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Ulysses (version 2)

(The two whores rush to the halldoor. Lynch and Kitty and Zoe stampede from the room. They talk excitedly. Bloom follows, returns.) THE WHORES: (Jammed in the doorway, pointing.) Down there. ZOE: (Pointing.) There. There’s something up. BELLA: Who pays for the lamp? (She seizes Bloom’s coattail.) Here, you were with him. The lamp’s broken. BLOOM: (Rushes to the hall, rushes back.) What lamp, woman? A WHORE: He tore his coat. BELLA: (Her eyes hard with anger and cupidity, points.) Who’s to pay for that? Ten shillings. You’re a witness. BLOOM: (Snatches up Stephen’s ashplant.) Me? Ten shillings? Haven’t you lifted enough off him? Didn’t he...? BELLA: (Loudly.) Here, none of your tall talk. This isn’t a brothel. A ten shilling house. BLOOM: (His head under the lamp, pulls the chain. Pulling, the gasjet lights up a crushed mauve purple shade. He raises the ashplant.) Only the chimney’s broken. Here is all he... BELLA: (Shrinks back and screams.) Jesus! Don’t! BLOOM: (Warding off a blow.) To show you how he hit the paper. There’s not sixpenceworth of damage done. Ten shillings! FLORRY: (With a glass of water, enters.) Where is he? BELLA: Do you want me to call the police? BLOOM: O, I know. Bulldog on the premises. But he’s a Trinity student. Patrons of your establishment. Gentlemen that pay the rent. (He makes a masonic sign.) Know what I mean? Nephew of the vicechancellor. You don’t want a scandal. BELLA: (Angrily.) Trinity. Coming down here ragging after the boatraces and paying nothing. Are you my commander here or? Where is he? I’ll charge him! Disgrace him, I will! (She shouts.) Zoe! Zoe! BLOOM: (Urgently.) And if it were your own son in Oxford? (Warningly.) I know. BELLA: (Almost speechless.) Who are. Incog! ZOE: (In the doorway.) There’s a row on. BLOOM: What? Where? (He throws a shilling on the table and starts.) That’s for the chimney. Where? I need mountain air. (He hurries out through the hall. The whores point. Florry follows, spilling water from her tilted tumbler. On the doorstep all the whores clustered talk volubly, pointing to the right where the fog has cleared off. From the left arrives a jingling hackney car. It slows to in front of the house. Bloom at the halldoor perceives Corny Kelleher who is about to dismount from the car with two silent lechers. He averts his face. Bella from within the hall urges on her whores. They blow ickylickysticky yumyum kisses. Corny Kelleher replies with a ghastly lewd smile. The silent lechers turn to pay the jarvey. Zoe and Kitty still point right. Bloom, parting them swiftly, draws his caliph’s hood and poncho and hurries down the steps with sideways face. Incog Haroun al Raschid he flits behind the silent lechers and hastens on by the railings with fleet step of a pard strewing the drag behind him, torn envelopes drenched in aniseed. The ashplant marks his stride. A pack of bloodhounds, led by Hornblower of Trinity brandishing a dogwhip in tallyho cap and an old pair of grey trousers, follows from far, picking up the scent, nearer, baying, panting, at fault, breaking away, throwing their tongues, biting his heels, leaping at his tail. He walks, runs, zigzags, gallops, lugs laid back. He is pelted with gravel, cabbagestumps, biscuitboxes, eggs, potatoes, dead codfish, woman’s slipperslappers. After him freshfound the hue and cry zigzag gallops in hot pursuit of follow my leader: 65 C, 66 C, night watch, John Henry Menton, Wisdom Hely, V. B. Dillon, Councillor Nannetti, Alexander Keyes, Larry O’Rourke, Joe Cuffe, Mrs O’Dowd, Pisser Burke, The Nameless One, Mrs Riordan, The Citizen, Garryowen, Whodoyoucallhim, Strangeface, Fellowthatsolike, Sawhimbefore, Chapwithawen, Chris Callinan, sir Charles Cameron, Benjamin Dollard, Lenehan, Bartell d’Arcy, Joe Hynes, red Murray, editor