by James Joyce
— Mattahah! Marahah! Luahah! Joahanahanahana!
What was thass? Fog was whaas? Too mult sleepth. Let sleepth.
But really now whenabouts? Expatiate then how much times we live in! Yes?
So, nat by night by naught by naket in those good old lousy days gone by (the days, shall we say?, of whom, shall we say?) while kinderwardens minded their twinsbed, therenow theystood, the sycomores, all four of them, in their quartan agues, the majorchy, the minorchy, the everso and the fermentarian, with their ballyhooric blowreaper, titranicht by tetranoxst, at their pussycorners, and that old time pallyollogass, playing copers fearsome, with Gus Walker, the cuddy, and his poor old dying boosy cough, esker, newcsle, saggard, crumlin, dell me, donk, the way to wumblin, follow me beeline and you’re bumblin, esker, newcsle, saggard, crumlin, and listening, so gladdied up when nicechild Kevin Mary (who was going to be commandeering chief of the choirboys’ brigade the moment he grew up under all the auspices) irishsmiled in his milky way of cream dwibble and onage tustard and dessed tabbage, but so frightied out when badbrat Jerry Godolphing (who was hurrying to be cardinal scullion in a night refuge as bald as he was cured enough under all the hospitals) furrinfrowned down his wrinkly waste of methylated spirits, ick, and lemoncholy lees, ick, and pulverised rhubarbarorum, icky:
night by silentsailing night while infantina Isobel (who will be blushing all day to be when she growed up one Sunday, Saint Holy and Saint Ivory, when she took the veil, the beautiful presentation nun, so barely twenty, in her pure coif, sister Isobel, and next Sunday, Mistlemas, when she looked a peach, the bountiful Samaritan, still as beautiful and still in her teens, nurse Saintette Isabelle, with stiffstarched cuffs, but on holiday, christmas, easter mornings, when she wore a wreath, the wonderful widow of eighteen springs, Madame Isa Veuve La Belle, so sad but lucksome in her boyblue’s long black with orange blossoming weeper’s veil), for she was the only girl they loved, as she is the queenly pearl you prize, because of the way the night that first we met she is bound to be—methinks, and not in vain—the darling of my heart, sleeping, in her april cot, within her singachamer, with her greengageflavoured candywhistle duetted to the crazyquilt, Isobel, she is so pretty, truth to tell, wildwood’s eyes and primarose hair, quietly, all the woods so wild, in mauves of moss and daphnedews, how all so still she lay, neath of the whitethorn, child of tree, like some losthappy leaf, like blowing flower stilled, as fain would she anon, for soon again ’twill be, win me, woo me, wed me, ah weary me, deeply, now evencalm lay sleeping:
nowth upon nacht while in his tumbril wachtman Havelook Seequeerscenes from yonsides of the choppy, punkt by his curserbog, went long the grassgross bumpinstrass that henders the pubbel to pass, stowing his bottle in a bole for at whet his whuskle to stretch ecrooksman, sequestering for lovers’ lost propertied offices the leavethings from allpurgers’ night, og gneiss ogas gnasty, kikkers, brillers, knappers and bands, handshoon and strumpers, sminkysticks and eddiketsflaskers:
wan fine night and the next fine night and last fine night while Kathareen the Slop in her native’s chambercushy, with dreamings of simmering my veal astore, was basquing to her pillasleep how she thawght a knogg came to the dowanstairs dour at that howr to peirce the yare and dowandshe went, schritt be schratt, to see was it Schweeps’s mingerals or Shuhorn the posht with a tillycramp for Hemself and Co, Esquara, or them four hoarsemen on their apolkaloops, Norreys, Soothbys, Yates and Welks, and, galorybit of the Sanes in Hevel, there was a crick up the stirkiss and when she ruz the cankle to see, galohery, downandshe went on her knees to blessersef that were knogging together like milkjuggles as if it was the wrake of the hapspurus or old King Gander O’Toole of the Mountains or his googoo goosth she seein, sliving off over the sawdust lobby out of the backroom, wan ter, that was everywans in turruns, in his honeymoon trim, holding up his fingerhals, with the clookey in his fisstball, tocher of davy’s, tocher of ivileagh, for her to whisht, you sowbelly, and the whites of his pious eyebulbs swearing her to silence and coort:
each and every juridical sessions night whenas goodmen twelve and true at Fox and Geese in their numbered habitations tried Old Wireless overboord in their juremembers and whereas by reverendum they found him guilty of their and those imputations of fornicolopulation with two of his albowcrural correlations on whom he was said to have enjoyed by anticipation when schooling them in amown, mid grass, she sat, when man was, amazingly, frank, for their first conjugation, whose colours at standing up from the above were of a pretty carnation but, if really ’twere not so, of some deretane denudation with intent to excitation, caused by his retrogradation, among firearmed forces proper to this nation but apart from all titillation which, he said, was under heat pressure and a good mitigation without which in any case he insists upon being worthy of continued alimentation for him having displayed, he says, such grand toleration, reprobate so noted and all as he was, with his washleather sweeds and his smokingstump, for denying transubstantiation nevertheless in respect of his highpowered station, whereof more especially as probably he was meantime suffering genteel tortures from the best medical attestation, as he oftentimes did, having only strength enough, by way of festination, to implore or (I believe you might have said better) to complore with complete obsecration on everybody connected with him the curse of coagulation for, he tells me outside Sammon’s in King Street after two or three hours of close confabulation, by this pewterpint of Gilbey’s goatswhey which is his prime consolation, albeit involving upon the same no uncertain amount of esophagous regurgitation, he being personally unpreoccupied to the extent of a flea’s gizzard anent eructation, if he was still extremely offensive to a score and four nostrils’ dilatation still he was likewise, on he other side of him, for some nepmen’s eyes a delectation, as he asserts without the least alienation, so prays of his fault you would make obliteration but as for our friend behind the bars, though like Adam Find-later a man of high estimation, summing him up to be done, be what will of excess his exaltation, still we think with Sully there can be no right extinuation for contravention of common and statute legislation for which the fit remedy resides, for Mr Sully, in corporal amputation: so three months for Gubbs Jeroboam, the frothwhiskered pest of the park, as per act one, section two, schedule three, clause four of the fifth of King Jark, this sentence to be carried out tomorrowmorn by Nolans Volans at six o’clock shark, and may the yeastwind and the hoppinghail malt mercy on his seven honeymeads and his hurlyburlygrowth, Amen, says the clarke:
niece by nice by neat by natty whilst mongst revery’s happy gardens nine with twenty Leixlip yearlings, darters all, had such a ripping time with gleeful cries of what is nice Toppingshaun made of made for and weeping like fun, him to be gone, for they were never happier, huhu, than when they were miserable, haha:
in their bed of trial, on the bolster of hardship, by the glimmer of memory, under coverlets of cowardice, Albertus Nyanzer with Victa Nyanza, his mace of might mortified, her beautyfell hung up on a nail, he, Ur of our Fathers, she, our moddereen rue arue arue, they, ay, by the hokypoker and brazier, they are, as sure as Dinny drops into the dyke …
A cry, off.
Where are we at all? And whenabouts in the name of space? I don’t understand. I fail to say. I dearsee you too.
House of the circulation of mead. Garth of Fyon. Scene and property plot. Stagemanager’s prompt. Interior of dwelling on outskirts of city. Groove two. Chamber scene. Boxed. Ordinary bedroom set. Salmonpapered walls. Back centre, empty Irish grate, Adam’s mantel, with wilting elopement fan, soot and tinsel, condemned. North, wall with window, practicable. Argentine in casement. Vamp. Pelmit above. No curtains. Blind drawn. South, party wall. Bed for two with strawberry bedspread, wicker-worker clubsessel and caneseated millikinstool. Bookshrine without, facetowel upon. Chair for one. Woman’s garments on chair. Man’s trousers with crossbelt braces, collar, on bedknob. Man’s corduroy surcoat with seapen nacre buttons, tabrets and taces on nail, wall right. Woman’s gown on ditto, ditto le
ft. Over mantelpiece picture of Michael, lance, slaying Satan, dragon with smoke. Small table near bed, front. Bed with bedding. Spare. Flagpatch quilt. Yverdown design. Limes. Lighted lamp without globe, scarf, gazette, tumbler, quantity of water, julepot, ticker, side props, eventuals, man’s gummy article, pink.
A time.
Act: dumbshow.
Closeup. Leads.
Man, with nightcap, in bed, fore. Woman, with curlpins, hind. Discovered. Side point of view. First position of harmony. Say! Eh? Ha! Check action. Matt! Male partly masking female. Domicy. Man looking round, beastly expression, fishy eyes, paralleliped homoplatts, ghazometron pondus, exhibits rage. Business. Ruddy blond, Armenian bole, black patch, beer wig, gross build, episcopalian, any age. Woman, sitting, looks at ceiling, haggish expression, peaky nose, trekant mouth, fithery wight, exhibits fear. Welshrabbit teint, Nubian shine, nasal fossette, turfy tuft, undersized, free kirk, no age. Closeup. Play!
