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<html><head> <META http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=UTF-8"><title>10. Wandering Rocks</title><style type="text/css">
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</style></head><body><h1>10. Wandering Rocks</h1><h2>Rock 1</h2><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>The superior, the
very reverend John Conmee S.J., reset his smooth watch in his
interior pocket as he came down the presbytery steps.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>Five to three.
Just nice time to walk to Artane. What is that boy's name again?
Dignam, yes. <span class="language">Vere dignum et iustum est.</span>
Brother Swan is the person
to see. Mr Cunningham's letter. Yes. Oblige him, if possible. Good
practical catholic: useful at mission time.</div><span class="stage">
[Enter sailor]
</span><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>A one-legged sailor, swinging himself onward by lazy jerks of his
crutches, growled some notes. He jerked short before the convent of
the sisters of charity and held out a peaked cap for alms towards the
very reverend John Conmee S. J. Father Conmee blessed him in the
sun for his purse held, he knew, one silver crown.</div><span class="stage">
[Exit sailor]
</span><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Father Conmee crossed to Mountjoy square. He thought, but not
for long:
Of soldiers and sailors, whose legs had been shot off by
cannonballs, ending their days in some pauper ward, and of cardinal
Wolsey's words:</div>
<div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span><span class="language">If I had served my God as I have served my king He would
not have abandoned me in my old days.</span></div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>He walked by the treeshade of
sunnywinking leaves and towards him came the wife of Mr David
Sheehy M. P.</div><span class="stage">
[Enter Mrs Sheehy]
</span><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Mrs Sheehy: </span>Very well, indeed, father. And you father?</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Father Conmee was wonderfully well indeed. He would go to
Buxton probably for the waters.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>And your boys, are they getting on
well at Belvedere? Is that so?</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Father Conmee was very glad indeed
to hear that.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>And Mr Sheehy himself?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Mrs Sheehy: </span>Still in London. The house is
still sitting, to be sure it is.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>Beautiful weather it is, delightful
indeed. Yes, it is very probable that Father Bernard Vaughan will
come again to preach. O, yes: a very great success. A wonderful
man really.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Father Conmee was very glad to see the wife of Mr David Sheehy
M. P. looking so well and he begged to be remembered to Mr David
Sheehy M. P.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>Yes, I will certainly call.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>Good afternoon, Mrs Sheehy.</div><span class="stage">
[Exit Mrs Sheehy]
</span><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Father Conmee doffed his silk hat, as he took leave, at the jet
beads of her mantilla inkshining in the sun. And smiled yet again in
going. He had cleaned his teeth, he knew, with arecanut paste.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Father Conmee walked and, walking, smiled for he thought on
Father Bernard Vaughan's droll eyes and cockney voice.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span><span class="stage">
[Cockney accent]
</span>
Pilate! Wy don't you old back that owlin mob?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>A zealous man, however. Really he is. And really does great
good in his way. Beyond a doubt. He loves Ireland, he says, and he
loves the Irish. Of good family too would one think it? Welsh, are
they not?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>O, lest I forget. That letter to father provincial.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Father Conmee stopped three little schoolboys at the corner of
Mountjoy square.</div><span class="stage">
[Enter boys]
</span><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Boy 1: </span>Yes.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Boys: </span>We are from Belvedere.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>The little
house: Aha. And are you good boys at school? O. That is very
good now. And what is your name?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Boy 1: </span>Jack Sohan.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>And your name?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Boy 2: </span>Ger. Gallaher.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>And the other little man?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Boy 3: </span>My name is Brunny Lynam.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>O, that is a very nice name to have.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Father Conmee gave a letter from his breast to master Brunny
Lynam and pointed to the red pillarbox at the corner of Fitzgibbon
street.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>But mind you don't post yourself into the box, little man.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>The boys sixeyed Father Conmee and laughed.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Boys: </span>O, sir.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>Well, let me see if you can post a letter.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Master Brunny Lynam ran across the road and put Father
Conmee's letter to father provincial into the mouth of the bright red
letterbox. <span class="stage">
[Exit boys]
</span>
Father Conmee smiled and nodded and smiled and walked
along Mountjoy square east.</div>
<hr width="50%">
<div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N*: </span>Mr Denis J. Maginni, professor of dancing, etc., in silk hat, slate
frock coat with silk facings, white kerchief tie, tight lavender trousers,
canary gloves and pointed patent boots, walking with grave
deportment most respectfully took the curbstone as he passed lady Maxwell
at the corner of Dignam's court.</div>
</div>
<hr width="50%"><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>Is that not Mrs M'Guinness?</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Mrs M'Guinness, stately, silverhaired, bowed to Father Conmee
from the farther footpath along which she sailed. And Father Conmee
smiled and saluted.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>How do you do?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>A fine carriage she has. Like Mary, queen of Scots, something.