Brayden, T. M. Healy, Mr Justice Fitzgibbon, John Howard Parnell, the reverend Tinned Salmon, Professor Joly, Mrs Breen, Denis Breen, Theodore Purefoy, Mina Purefoy, the Westland Row postmistress, C. P. M’Coy, friend of Lyons, Hoppy Holohan, maninthestreet, othermaninthestreet, Footballboots, pugnosed driver, rich protestant lady, Davy Byrne, Mrs Ellen M’Guinness, Mrs Joe Gallaher, George Lidwell, Jimmy Henry on corns, Superintendent Laracy, Father Cowley, Crofton out of the Collector-general’s, Dan Dawson, dental surgeon Bloom with tweezers, Mrs Bob Doran, Mrs Kennefick, Mrs Wyse Nolan, John Wyse Nolan, handsomemarriedwomanrubbedagainstwidebehindinClonskea tram, the bookseller of Sweets of Sin, Miss Dubedatandshedidbedad, Mesdames Gerald and Stanislaus Moran of Roebuck, the managing clerk of Drimmie’s, Wetherup, colonel Hayes, Mastiansky, Citron, Penrose, Aaron Figatner, Moses Herzog, Michael E Geraghty, Inspector Troy, Mrs Galbraith, the constable off Eccles street corner, old doctor Brady with stethoscope, the mystery man on the beach, a retriever, Mrs Miriam Dandrade and all her lovers.) THE HUE AND CRY: (Helterskelterpelterwelter.) He’s Bloom! Stop Bloom! Stopabloom! Stopperrobber! Hi! Hi! Stophim on the corner! (At the corner of Beaver street beneath the scaffolding Bloom panting stops on the fringe of the noisy quarrelling knot, a lot not knowing a jot what hi! hi! row and wrangle round the whowhat brawlaltogether.) STEPHEN: (With elaborate gestures, breathing deeply and slowly.) You are my guests. Uninvited. By virtue of the fifth of George and seventh of Edward. History to blame. Fabled by mothers of memory. PRIVATE CARR: (To Cissy Caffrey.) Was he insulting you? STEPHEN: Addressed her in vocative feminine. Probably neuter. Ungenitive. VOICES: No, he didn’t. I seen him. The girl there. He was in Mrs Cohen’s. What’s up? Soldier and civilian. CISSY CAFFREY: I was in company with the soldiers and they left me to do—you know, and the young man run up behind me. But I’m faithful to the man that’s treating me though I’m only a shilling whore. STEPHEN: (Catches sight of Lynch’s and Kitty’s heads.) Hail, Sisyphus. (He points to himself and the others.) Poetic. Uropoetic. VOICES: Shes faithfultheman. CISSY CAFFREY: Yes, to go with him. And me with a soldier friend. PRIVATE COMPTON: He doesn’t half want a thick ear, the blighter. Biff him one, Harry. PRIVATE CARR: (To Cissy.) Was he insulting you while me and him was having a piss? LORD TENNYSON: (Gentleman poet in Union Jack blazer and cricket flannels, bareheaded, flowingbearded.) Theirs not to reason why. PRIVATE COMPTON: Biff him, Harry. STEPHEN: (To Private Compton.) I don’t know your name but you are quite right. Doctor Swift says one man in armour will beat ten men in their shirts. Shirt is synechdoche. Part for the whole. CISSY CAFFREY: (To the crowd.) No, I was with the privates. STEPHEN: (Amiably.) Why not? The bold soldier boy. In my opinion every lady for example... PRIVATE CARR: (His cap awry, advances to Stephen.) Say, how would it be, governor, if I was to bash in your jaw? STEPHEN: (Looks up to the sky.) How? Very unpleasant. Noble art of selfpretence. Personally, I detest action. (He waves his hand.) Hand hurts me slightly. Enfin ce sont vos oignons. (To Cissy Caffrey.) Some trouble is on here. What is it precisely? DOLLY GRAY: (From her balcony waves her handkerchief, giving the sign of the heroine of Jericho.) Rahab. Cook’s son, goodbye. Safe home to Dolly. Dream of the girl you left behind and she will dream of you. (The soldiers turn their swimming eyes.) BLOOM: (Elbowing through the crowd, plucks Stephen’s sleeve vigorously.) Come now, professor, that carman is waiting. STEPHEN: (Turns.) Eh? (He disengages himself.) Why should I not speak to him or to any human being who walks upright upon this oblate orange? (He