by Unknown
— 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 stunted forms. They looked from Trinity to the blind columned porch of the bank of Ireland where pigeons roocoocooed.
— Anch’io ho avuto di queste idee, ALMIDANO ARTIFONI SAID, quand’ ero giovine come Lei. Eppoi mi sono convinto che il mondo è una bestia. É peccato. Perchè la sua voce... sarebbe un cespite di rendita, via. Invece, Lei si sacrifica.
— Sacrifizio incruento, Stephen said smiling, swaying his ashplant in slow swingswong from its midpoint, lightly.
— Speriamo, the round mustachioed face said pleasantly. Ma, dia retta a me. Ci rifletta.
By the stern stone hand of Grattan, bidding halt, an Inchicore tram unloaded straggling Highland soldiers of a band.
— Ci rifletterò, Stephen said, glancing down the solid trouserleg.
— Ma, sul serio, eh? Almidano Artifoni said.
His heavy hand took Stephen’s firmly. Human eyes. They gazed curiously an instant and turned quickly towards a Dalkey tram.
— Eccolo, Almidano Artifoni said in friendly haste. Venga a trovarmi e ci pensi. Addio, caro.
— Arrivederla, maestro, Stephen said, raising his hat when his hand was freed. E grazie.
— Di che? Almidano Artifoni said. Scusi, eh? Tante belle cose!
Almidano Artifoni, holding up a baton of rolled music as a signal, trotted on stout trousers after the Dalkey tram. In vain he trotted, signalling in vain among the rout of barekneed gillies smuggling implements of music through Trinity gates.
* * *
Miss Dunne hid the Capel street library copy of The Woman in White far back in her drawer and rolled a sheet of gaudy notepaper into her typewriter.
Too much mystery business in it. Is he in love with that one, Marion? Change it and get another by Mary Cecil Haye.
The disk shot down the groove, wobbled a while, ceased and ogled them: six.
Miss Dunne clicked on the keyboard:
— 16 June 1904.
Five tallwhitehatted sandwichmen between Monypeny’s corner and the slab where Wolfe Tone’s statue was not, eeled themselves turning H. E. L. Y.’S and plodded back as they had come.
Then she stared at the large poster of Marie Kendall, charming soubrette,
and, listlessly lolling, scribbled on the jotter sixteens and capital esses. Mustard hair and dauby cheeks. She’s not nicelooking, is she? The way she’s holding up her bit of a skirt. Wonder will that fellow be at the band tonight. If I could get that dressmaker to make a concertina skirt like Susy Nagle’s. They kick out grand. Shannon and all the boatclub swells never took his eyes off her. Hope to goodness he won’t keep me here till seven.
The telephone rang rudely by her ear.
— Hello. Yes, sir. No, sir. Yes, sir. I’ll ring them up after five. Only those two, sir, for Belfast and Liverpool. All right, sir. Then I can go after six if you’re not back. A quarter after. Yes, sir. Twentyseven and six. I’ll tell him. Yes: one, seven, six.
She scribbled three figures on an envelope.
— Mr Boylan! Hello! That gentleman from SPORT was in looking for you. Mr Lenehan, yes. He said he’ll be in the Ormond at four. No, sir. Yes, sir. I’ll ring them up after five.
* * *
Two pink faces turned in the flare of the tiny torch.
— Who’s that? Ned Lambert asked. Is that Crotty?
— Ringabella and Crosshaven, a voice replied groping for foothold.
— Hello, Jack, is that yourself? Ned Lambert said, raising in salute his pliant lath among the flickering arches. Come on. Mind your steps there.
The vesta in the clergyman’s uplifted hand consumed itself in a long soft flame and was let fall. At their feet its red speck died: and mouldy air closed round them.
— How interesting! a refined accent said in the gloom.
— Yes, sir, Ned Lambert said heartily. We are standing in the historic council chamber of saint Mary’s abbey where silken Thomas proclaimed himself a rebel in 1534. This is the most historic spot in all Dublin. O’Madden Burke is going to write something about it one of these days. The old bank of Ireland was over the way till the time of the union and the original jews’ temple was here too before they built their synagogue over in Adelaide road. You were never here before, Jack, were you?
— No, Ned.
— He rode down through Dame walk, the refined accent said, if my memory serves me. The mansion of the Kildares was in Thomas court.
— That’s right, Ned Lambert said. That’s quite right, sir.
— If you will be so kind then, the clergyman said, the next time to allow me perhaps...
— Certainly, Ned Lambert said. Bring the camera whenever you like. I’ll get those bags cleared away from the windows. You can take it from here or from here.
In the still faint light he moved about, tapping with his lath the piled seedbags and points of vantage on the floor.
From a long face a beard and gaze hung on a chessboard.
— I’m deeply obliged, Mr Lambert, the clergyman said. I won’t trespass on your valuable time...
— You’re welcome, sir, Ned Lambert said. Drop in whenever you like. Next week, say. Can you see?
— Yes, yes. Good afternoon, Mr Lambert. Very pleased to have met you.
— Pleasure is mine, sir, Ned Lambert answered.
He followed his guest to the outlet and then whirled his lath away among the pillars. With J. J. O’Molloy he came forth slowly into Mary’s abbey where draymen were loading floats with sacks of carob and palmnut meal, O’Connor, Wexford.
He stood to read the card in his hand.
— The reverend Hugh C. Love, Rathcoffey. Present address: Saint Michael’s, Sallins. Nice young chap he is. He’s writing a book about the Fitzgeralds he told me. He’s well up in history, faith.
The young woman with slow care detached from her light skirt a clinging twig.
— I thought you were at a new gunpowder plot, J. J. O’Molloy said.