And to think that she is a pawnbroker! Well, now. Such a ... what
should I say? ... such a queenly mien.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Father Conmee walked down Great Charles street and glanced
at the shutup free church on his left.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>The reverend T. R. Greene
B. A. will (D. V.) speak. The incumbent they called him. He feels it
incumbent on him to say a few words. But one should be charitable.
Invincible ignorance. They act according to their lights.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Father Conmee turned the corner and walked along the North
Circular road.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>It is a wonder that there is not a tramline in such
an important thoroughfare. Surely, there ought to be.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>A band of satchelled schoolboys crossed from Richmond street.
All raised untidy caps. Father Conmee greeted them more than once
benignly.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>Christian brother boys.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Father Conmee smelled incense on his right hand as he walked.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>Saint Joseph's church, Portland row.
For aged and virtuous females.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Father Conmee raised his hat to the Blessed Sacrament.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>Virtuous: but
occasionally they are also badtempered.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Near Aldborough house Father Conmee thought of that
spendthrift nobleman.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>And now it is an office or something.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Father Conmee began to walk along the North Strand road and
was saluted by Mr William Gallagher who stood in the doorway of
his shop. Father Conmee saluted Mr William Gallagher and perceived
the odours that came from baconflitches and ample cools of butter. He
passed Grogan's the Tobacconist against which newsboards leaned and
told of a dreadful catastrophe in New York.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>In America those things
are continually happening. Unfortunate people to die like that,
unprepared. Still, an act of perfect contrition.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Father Conmee went by Daniel Bergin's publichouse against the
window of which two unlabouring men lounged. They saluted him
and were saluted.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Father Conmee passed H. J. O'Neill's funeral establishment
where Corny Kelleher totted figures in the daybook while he chewed
a blade of hay. A constable on his beat saluted Father Conmee and
Father Conmee saluted the constable. In Youkstetter's, the
porkbutcher's, Father Conmee observed pig's puddings, white and black
and red, lie neatly curled in tubes.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Moored under the trees of Charleville Mall Father Conmee saw
a turfbarge, a towhorse with pendent head, a bargeman with a hat of
dirty straw seated amidships, smoking and staring at a branch of poplar
above him. It was idyllic. ||</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>And Father Conmee reflected on the
providence of the Creator who had made turf to be in bogs whence men
might dig it out and bring it to town and hamlet to make fires in
the houses of poor people. ||</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>On Newcomen bridge the very reverend John Conmee S. J. of
saint Francis Xavier's church, upper Gardiner street, stepped on to an
outward bound tram.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Off an inward bound tram stepped the reverend Nicholas Dudley
C. C. of saint Agatha's church, north William street, on to Newcomen
bridge.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>At Newcomen bridge Father Conmee stepped into an outward
bound tram for he disliked to traverse on foot the dingy way past Mud
Island.</div><span class="stage">
[Fr. Conmee sits down]
</span><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Father Conmee sat in a corner of the tramcar, a blue ticket tucked
with care in the eye of one plump kid glove, while four shillings, a
sixpence and five pennies chuted from his other plump glovepalm into
his purse. Passing the ivy church he reflected that the ticket inspector
usually made his visit when one had carelessly thrown away the ticket.