points his finger.) I’m not afraid of what I can talk to if I see his eye. Retaining the perpendicular. (He staggers a pace back.) BLOOM: (Propping him.) Retain your own. STEPHEN: (Laughs emptily.) My centre of gravity is displaced. I have forgotten the trick. Let us sit down somewhere and discuss. Struggle for life is the law of existence but but human philirenists, notably the tsar and the king of England, have invented arbitration. (He taps his brow.) But in here it is I must kill the priest and the king. BIDDY THE CLAP: Did you hear what the professor said? He’s a professor out of the college. CUNTY KATE: I did. I heard that. BIDDY THE CLAP: He expresses himself with such marked refinement of phraseology. CUNTY KATE: Indeed, yes. And at the same time with such apposite trenchancy. PRIVATE CARR: (Pulls himself free and comes forward.) What’s that you’re saying about my king? (Edward the Seventh appears in an archway. He wears a white jersey on which an image of the Sacred Heart is stitched with the insignia of Garter and Thistle, Golden Fleece, Elephant of Denmark, Skinner’s and Probyn’s horse, Lincoln’s Inn bencher and ancient and honourable artillery company of Massachusetts. He sucks a red jujube. He is robed as a grand elect perfect and sublime mason with trowel and apron, marked made in Germany. In his left hand he holds a plasterer’s bucket on which is printed Défense d’uriner. A roar of welcome greets him.) EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (Slowly, solemnly but indistinctly.) Peace, perfect peace. For identification, bucket in my hand. Cheerio, boys. (He turns to his subjects.) We have come here to witness a clean straight fight and we heartily wish both men the best of good luck. Mahak makar a bak. (He shakes hands with Private Carr, Private Compton, Stephen, Bloom and Lynch. General applause. Edward the Seventh lifts his bucket graciously in acknowledgment.) PRIVATE CARR: (To Stephen.) Say it again. STEPHEN: (Nervous, friendly, pulls himself up.) I understand your point of view though I have no king myself for the moment. This is the age of patent medicines. A discussion is difficult down here. But this is the point. You die for your country. Suppose. (He places his arm on Private Carr’s sleeve.) Not that I wish it for you. But I say: Let my country die for me. Up to the present it has done so. I didn’t want it to die. Damn death. Long live life! EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (Levitates over heaps of slain, in the garb and with the halo of Joking Jesus, a white jujube in his phosphorescent face.) My methods are new and are causing surprise. To make the blind see I throw dust in their eyes. STEPHEN: Kings and unicorns! (He falls back a pace.) Come somewhere and we’ll... What was that girl saying?... PRIVATE COMPTON: Eh, Harry, give him a kick in the knackers. Stick one into Jerry. BLOOM: (To the privates, softly.) He doesn’t know what he’s saying. Taken a little more than is good for him. Absinthe. Greeneyed monster. I know him. He’s a gentleman, a poet. It’s all right. STEPHEN: (Nods, smiling and laughing.) Gentleman, patriot, scholar and judge of impostors. PRIVATE CARR: I don’t give a bugger who he is. PRIVATE COMPTON: We don’t give a bugger who he is. STEPHEN: I seem to annoy them. Green rag to a bull. (Kevin Egan of Paris in black Spanish tasselled shirt and peep-o’-day boy’s hat signs to Stephen.) KEVIN EGAN: H’lo! Bonjour! The vieille ogresse with the dents jaunes. (Patrice Egan peeps from behind, his rabbitface nibbling a quince leaf.) PATRICE: Socialiste! DON EMILE PATRIZIO FRANZ RUPERT POPE HENNESSY: (In medieval hauberk, two wild geese volant on his helm, with noble indignation points a mailed hand against the privates.) Werf those eykes to footboden, big grand porcos of johnyellows todos covered of gravy! BLOOM: (To Stephen.) Come