor Goodwin, beating vague arms shrivels,
sinks, his live cape falling about the stool. The air in firmer waltz
time sounds. Stephen and Zoe circle freely. The lights change, glow,
fade gold rosy violet.)_
THE PIANOLA:
Two young fellows were talking about their girls, girls, girls,
Sweethearts they’d left behind...
_(From a corner the morning hours run out, goldhaired, slimsandalled,
in girlish blue, waspwaisted, with innocent hands. Nimbly they dance,
twirling their skipping ropes. The hours of noon follow in amber gold.
Laughing, linked, high haircombs flashing, they catch the sun in
mocking mirrors, lifting their arms.)_
MAGINNI: _(Clipclaps glovesilent hands.) Carré! Avant deux!_ Breathe
evenly! _Balance!_
_(The morning and noon hours waltz in their places, turning, advancing
to each other, shaping their curves, bowing visavis. Cavaliers behind
them arch and suspend their arms, with hands descending to, touching,
rising from their shoulders.)_
HOURS: You may touch my.
CAVALIERS: May I touch your?
HOURS: O, but lightly!
CAVALIERS: O, so lightly!
THE PIANOLA:
My little shy little lass has a waist.
_(Zoe and Stephen turn boldly with looser swing. The twilight hours
advance from long landshadows, dispersed, lagging, languideyed, their
cheeks delicate with cipria and false faint bloom. They are in grey
gauze with dark bat sleeves that flutter in the land breeze.)_
MAGINNI: _Avant huit! Traversé! Salut! Cours de mains! Croisé!_
_(The night hours, one by one, steal to the last place. Morning, noon
and twilight hours retreat before them. They are masked, with daggered
hair and bracelets of dull bells. Weary they curchycurchy under
veils.)_
THE BRACELETS: Heigho! Heigho!
ZOE: _(Twirling, her hand to her brow.)_ O!
MAGINNI: _Les tiroirs! Chaîne de dames! La corbeille! Dos à dos!_
_(Arabesquing wearily they weave a pattern on the floor, weaving,
unweaving, curtseying, twirling, simply swirling.)_
ZOE: I’m giddy!
_(She frees herself, droops on a chair. Stephen seizes Florry and turns
with her.)_
MAGINNI: _Boulangère! Les ronds! Les ponts! Chevaux de bois!
Escargots!_
_(Twining, receding, with interchanging hands the night hours link each
each with arching arms in a mosaic of movements. Stephen and Florry
turn cumbrously.)_
MAGINNI: _Dansez avec vos dames! Changez de dames! Donnez le petit
bouquet à votre dame! Remerciez!_
THE PIANOLA:
Best, best of all,
Baraabum!
KITTY: _(Jumps up.)_ O, they played that on the hobbyhorses at the
_Mirus_ bazaar!
_(She runs to Stephen. He leaves Florry brusquely and seizes Kitty. A