The solemnity of the occupants of the car seemed to Father Conmee
excessive for a journey so short and cheap. Father Conmee liked
cheerful decorum.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>It was a peaceful day. || The gentleman with his glasses opposite
Father Conmee had finished explaining and looked down.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>His wife</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Father Conmee supposed. A tiny yawn opened the mouth of the wife
of the gentleman with the glasses. She raised her small gloved fist,
yawned ever so gently, tiptapping her small gloved fist on her opening
mouth and smiled tinily, sweetly.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Father Conmee perceived her perfume in the car. He perceived
also that the awkward man at the other side of her was sitting on the
edge of the seat.</div>
<hr width="50%">
<div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N*: </span>Father Conmee at the altarrails placed the host with difficulty in
the mouth of the awkward old man who had the shaky head.</div>
</div>
<hr width="50%"><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>At Annesley bridge the tram halted and, when it was about to go,
an old woman rose suddenly from her place to alight. The conductor
pulled the bellstrap to stay the car for her. She passed out with her
basket and a market net: and Father Conmee saw the conductor help
her and net and basket down: and Father Conmee thought that, as she
had nearly passed the end of the penny fare, she was one of those good
souls who had always to be told twice:</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>Bless you, my child.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>That they have been absolved.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>Pray for me.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>But they have so many worries in life, so
many cares, poor creatures.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>From the hoardings Mr Eugene Stratton grinned with thick
niggerlips at Father Conmee.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Father Conmee thought of:</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>The souls of black and brown and
yellow men</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>and of his sermon of</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>saint Peter Claver S. J. and the
African mission and of the propagation of the faith and of the millions
of black and brown and yellow souls that have not received the baptism
of water when their last hour comes like a thief in the night.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>That book
by the Belgian jesuit,</div>
<div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span><span class="title">Le Nombre des Élus</span></div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Seemed to Father Conmee a reasonable plea.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>Those are millions of human souls created by God
in His Own likeness to whom the faith has not (D.V.) been brought.
But they are God's souls created by God.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>It seemed to Father
Conmee a pity that they should all be lost, a waste if one might say.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>At the Howth road stop Father Conmee alighted
<span class="stage">
[Fr. Conmee stands up]
</span>,
was saluted by
the conductor and saluted in his turn.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>The Malahide road was quiet. It pleased Father Conmee, road
and name.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>The joybells were ringing in gay Malahide. Lord Talbot de
Malahide, immediate hereditary lord admiral of Malahide and the seas
adjoining. Then came the call to arms and she was maid, wife and
widow in one day. Those were old worldish days, loyal times in joyous
townlands, old times in the barony.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Father Conmee, walking, thought of his little book <span class="title">Old Times in
the Barony</span> and of the book that might be written about jesuit houses
and of Mary Rochfort, daughter of lord Molesworth, first countess of
Belvedere.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>A listless lady, no more young, walked alone the shore of lough
Ennel, Mary, first countess of Belvedere, listlessly walking in the
evening, not startled when an otter plunged.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>Who could know the
truth? Not the jealous lord Belvedere and not her confessor if she had
not committed adultery fully, <span class="language">eiaculatio seminis inter vas naturale
mulieris</span>, with her husband's brother?