home. You’ll get into trouble. STEPHEN: (Swaying.) I don’t avoid it. He provokes my intelligence. BIDDY THE CLAP: One immediately observes that he is of patrician lineage. THE VIRAGO: Green above the red, says he. Wolfe Tone. THE BAWD: The red’s as good as the green. And better. Up the soldiers! Up King Edward! A ROUGH: (Laughs.) Ay! Hands up to De Wet. THE CITIZEN: (With a huge emerald muffler and shillelagh, calls.) May the God above Send down a dove With teeth as sharp as razors To slit the throats Of the English dogs That hanged our Irish leaders. THE CROPPY BOY: (The ropenoose round his neck, gripes in his issuing bowels with both hands.) I bear no hate to a living thing, But I love my country beyond the king. RUMBOLD, DEMON BARBER: (Accompanied by two blackmasked assistants, advances with gladstone bag which he opens.) Ladies and gents, cleaver purchased by Mrs Pearcy to slay Mogg. Knife with which Voisin dismembered the wife of a compatriot and hid remains in a sheet in the cellar, the unfortunate female’s throat being cut from ear to ear. Phial containing arsenic retrieved from body of Miss Barron which sent Seddon to the gallows. (He jerks the rope. The assistants leap at the victim’s legs and drag him downward, grunting: the croppy boy’s tongue protrudes violently.) THE CROPPY BOY: Horhot ho hray hor hother’s hest. (He gives up the ghost. A violent erection of the hanged sends gouts of sperm spouting through his deathclothes on to the cobblestones. Mrs Bellingham, Mrs Yelverton Barry and the Honourable Mrs Mervyn Talboys rush forward with their handkerchiefs to sop it up.) RUMBOLD: I’m near it myself. (He undoes the noose.) Rope which hanged the awful rebel. Ten shillings a time. As applied to Her Royal Highness. (He plunges his head into the gaping belly of the hanged and draws out his head again clotted with coiled and smoking entrails.) My painful duty has now been done. God save the king! EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (Dances slowly, solemnly, rattling his bucket, and sings with soft contentment.) On coronation day, on coronation day, O, won’t we have a merry time, Drinking whisky, beer and wine! PRIVATE CARR: Here. What are you saying about my king? STEPHEN: (Throws up his hands.) O, this is too monotonous! Nothing. He wants my money and my life, though want must be his master, for some brutish empire of his. Money I haven’t. (He searches his pockets vaguely.) Gave it to someone. PRIVATE CARR: Who wants your bleeding money? STEPHEN: (Tries to move off.) Will someone tell me where I am least likely to meet these necessary evils? Ça se voit aussi à Paris. Not that I... But, by Saint Patrick...! (The women’s heads coalesce. Old Gummy Granny in sugarloaf hat appears seated on a toadstool, the deathflower of the potato blight on her breast.) STEPHEN: Aha! I know you, gammer! Hamlet, revenge! The old sow that eats her farrow! OLD GUMMY GRANNY: (Rocking to and fro.) Ireland’s sweetheart, the king of Spain’s daughter, alanna. Strangers in my house, bad manners to them! (She keens with banshee woe.) Ochone! Ochone! Silk of the kine! (She wails.) You met with poor old Ireland and how does she stand? STEPHEN: How do I stand you? The hat trick! Where’s the third person of the Blessed Trinity? Soggarth Aroon? The reverend Carrion Crow. CISSY CAFFREY: (Shrill.) Stop them from fighting! A ROUGH: Our men retreated. PRIVATE CARR: (Tugging at his belt.) I’ll wring the neck of any fucker says a word against my fucking king. BLOOM: (Terrified.) He said nothing. Not a word. A pure misunderstanding. THE CITIZEN: Erin go bragh! (Major Tweedy and the Citizen exhibit to each other medals, decorations, trophies of war, wounds. Both salute with fierce hostility.) PRIVATE COMPTON: Go it, Harry. Do him one in the eye. He’s a proboer. STEPHEN: Did I? When? BLOOM: (To the