Callboy. Cry, off. Tabler. Her move.
Footage.
By the sinewy forequarters of the mare Pocahontas and by the white shoulders of Finnuala, you should have seen how that smart sallowlass just hopped a nanny’s gambit out of bunk like old Mother Mesopotomac and in eight and eight sixtyfour she was off, door, knightlamp with her, billy’s largelimbs prodgering after to queen’s lead. Promiscuous Omebound to Fiammella la Diva. Huff! His move. Blackout.
Circus. Corridor.
Shifting scene. Wall flats: sink and fly. Spotlight working wallcloths. Spill playing rake and bridges. Room to sink: stairs to sink behind room. Two pieces. Kaying after qeue. Replay.
The old humburgh looks a thing incomplete, so. It is so. On its dead. But it will pawn up a fine head of porter when it is finished. In the quicktime. The castle arkwright put in a chequered staircase, certainly. It has only one square step, to be steady, yet notwithstumbling are they stalemating backgammoner supstairs by skips and trestles tiltop double corner. Whist while and game.
What scenic artist! It is ideal residence for realtar. By hims ingang tilt tinkt a tunning bell that Limen, Mr that Boggey Godde, be airwaked. Lingling, lingling. Be their magics in all. Chump, do your ephort. Shop! Please shop! Shop ado O please shop. How hominous his house, haunt it? Yesses, indead it be! Nogen, of imperial measure, is begraved beneather. Here are his naggins poured, his alladim lamps. Around the bloombiered, booty with the bedst. For them whom he have fordone make we newly thankful!
Tell me something. The Porters, so to speak, after their shadowstealers in the newsbaggers, are very nice people, are they not? Very, all fourlike tellt. And on this wise. Mr Porter (Bartholomew, heavy man, astern, mackerel shirt, hayamatt peruke) is an excellent forefather and Mrs Porter (leading lady, apoopahead, gaffneysaffron nightdress, iszoppy chepelure) is a most kindhearted messmother. A so united family pateramater is not more existing on papel or off of it. As keymaster fits the lock it weds so this bally builder to his streamline secret. They care for nothing except everything that is allporterous. Porto da Brozzo! Isn’t that terribly nice of them? You can ken that they come of a rarely old family by their costumance and one must togive that one supped of it in all tonearts from awe to zest. I think I begin to divine so much. Only snakkest me truesome! I stone us I’m hable.
To reachy a skeer do! Still hoyhra, till venstra! Here are two rooms on the upstairs, at forkflank and at knifekanter. Whom in the wood are they for? Why, for little porter babes, to be saved! The coeds, boytom thwackers and timbuy teaser. Here is onething you owed two noe. This one once upon awhile was the other but this is the other one nighadays. Ah so? The Corsicos? They are numerable. Guest them! Major bed, minor beddies. Halosobuth, sov us! Who sleeps in now number one, for example? A pussy, purr esimple. Cunina, Statulina and Edulia, but how sweet of her! Has your pussy a pessname? Yes, indeed, you will hear it passim in all the noveletta and she is named Buttercup. Her bare name will tellt it, a monitress. How very sweet of her and what an excessively lovecharming missyname to forsake, now that I come to drink of it filtred, a gracecup fulled of bitterness. She is dadad’s lottiest daughterpearl and brooder’s cissiest auntybride. A more intriguant bambolina could one not colour up out of Boccuccia’s Enameron. Her shellback thimblecasket mirror only can show her dearest friendeen. To speak well her grace it would ask of Grecian language; of her goodness, that legend golden. Biryina Saindua! Loreas with lillias flocaflake arrosas! Here’s newyearspray, the posquiflor, a windaborne and heliotrope; there miriamsweet and amaranth and marygold to crown. Add lightest knot unto tiptition. O Charis! O Charissima! Would one but to do apart a lilybit her virginelles and, so, to breath, so, therebetween, behold, she had instantt with her hand made as to graps the myth inmid the air. Mother of moth! I will to show herword in flesh. Approach not, for ghost sake! It is dormition! She may think, what though little doth she realise, as morning fresheth, it hath happened her, you know what, as they too what I dare not utter. Silvoo plush, if scolded she draws a face. Petticoat’s asleep but in the gentlenest of her thoughts apoo is a nursepin. To be presented, Babs for Bimbushi? Of courts and with enticers. Up, girls, and at him! Alone? Alone what? I mean does she do fleurty winkies with herself? Pussy is never alone, as records her chambrette, for she can always look at Biddles and talk petnames with her little playfilly when she is sitting downy on the ploshmat. Doth Dolly weeps she is hasting. Will Dally bumpsetty ’tis for tubtime. O, she talks, does she? Marry, how? Rosepetalletted sounds. Ah Biddles es ma plikplak. Ah plikplak wed ma Biddles. A nice jezebel barytinette she will gift, this strifestirrer, but I much prefer her missnomer in maidenly golden lasslike gladsome wenchful flowery girlish beautycapes. Dulcidelicatissima! So do I, much. Allaliefest, she who pities very pebbles, dare we not wish on her our thrice onsk? A lovely fear! That she seventip toe her chrysming, that she spin blaa to scarlach till her templar veil, that the Mount of Whoam it open it her to shelterer! She will blow ever so much more promisefuller, blee me, than all the other common marygales that romp round brigidschool, charming Carry Whambers or saucy Susy Maucepan or merry Anna Patchbox or silly Polly Flinders. Platsch! A plikaplak.