She would half confess if she had
not all sinned as women do. Only God knows and she and he, her
husband's brother.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Father Conmee thought of that tyrannous incontinence, needed
however for man's race on earth, and of the ways of God which were
not our ways.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Don John Conmee walked and moved in times of yore. He was
humane and honoured there. He bore in mind secrets confessed and
he smiled at smiling noble faces in a beeswaxed drawingroom, ceiled
with full fruit clusters. And the hands of a bride and of a bridegroom,
noble to noble, were impalmed by Don John Conmee. ||</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>It was a charming day. ||</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>The lychgate of a field showed Father Conmee breadths of
cabbages, curtseying to him with ample underleaves. The sky showed him
a flock of small white clouds going slowly down the wind.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span><span class="language">Moutonner</span>,
the French say. A just and homely word.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Father Conmee, reading his office, watched a flock of muttoning
clouds over Rathcoffey. His thinsocked ankles were tickled by the
stubble of Clongowes field. He walked there, reading in the evening,
and heard the cries of the boys' lines at their play, young cries in the
quiet evening. He was their rector: his reign was mild.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Father Conmee drew off his gloves and took his rededged
breviary out. An ivory bookmark told him the page.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>Nones. I should have read that before lunch. But lady Maxwell
came.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Father Conmee read in secret <span class="language">Pater</span> and
<span class="language">Ave</span> and crossed his breast.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span><span class="language">Deus in adiutorium</span>.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>He walked calmly and read mutely the nones, walking and reading till he
came to</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>Res</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>in</div>
<div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span><span class="language">Beati immaculati: Principium verborum tuorum
veritas: in eternum omnia indicia iustiitiæ tuæ.</span></div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>A flushed young man came from a gap of a hedge and after him
came a young woman with wild nodding daisies in her hand. The
young man raised his cap abruptly: the young woman abruptly bent
and with slow care detached from her light skirt a clinging twig.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Father Conmee blessed both gravely and turned a thin page of
his breviary.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span>Sin.</div>
<div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Conmee: </span><span class="language">Principes persecuti sunt me gratis: et a verbis tuis
formidavit cor meum.</span></div>
<hr class="rock" width="75%"><h2>Rock 2</h2><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N2: </span>Corny Kelleher closed his long daybook and glanced with his
drooping eye at a pine coffinlid sentried in a corner. He pulled himself
erect, went to it and, spinning it on its axle, viewed its shape and brass
furnishings. Chewing his blade of hay he laid the coffinlid by and came
to the doorway. There he tilted his hatbrim to give shade to his eyes
and leaned against the doorcase, looking idly out.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N2: </span>Corny Kelleher locked his largefooted boots and gazed, his hat
downtilted, chewing his blade of hay.</div>
<hr width="50%">
<div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Father John Conmee stepped into the Dollymount tram on
Newcomen bridge.</div>
</div>
<hr width="50%"><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N2: </span>Constable 57C, on his beat, stood to pass the time of day.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Constable 57C: </span>That's a fine day, Mr Kelleher.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Corny K.: </span>Ay</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Constable 57C: </span>It's very close.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N2: </span>Corny Kelleher sped a silent jet of hayjuice arching from his
mouth while a generous white arm from a window in Eccles street
flung forth a coin.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Corny K.: </span>What's the best news?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Constable 57C: </span>I seen that particular party last evening.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N2: </span>The constable said with bated breath.</div>
<hr class="rock" width="75%"><h2>Rock 3</h2><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N3: </span>A onelegged sailor crutched himself round MacConnell's corner,
skirting Rabaiotti's icecream car, and jerked himself up Eccles street.
Towards Larry O'Rourke, in shirtsleeves in his doorway, he growled
unamiably.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Sailor: </span><span class="stage">
[Singing]
</span> For England.</div><span class="stage">
[Enter Katey and Boody Dedalus]
</span><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N3: </span>He swung himself violently forward past Katey and Boody
Dedalus, halted and growled:</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Sailor: </span><span class="stage">
[Singing]
</span> home and beauty.</div><span class="stage">
[Exit Katey and Boody Dedalus]
</span><hr width="50%">
<div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N8: </span>J. J. O'Molloy's white careworn face was told that Mr Lambert
was in the warehouse with a visitor.</div>
</div>
<hr width="50%"><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N3: </span>A stout lady stopped, took a copper coin from her purse and
dropped it into the cap held out to her.