redcoats.) We fought for you in South Africa, Irish missile troops. Isn’t that history? Royal Dublin Fusiliers. Honoured by our monarch. THE NAVVY: (Staggering past.) O, yes! O God, yes! O, make the kwawr a krowawr! O! Bo! (Casqued halberdiers in armour thrust forward a pentice of gutted spearpoints. Major Tweedy, moustached like Turko the terrible, in bearskin cap with hackleplume and accoutrements, with epaulettes, gilt chevrons and sabretaches, his breast bright with medals, toes the line. He gives the pilgrim warrior’s sign of the knights templars.) MAJOR TWEEDY: (Growls gruffly.) Rorke’s Drift! Up, guards, and at them! Mahar shalal hashbaz. PRIVATE CARR: I’ll do him in. PRIVATE COMPTON: (Waves the crowd back.) Fair play, here. Make a bleeding butcher’s shop of the bugger. (Massed bands blare Garryowen and God save the King.) CISSY CAFFREY: They’re going to fight. For me! CUNTY KATE: The brave and the fair. BIDDY THE CLAP: Methinks yon sable knight will joust it with the best. CUNTY KATE: (Blushing deeply.) Nay, madam. The gules doublet and merry saint George for me! STEPHEN: The harlot’s cry from street to street Shall weave Old Ireland’s windingsheet. PRIVATE CARR: (Loosening his belt, shouts.) I’ll wring the neck of any fucking bastard says a word against my bleeding fucking king. BLOOM: (Shakes Cissy Caffrey’s shoulders.) Speak, you! Are you struck dumb? You are the link between nations and generations. Speak, woman, sacred lifegiver! CISSY CAFFREY: (Alarmed, seizes Private Carr’s sleeve.) Amn’t I with you? Amn’t I your girl? Cissy’s your girl. (She cries.) Police! STEPHEN: (Ecstatically, to Cissy Caffrey.) White thy fambles, red thy gan And thy quarrons dainty is. VOICES: Police! DISTANT VOICES: Dublin’s burning! Dublin’s burning! On fire, on fire! (Brimstone fires spring up. Dense clouds roll past. Heavy Gatling guns boom. Pandemonium. Troops deploy. Gallop of hoofs. Artillery. Hoarse commands. Bells clang. Backers shout. Drunkards bawl. Whores screech. Foghorns hoot. Cries of valour. Shrieks of dying. Pikes clash on cuirasses. Thieves rob the slain. Birds of prey, winging from the sea, rising from marshlands, swooping from eyries, hover screaming, gannets, cormorants, vultures, goshawks, climbing woodcocks, peregrines, merlins, blackgrouse, sea eagles, gulls, albatrosses, barnacle geese. The midnight sun is darkened. The earth trembles. The dead of Dublin from Prospect and Mount Jerome in white sheepskin overcoats and black goatfell cloaks arise and appear to many. A chasm opens with a noiseless yawn. Tom Rochford, winner, in athlete’s singlet and breeches, arrives at the head of the national hurdle handicap and leaps into the void. He is followed by a race of runners and leapers. In wild attitudes they spring from the brink. Their bodies plunge. Factory lasses with fancy clothes toss redhot Yorkshire baraabombs. Society ladies lift their skirts above their heads to protect themselves. Laughing witches in red cutty sarks ride through the air on broomsticks. Quakerlyster plasters blisters. It rains dragons’ teeth. Armed heroes spring up from furrows. They exchange in amity the pass of knights of the red cross and fight duels with cavalry sabres: Wolfe Tone against Henry Grattan, Smith O’Brien against Daniel O’Connell, Michael Davitt against Isaac Butt, Justin M’Carthy against Parnell, Arthur Griffith against John Redmond, John O’Leary against Lear O’Johnny, Lord Edward Fitzgerald against Lord Gerald Fitzedward, The O’Donoghue of the Glens against The Glens of The O’Donoghue. On an eminence, the centre of the earth, rises the fieldaltar of Saint Barbara. Black candles rise from its gospel and epistle horns. From the high barbacans of the tower two shafts of light fall on the smokepalled altarstone. On the altarstone Mrs Mina Purefoy, goddess of unreason, lies, naked, fettered, a chalice