And, since we are talking amnessly of bunkasloop and crazdledaze, who doez in sleeproom number twobis? The twobirds. Holy policeman, O, I see! Of what age are your birdies? They are to come of twinning age so soon as they may be born to be eldering like those olders while they are living under chairs. They are? And they seem to be so tightly tattached as two maggots to touch other, I think I notice, do I not? You do. Our bright bull babe, Frank Kevin, is on heartsleeveside. Do not you waken him! Our farheard bode. He is happily to sleep, limb of the Lord, with his lifted in blessing, his bachal Iosa, like the blissed angel he looks so like and his mou is semiope as though he were blowdelling on a bugigle. Whene’er I see those smiles in eyes ’tis Father Quinn again. Very shortly he will smell sweetly when he will hear a weird to wean. By gorgeous, that boy will blare some knight when he will take his dane’s pledges and quit our ingletears, spite of undesirable parents, to wend him to Amorica to quest a cushy job. That keen dean with his veen nonsolance! O, I adore the profeen music! Dollarmighty! He is too audorable really, eunique! I guess to have seen somekid like him in the storybook, guess I met somewhere somelamb to whom he will be becoming liker. But hush! How unpardonable of me! I beg you for your venials, sincerely I do.
Hush! The other, twined on codliverside, has been crying in his sleep, making sharpshape his inscissors on some first choice sweets fished out of the muck. A stake in our mead. What a teething wretch! How his book of craven images! Here are posthumious tears on his intimelle. And he has pipettishly bespilled himself from his foundingpen, as ill spent from inkinghorn. He is jem job joy pip paa pat (jot um for a sobrat!) Jerry Jehu. You will know him by names in the capers but you cannot see whose heel he sheepfolds in his wrought hand because I have not told it to you. O foetal sleep! Ah, fatal slip! The one loved, the other left, the bride of pride leased to the stranger! He will be quite within the pale when with lordbeeron brow he vows him so to
sset to be of the sir blake tribes while through life’s unblest he rodes by backs of bannars. Bleak! Are you not somewhat bulgar with your bowels? Whatever do you mean with sour bleak? With pale blake I write tintingface. O, you do? And with steelwhite and blackmail I scent for my sweet an anemone’s letter with a gold of my bridest hair betied. Donatus his mark, address as follows. So you did? From the Cat and Cage. O, I see and see! In the ink of his sweat he will find it yet. What Gipsy Devereux vowed to Lylian and why the elm and how the stone. You never may know in the preterite all perhaps that you would not believe that you ever even saw to be about to. Perhaps. But they are two very blizky little portereens after their bredscrums, Jerkoff and Eatsup, as for my part opinion indeed. They would be born so, costarred, puck and prig, the maryboy at the Donnybrook Fair, the godolphinglad in the Hoey’s Court. How frilled one shall be as at taledold of Formio and Cigalette! What folly innocents! Theirs what pep of puppyhood! Both barmhearts shall become yeastcake by their brackfest. I will to leave my copperwise blessing between the pair of them, for rosengorge, for greenafang. Blech and tin soldies, weals in a sniffbox. Som’s wholed, all’s parted. Weeping shouldst not thou be when man falls but that divine scheming ever adoring be. So you be either man or mouse and you be neither fish nor flesh. Take. And take. Vellicate nijche! Be ones as wes for gives for gets now the hour of passings sembles quick with quelled. Adieu, soft adieu, for these nice presents, kerryjevin! Still tosorrow!