<span class="stage">
[Lady drops coin into cap.]
</span>
The sailor grumbled thanks,
glanced sourly at the unheeding windows, sank his head and
swung himself forward four strides.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N3: </span>He halted and growled angrily:</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Sailor: </span><span class="stage">
[Singing]
</span> For England.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N3: </span>Two barefoot urchins, sucking long liquorice laces, halted near
him, gaping at his stump with their yellowslobbered mouths.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N3: </span>He swung himself forward in vigorous jerks, halted, lifted his
head towards a window and bayed deeply:</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Sailor: </span><span class="stage">
[Singing]
</span> home and beauty.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N3: </span>The gay sweet chirping whistling within went on a bar or two,
ceased. The blind of the window was drawn aside. A card <span class="language">Unfurnished
Apartments</span> 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.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N3: </span>One of the urchins ran to it, picked it up and dropped it into the
minstrel's cap, saying:</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Urchin: </span>There, sir.</div>
<hr class="rock" width="75%"><h2>Rock 4</h2><span class="stage">
[Enter Maggy Dedalus. Enter Katey and Boody Dedalus]
</span><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N4: </span>Katey and Boody Dedalus shoved in the door of the
closesteaming kitchen.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Boody: </span>Did you put in the books?</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N4: </span>Maggy at the range rammed down a greyish mass beneath
bubbling suds twice with her potstick and wiped her brow.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Maggy: </span>They wouldn't give anything on them.</div>
<hr width="50%">
<div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Father Conmee walked through Clongowes field, his thinsocked
ankles tickled by stubble.</div>
</div>
<hr width="50%"><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Boody: </span>Where did you try?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Maggy: </span>M'Guinness's.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N4: </span>Boody stamped her foot and threw her satchel on the table.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Boody: </span>Bad cess to her big face!</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N4: </span>Katey went to the range and peered with squinting eyes.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Katey: </span>What's in the pot?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Maggy: </span>Shirts.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Boody: </span><span class="stage">
[angrily]
</span> Crickey, is there nothing for us to eat?</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N4: </span>Katey, lifting the kettlelid in a pad of her stained shirt, asked:</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Katey: </span>And what's in this?</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N4: </span>A heavy fume gushed in answer.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Maggy: </span>Peasoup.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Katey: </span>Where did you get it?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Maggy: </span>Sister Mary Patrick.</div>
<hr width="50%">
<div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N11: </span>The lacquey rang his bell.</div><span class="stage">
[Barang!]
</span></div>
<hr width="50%"><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N4: </span>Boody sat down at the table and said hungrily:</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Boody: </span>Give us it here!</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N4: </span>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.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Katey: </span>A good job we have that much. Where's Dilly?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Maggy: </span>Gone to meet father.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N4: </span>Boody, breaking big chunks of bread into the yellow soup,
added:</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Boody: </span>Our father who art not in heaven.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N4: </span>Maggy, pouring yellow soup in Katey's bowl, exclaimed:</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Maggy: </span>Boody! For shame!</div>
<hr width="50%">
<div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N*: </span>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.</div>
</div>
<hr width="50%">
<hr class="rock" width="75%"><h2>Rock 5</h2><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N5: </span>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.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Blazes Boylan: </span>Put these in first, will you?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Blond Girl: </span>Yes, sir, and the fruit on top.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Blazes Boylan: </span>That'll do, game ball.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N5: </span>She bestowed fat pears neatly, head by tail, and among them ripe
shamefaced peaches.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N5: </span>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.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N5: </span>Haitch Ee Ell Wye Apostrophe Ess <span class="stage">
[H.E.L.Y.'S.]