resting on her swollen belly. Father Malachi O’Flynn in a lace petticoat and reversed chasuble, his two left feet back to the front, celebrates camp mass. The Reverend Mr Hugh C Haines Love M. A. in a plain cassock and mortarboard, his head and collar back to the front, holds over the celebrant’s head an open umbrella.) FATHER MALACHI O’FLYNN: Introibo ad altare diaboli. THE REVEREND MR HAINES LOVE: To the devil which hath made glad my young days. FATHER MALACHI O’FLYNN: (Takes from the chalice and elevates a blooddripping host.) Corpus meum. THE REVEREND MR HAINES LOVE: (Raises high behind the celebrant’s petticoat, revealing his grey bare hairy buttocks between which a carrot is stuck.) My body. THE VOICE OF ALL THE DAMNED: Htengier Tnetopinmo Dog Drol eht rof, Aiulella! (From on high the voice of Adonai calls.) ADONAI: Dooooooooooog! THE VOICE OF ALL THE BLESSED: Alleluia, for the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth! (From on high the voice of Adonai calls.) ADONAI: Goooooooooood! (In strident discord peasants and townsmen of Orange and Green factions sing Kick the Pope and Daily, daily sing to Mary.) PRIVATE CARR: (With ferocious articulation.) I’ll do him in, so help me fucking Christ! I’ll wring the bastard fucker’s bleeding blasted fucking windpipe! (The retriever, nosing on the fringe of the crowd, barks noisily.) OLD GUMMY GRANNY: (Thrusts a dagger towards Stephen’s hand.) Remove him, acushla. At 8.35 a.m. you will be in heaven and Ireland will be free. (She prays.) O good God, take him! BLOOM: (Runs to Lynch.) Can’t you get him away? LYNCH: He likes dialectic, the universal language. Kitty! (To Bloom.) Get him away, you. He won’t listen to me. (He drags Kitty away.) STEPHEN: (Points.) Exit Judas. Et laqueo se suspendit. BLOOM: (Runs to Stephen.) Come along with me now before worse happens. Here’s your stick. STEPHEN: Stick, no. Reason. This feast of pure reason. CISSY CAFFREY: (Pulling Private Carr.) Come on, you’re boosed. He insulted me but I forgive him. (Shouting in his ear.) I forgive him for insulting me. BLOOM: (Over Stephen’s shoulder.) Yes, go. You see he’s incapable. PRIVATE CARR: (Breaks loose.) I’ll insult him. (He rushes towards Stephen, fist outstretched, and strikes him in the face. Stephen totters, collapses, falls, stunned. He lies prone, his face to the sky, his hat rolling to the wall. Bloom follows and picks it up.) MAJOR TWEEDY: (Loudly.) Carbine in bucket! Cease fire! Salute! THE RETRIEVER: (Barking furiously.) Ute ute ute ute ute ute ute ute. THE CROWD: Let him up! Don’t strike him when he’s down! Air! Who? The soldier hit him. He’s a professor. Is he hurted? Don’t manhandle him! He’s fainted! A HAG: What call had the redcoat to strike the gentleman and he under the influence. Let them go and fight the Boers! THE BAWD: Listen to who’s talking! Hasn’t the soldier a right to go with his girl? He gave him the coward’s blow. (They grab at each other’s hair, claw at each other and spit.) THE RETRIEVER: (Barking.) Wow wow wow. BLOOM: (Shoves them back, loudly.) Get back, stand back! PRIVATE COMPTON: (Tugging his comrade.) Here. Bugger off, Harry. Here’s the cops! (Two raincaped watch, tall, stand in the group.) FIRST WATCH: What’s wrong here? PRIVATE COMPTON: We were with this lady. And he insulted us. And assaulted my chum. (The retriever barks.) Who owns the bleeding tyke? CISSY CAFFREY: (With expectation.) Is he bleeding! A MAN: (Rising from his knees.) No. Gone off. He’ll come to all right. BLOOM: (Glances sharply at the man.) Leave him to me. I can easily... SECOND WATCH: Who are you? Do you know him? PRIVATE CARR: (Lurches towards the watch.) He insulted my lady friend. BLOOM: (Angrily.) You hit him without provocation. I’m a witness. Constable, take his regimental number. SECOND WATCH: I don’t want your instructions in the discharge of my