Ned Lambert cracked his fingers in the air.
— God! he cried. I forgot to tell him that one about the earl of Kildare after he set fire to Cashel cathedral. You know that one? I’m bloody sorry I did it, says he, but I declare to God I thought the archbishop was inside. He mightn’t like it, though. What? God, I’ll tell him anyhow. That was the great earl, the Fitzgerald Mor. Hot members they were all of them, the Geraldines.
The horses he passed started nervously under their slack harness. He slapped a piebald haunch quivering near him and cried:
— Woa, sonny!
He turned to J. J. O’Molloy and asked:
— Well, Jack. What is it? What’s the trouble? Wait awhile. Hold hard.
With gaping mouth and head far back he stood still and, after an instant, sneezed loudly.
— Chow! he said. Blast you!
— The dust from those sacks, J. J. O’Molloy said politely.
— No, Ned Lambert gasped, I caught a... cold night before... blast your soul... night before last... and there was a hell of a lot of draught...
He held his handkerchief ready for the coming...
— I was... Glasnevin this morning... poor little... what do you call him... Chow!... Mother of Moses!
* * *
Tom Rochford took the top disk from the pile he clasped against his claret waistcoat.
— See? he said. Say it’s turn six. In here, see. Turn Now On.
He slid it into the left slot for them. It shot down the groove, wobbled a while, ceased, ogling them: six.
Lawyers of the past, haughty, pleading, beheld pass from the consolidated taxing office to Nisi Prius court Richie Goulding carrying the costbag of Goulding, Collis and Ward and heard rustling from the admiralty division of king’s bench to the court of appeal an elderly female with false teeth smiling incredulously and a black silk skirt of great amplitude.
— See? he said. See now the last one I put in is over here: Turns Over. The impact. Leverage, see?
He showed them the rising column of disks on the right.
— Smart idea, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling. So a fellow coming in late can see what turn is on and what turns are over.
— See? Tom Rochford said.
He slid in a disk for himself: and watched it shoot, wobble, ogle, stop: four. Turn Now On.
— I’ll see him now in the Ormond, Lenehan said, and sound him. One good turn deserves another.
— Do, Tom Rochford said. Tell him I’m Boylan with impatience.
— Goodnight, M’Coy said abruptly. When you two begin
Nosey Flynn stooped towards the lever, snuffling at it.
— But how does it work here, Tommy? he asked.
— Tooraloo, Lenehan said. See you later.
He followed M’Coy out across the tiny square of Crampton court.
— He’s a hero, he said simply.
— I know, M’Coy said. The drain, you mean.
— Drain? Lenehan said. It was down a manhole.
They passed Dan Lowry’s musichall where Marie Kendall, charming soubrette, smiled on them from a poster a dauby smile.
Going down the path of Sycamore street beside the Empire musichall Lenehan showed M’Coy how the whole thing was. One of those manholes like a bloody gaspipe and there was the poor devil stuck down in it, half choked with sewer gas. Down went Tom Rochford anyhow, booky’s vest and all, with the rope round him. And be damned but he got the rope round the poor devil and the two were hauled up.
— The act of a hero, he said.
At the Dolphin they halted to allow the ambulance car to gallop past them for Jervis street.
— This way, he said, walking to the right. I want to pop into Lynam’s to see Sceptre’s starting price. What’s the time by your gold watch and chain?
M’Coy peered into Marcus Tertius Moses’ sombre office, then at O’Neill’s clock.
— After three, he said. Who’s riding her?
— O. Madden, Lenehan said. And a game filly she is.
While he waited in Temple bar M’Coy dodged a banana peel with gentle pushes of his toe from the path to the gutter. Fellow might damn easy get a nasty fall there coming along tight in the dark.
The gates of the drive opened wide to give egress to the viceregal cavalcade.
<
br /> — Even money, Lenehan said returning. I knocked against Bantam Lyons in there going to back a bloody horse someone gave him that hasn’t an earthly. Through here.
They went up the steps and under Merchants’ arch. A darkbacked figure scanned books on the hawker’s cart.
— There he is, Lenehan said.
— Wonder what he’s buying, M’Coy said, glancing behind.
— Leopoldo or the Bloom is on the Rye, Lenehan said.
— He’s dead nuts on sales, M’Coy said. I was with him one day and he bought a book from an old one in Liffey street for two bob. There were fine plates in it worth double the money, the stars and the moon and comets with long tails. Astronomy it was about.
Lenehan laughed.
— I’ll tell you a damn good one about comets’ tails, he said. Come over in the sun.
They crossed to the metal bridge and went along Wellington quay by the riverwall.
Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam came out of Mangan’s, late Fehrenbach’s, carrying a pound and a half of porksteaks.
— There was a long spread out at Glencree reformatory, Lenehan said eagerly. The annual dinner, you know. Boiled shirt affair. The lord mayor was there, Val Dillon it was, and sir Charles Cameron and Dan Dawson spoke and there was music. Bartell d’Arcy sang and Benjamin Dollard...
— I know, M’Coy broke in. My missus sang there once.
— Did she? Lenehan said.
A card Unfurnished Apartments reappeared on the windowsash of number 7 Eccles street.
He checked his tale a moment but broke out in a wheezy laugh.
— But wait till I tell you, he said. Delahunt of Camden street had the catering and yours truly was chief bottlewasher. Bloom and the wife were there. Lashings of stuff we put up: port wine and sherry and curacao to which we did ample justice. Fast and furious it was. After liquids came solids. Cold joints galore and mince pies...
— I know, M’Coy said. The year the missus was there...
Lenehan linked his arm warmly.