</span>
filed before him, tallwhitehatted, past Tangier
lane, plodding towards their goal.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N5: </span>He turned suddenly from a chip of strawberries, drew a gold
watch from his fob and held it at its chain's length.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Blazes Boylan: </span>Can you send them by tram? Now?</div>
<hr width="50%">
<div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N9: </span>A darkbacked figure under Merchants' arch scanned books on
the hawker's car.</div>
</div>
<hr width="50%"><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Blond Girl: </span>Certainly, sir. Is it in the city?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Blazes Boylan: </span>O, yes. Ten minutes.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N5: </span>The blond girl handed him a docket and pencil.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Blond Girl: </span>Will you write the address, sir?</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N5: </span>Blazes Boylan at the counter wrote and pushed the docket to her.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Blazes Boylan: </span>Send it at once, will you? It's for an invalid.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Blond Girl: </span>Yes, sir. I will, sir.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N5: </span>Blazes Boylan rattled merry money in his trousers' pocket.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Blazes Boylan: </span>What's the damage?</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N5: </span>The blond girl's slim fingers reckoned the fruits.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N5: </span>Blazes Boylan looked into the cut of her blouse.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Blazes Boylan: </span>A young pullet.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N5: </span>He took a red carnation from the tall stemglass.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Blazes Boylan: </span>This for me?</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N5: </span>He asked gallantly.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N5: </span>The blond girl glanced sideways at him, got up regardless, with
his tie a bit crooked, blushing.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Blond Girl: </span>Yes, sir.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N5: </span>Bending archly she reckoned again fat pears and blushing
peaches.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N5: </span>Blazes Boylan looked in her blouse with more favour, the stalk
of the red flower between his smiling teeth.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Blazes Boylan: </span>May I say a word to your telephone, missy?</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N5: </span>He asked roguishly.</div><span class="stage">
[Re-enter H. E. L. Y. 'S.]
</span><hr class="rock" width="75%"><h2>Rock 6</h2>
<div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Almidano: </span><span class="language">Ma!</span></div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N6: </span>Almidano Artifoni said.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N6: </span>He gazed over Stephen's shoulder at Goldsmith's knobby poll.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N6: </span>Two carfuls of tourists passed slowly, their women sitting fore,
gripping frankly 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.</div>
<div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Almidano: </span><span class="language">Anch'io ho avuto di queste idee, quand'
ero giovine come Lei. Eppoi me sono convinto che il mondo è una bestia. È
peccato. Perchè la sua voce ... sarebbe un cespite di rendita, via.
Invece, Lei si sacrifica.</span></div>
<div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span><span class="language">Sacrifizio incruento,</span></div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N6: </span>Stephen said smiling, swaying his ashplant
in slow swingswong from its midpoint, lightly.</div>
<div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Almidano: </span><span class="language">Speriamo.</span></div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N6: </span>the round mustachioed face said pleasantly.</div>
<div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Almidano: </span><span class="language">Ma, dia retta a me. Ci rifletta.</span></div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N6: </span>By the stern stone hand of Grattan, bidding halt, an Inchicore
tram unloaded straggling Highland soldiers of a band.</div>
<div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span><span class="language">Ci rifletterò.</span></div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N6: </span>Stephen said, glancing down the solid trouserleg.</div>
<div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Almidano: </span><span class="language">Ma, sul serio, eh?</span></div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N6: </span>His heavy hand took Stephen's firmly.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span>Human eyes.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N6: </span>They gazed
curiously an instant and turned quickly towards a Dalkey tram.</div>
<div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Almidano: </span><span class="language">Eccolo.</span></div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N6: </span>Almidano Artifoni said in friendly haste.</div>
<div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Almidano: </span><span class="language">Venga a trovarmi e ci pensi.