duty. PRIVATE COMPTON: (Pulling his comrade.) Here, bugger off Harry. Or Bennett’ll shove you in the lockup. PRIVATE CARR: (Staggering as he is pulled away.) God fuck old Bennett. He’s a whitearsed bugger. I don’t give a shit for him. FIRST WATCH: (Takes out his notebook.) What’s his name? BLOOM: (Peering over the crowd.) I just see a car there. If you give me a hand a second, sergeant... FIRST WATCH: Name and address. (Corny Kelleher, weepers round his hat, a death wreath in his hand, appears among the bystanders.) BLOOM: (Quickly.) O, the very man! (He whispers.) Simon Dedalus’ son. A bit sprung. Get those policemen to move those loafers back. SECOND WATCH: Night, Mr Kelleher. CORNY KELLEHER: (To the watch, with drawling eye.) That’s all right. I know him. Won a bit on the races. Gold cup. Throwaway. (He laughs.) Twenty to one. Do you follow me? FIRST WATCH: (Turns to the crowd.) Here, what are you all gaping at? Move on out of that. (The crowd disperses slowly, muttering, down the lane.) CORNY KELLEHER: Leave it to me, sergeant. That’ll be all right. (He laughs, shaking his head.) We were often as bad ourselves, ay or worse. What? Eh, what? FIRST WATCH: (Laughs.) I suppose so. CORNY KELLEHER: (Nudges the second watch.) Come and wipe your name off the slate. (He lilts, wagging his head.) With my tooraloom tooraloom tooraloom tooraloom. What, eh, do you follow me? SECOND WATCH: (Genially.) Ah, sure we were too. CORNY KELLEHER: (Winking.) Boys will be boys. I’ve a car round there. SECOND WATCH: All right, Mr Kelleher. Good night. CORNY KELLEHER: I’ll see to that. BLOOM: (Shakes hands with both of the watch in turn.) Thank you very much, gentlemen. Thank you. (He mumbles confidentially.) We don’t want any scandal, you understand. Father is a wellknown highly respected citizen. Just a little wild oats, you understand. FIRST WATCH: O. I understand, sir. SECOND WATCH: That’s all right, sir. FIRST WATCH: It was only in case of corporal injuries I’d have to report it at the station. BLOOM: (Nods rapidly.) Naturally. Quite right. Only your bounden duty. SECOND WATCH: It’s our duty. CORNY KELLEHER: Good night, men. THE WATCH: (Saluting together.) Night, gentlemen. (They move off with slow heavy tread.) BLOOM: (Blows.) Providential you came on the scene. You have a car?... CORNY KELLEHER: (Laughs, pointing his thumb over his right shoulder to the car brought up against the scaffolding.) Two commercials that were standing fizz in Jammet’s. Like princes, faith. One of them lost two quid on the race. Drowning his grief. And were on for a go with the jolly girls. So I landed them up on Behan’s car and down to nighttown. BLOOM: I was just going home by Gardiner street when I happened to... CORNY KELLEHER: (Laughs.) Sure they wanted me to join in with the mots. No, by God, says I. Not for old stagers like myself and yourself. (He laughs again and leers with lacklustre eye.) Thanks be to God we have it in the house, what, eh, do you follow me? Hah, hah, hah! BLOOM: (Tries to laugh.) He, he, he! Yes. Matter of fact I was just visiting an old friend of mine there, Virag, you don’t know him (poor fellow, he’s laid up for the past week) and we had a liquor together and I was just making my way home... (The horse neighs.) THE HORSE: Hohohohohohoh! Hohohohome! CORNY KELLEHER: Sure it was Behan our jarvey there that told me after we left the two commercials in Mrs Cohen’s and I told him to pull up and got off to see. (He laughs.) Sober hearsedrivers a speciality. Will I give him a lift home? Where does he hang out? Somewhere in Cabra, what? BLOOM: No, in Sandycove, I believe, from what he let drop. (Stephen, prone, breathes to the stars. Corny Kelleher, asquint, drawls at the horse. Bloom, in gloom, looms down.) CORNY KELLEHER: (Scratches his nape.) Sandycove! (He bends down and calls to Stephen.) Eh! (He calls