Addio, caro.</span></div>
<div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span><span class="language">Arrivederla, maestro.</span></div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N6: </span>Stephen said, raising his hat when his hand was freed.</div>
<div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span><span class="language">E grazie.</span></div><span class="stage">
[Exit Stephen]
</span><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Almidano: </span><span class="language">Di che? Scusi, eh? Tante belle cose!</span></div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N6: </span>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.</div>
<hr class="rock" width="75%"><h2>Rock 7</h2><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N7: </span>Miss Dunne hid the Capel street library copy of <span class="title">The Woman in
White</span> far back in her drawer and rolled a sheet of gaudy notepaper
into her typewriter.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Miss Dunne: </span>Too much mystery business in it? Is he in love with that one,
Marion? Change it and get another by Mary Cecil Haye.</div>
<hr width="50%">
<div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N9: </span>The disk shot down the groove, wobbled a while, ceased and
ogled them: six.</div>
</div>
<hr width="50%"><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N7: </span>Miss Dunne clicked on the keyboard:</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Miss Dunne: </span>16 June nineteen-hundred and four<span class="stage">
[1904]
</span>.</div>
<hr width="50%">
<div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N5: </span>Five tallwhitehatted sandwichmen between Monypeny's corner
and the slab where Wolfe Tone's statue was not, eeled themselves
turning Haitch Ee Ell Wye Apostrophe Ess <span class="stage">
[H.E.L.Y.'S.]
</span>
and plodded back as they had come.</div>
</div>
<hr width="50%"><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N7: </span>Then she stared at the large poster of Marie Kendall, charming
soubrette, and, listlessly lolling, scribbled on the jotter sixteens and
capital esses.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Miss Dunne: </span>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.</div><span class="stage">
[bell rings]
</span><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N7: </span>The telephone rang rudely by her ear.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Miss Dunne: </span>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.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N7: </span>She scribbled three figures on an envelope.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Miss Dunne: </span>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.</div>
<hr class="rock" width="75%"><h2>Rock 8</h2><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N8: </span>Two pink faces turned in the flare of the tiny torch.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Ned Lambert: </span>Who's that?</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N8: </span>Ned Lambert asked.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Ned Lambert: </span>Is that Crotty?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">J. J. O'Molloy: </span>Ringabella and Crosshaven.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N8: </span>A voice replied, groping for foothold.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Ned Lambert: </span>Hello, Jack, is that yourself?</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N8: </span>Ned Lambert said, raising in
salute his pliant lath among the flickering arches.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Ned Lambert: </span>Come on. Mind your steps there.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N8: </span>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.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Rev. Love: </span>How interesting!</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N8: </span>A refined accent said in the gloom.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Ned Lambert: </span><span class="stage">
[heartily]
</span> Yes, sir. We are standing in the
historic council chamber of saint Mary's abbey where silken Thomas
proclaimed himself a rebel in fifteen hundred and thirty-four
<span class="stage">
[1534]
</span>. 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?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">J. J. O'Molloy: </span>No, Ned.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Rev. Love: </span>He rode down through Dame walk,
if my memory serves me. The mansion of the Kildares was in Thomas
court.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Ned Lambert: </span>That's right. That's quite right, sir.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Rev. Love: </span>If you will be so kind then, the next time
to allow me perhaps ...</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Ned Lambert: </span>Certainly. 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.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N8: </span>In the still faint light he moved about, tapping with his lath the
piled seedbags and points of vantage on the floor.</div>
<hr width="50%">
<div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N16: </span>From a long face a beard and gaze hung on a chessboard.</div>
</div>
<hr width="50%"><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Rev. Love: </span>I'm deeply obliged, Mr Lambert. I won't
trespass on your valuable time...</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Ned Lambert: </span>You're welcome, sir. Drop in whenever
you like. Next week, say. Can you see?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Rev. Love: </span>Yes, yes. Good afternoon, Mr Lambert. Very pleased to have
met you.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Ned Lambert: </span>Pleasure is mine, sir.</div><span class="stage">
[Exit Rev. Love]
</span><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N8: </span>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.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N8: </span>He stood to read the card in his hand.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Ned Lambert: </span>The reverend Hugh C. Love, Rathcoffey. Present address:
Saint Michael's, Sallins. Nice chap he is.