again.) Eh! He’s covered with shavings anyhow. Take care they didn’t lift anything off him. BLOOM: No, no, no. I have his money and his hat here and stick. CORNY KELLEHER: Ah, well, he’ll get over it. No bones broken. Well, I’ll shove along. (He laughs.) I’ve a rendezvous in the morning. Burying the dead. Safe home! THE HORSE: (Neighs.) Hohohohohome. BLOOM: Good night. I’ll just wait and take him along in a few... (Corny Kelleher returns to the outside car and mounts it. The horse harness jingles.) CORNY KELLEHER: (From the car, standing.) Night. BLOOM: Night. (The jarvey chucks the reins and raises his whip encouragingly. The car and horse back slowly, awkwardly, and turn. Corny Kelleher on the sideseat sways his head to and fro in sign of mirth at Bloom’s plight. The jarvey joins in the mute pantomimic merriment nodding from the farther seat. Bloom shakes his head in mute mirthful reply. With thumb and palm Corny Kelleher reassures that the two bobbies will allow the sleep to continue for what else is to be done. With a slow nod Bloom conveys his gratitude as that is exactly what Stephen needs. The car jingles tooraloom round the corner of the tooraloom lane. Corny Kelleher again reassuralooms with his hand. Bloom with his hand assuralooms Corny Kelleher that he is reassuraloomtay. The tinkling hoofs and jingling harness grow fainter with their tooralooloo looloo lay. Bloom, holding in his hand Stephen’s hat, festooned with shavings, and ashplant, stands irresolute. Then he bends to him and shakes him by the shoulder.) BLOOM: Eh! Ho! (There is no answer; he bends again.) Mr Dedalus! (There is no answer.) The name if you call. Somnambulist. (He bends again and, hesitating, brings his mouth near the face of the prostrate form.) Stephen! (There is no answer. He calls again.) Stephen! STEPHEN: (Groans.) Who? Black panther. Vampire. (He sighs and stretches himself, then murmurs thickly with prolonged vowels.) Who... drive... Fergus now And pierce... wood’s woven shade?... (He turns on his left side, sighing, doubling himself together.) BLOOM: Poetry. Well educated. Pity. (He bends again and undoes the buttons of Stephen’s waistcoat.) To breathe. (He brushes the woodshavings from Stephen’s clothes with light hand and fingers.) One pound seven. Not hurt anyhow. (He listens.) What? STEPHEN: (Murmurs.) ... shadows... the woods ... white breast... dim sea. (He stretches out his arms, sighs again and curls his body. Bloom, holding the hat and ashplant, stands erect. A dog barks in the distance. Bloom tightens and loosens his grip on the ashplant. He looks down on Stephen’s face and form.) BLOOM: (Communes with the night.) Face reminds me of his poor mother. In the shady wood. The deep white breast. Ferguson, I think I caught. A girl. Some girl. Best thing could happen him. (He murmurs.)... swear that I will always hail, ever conceal, never reveal, any part or parts, art or arts... (He murmurs.)... in the rough sands of the sea... a cabletow’s length from the shore... where the tide ebbs... and flows ... (Silent, thoughtful, alert he stands on guard, his fingers at his lips in the attitude of secret master. Against the dark wall a figure appears slowly, a fairy boy of eleven, a changeling, kidnapped, dressed in an Eton suit with glass shoes and a little bronze helmet, holding a book in his hand. He reads from right to left inaudibly, smiling, kissing the page.) BLOOM: (Wonderstruck, calls inaudibly.) Rudy! RUDY: (Gazes, unseeing, into Bloom’s eyes and goes on reading, kissing, smiling. He has a delicate mauve face. On his suit he has diamond and ruby buttons. In his free left hand he holds a slim ivory cane with a violet bowknot. A white lambkin peeps out of his waistcoat pocket.) <h2>— III —</h2> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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