He's writing a book
about the Fitzgeralds he told me. He's well up in history, faith.</div>
<hr width="50%">
<div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>The young woman with slow care detached from her light skirt
a clinging twig.</div>
</div>
<hr width="50%"><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">J. J. O'Molloy: </span>I thought you were at a new gunpowder plot.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N8: </span>J. J. O'Molloy said.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N8: </span>Ned Lambert cracked his fingers in the air.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Ned Lambert: </span>God. I forgot to tell him that one about the earl of
Kildare after he set fire to Cashel cathedral. You know that one? <span class="language">I'm
bloody sorry I did it,</span> says he,
<span class="language">but I declare to God I thought the archbishop
was inside.</span> 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.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N8: </span>The horses he passed started nervously under their slack harness.
He slapped a piebald haunch quivering near him and cried:</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Ned Lambert: </span>Woa, sonny!</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N8: </span>He turned to J. J. O'Molloy and asked:</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Ned Lambert: </span>Well, Jack. What is it? What's the trouble? Wait a while.
Hold hard.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N8: </span>With gaping mouth and head far back he stood still and, after an
instant, sneezed loudly.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Ned Lambert: </span>Chow! Blast you!</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">J. J. O'Molloy: </span>The dust from those sacks.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Ned Lambert: </span><span class="stage">
[gasping]
</span> No, I caught a ... cold night before
... blast your soul ... night before last ... and there was a hell of
a lot of draught ...</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N8: </span>He held his handkerchief ready for the coming ...</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Ned Lambert: </span>I was ... Glasnevin this morning ... poor little ... what do you call
him ... Chow! ... Mother of Moses!</div>
<hr class="rock" width="75%"><h2>Rock 9</h2><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N9: </span>Tom Rochford took the top disk from the pile he clasped against
his claret waistcoat.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Tom Rochford: </span>See? Say it's turn six. In here, see. Turn Now On.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N9: </span>He slid it into the left slot for them. It shot down the groove,
wobbled a while, ceased, ogling them.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Tom Rochford: </span>Six.</div>
<hr width="50%">
<div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N*: </span>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.</div>
</div>
<hr width="50%"><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Tom Rochford: </span>See? See now the last one I put in is over here. Turns
Over. The impact. Leverage, see?</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N9: </span>He showed them the rising column of disks on the right.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Nosey Flynn: </span>Smart idea,</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N9: </span>Nosey Flynn said, snuffling.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Nosey Flynn: </span>So a fellow coming in
late can see what turn is on and what turns are over.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Tom Rochford: </span>See?</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N9: </span>He slid in a disk for himself: and watched it shoot, wobble, ogle,
stop.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Nosey Flynn: </span>Four.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Tom Rochford: </span>Turn Now On.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Lenehan: </span>I'll see him now in the Ormond,</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N9: </span>Lenehan said,</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Lenehan: </span>And sound him.
One good turn deserves another.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Tom Rochford: </span>Do. Tell him I'm Boylan with impatience.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">M'Coy: </span>Good night.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N9: </span>M'Coy said abruptly.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">M'Coy: </span>When you two begin ...</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N9: </span>Nosey Flynn stooped towards the lever, snuffling at it.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Nosey Flynn: </span>But how does it work here, Tommy?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Lenehan: </span>Tooraloo. See you later.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N9: </span>He followed M'Coy out across the tiny square of Crampton
court.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Lenehan: </span>He's a hero.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">M'Coy: </span>I know. The drain, you mean.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Lenehan: </span>Drain? It was down a manhole.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N9: </span>They passed Dan Lowry's musichall where Marie Kendall,
charming soubrette, smiled on them from a poster a dauby smile.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N9: </span>Going down the path of Sycamore street beside the Empire
musichall Lenehan showed M'Coy how the whole thing was.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Lenehan: </span>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.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Lenehan: </span>The act of a hero.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N9: </span>At the Dolphin they halted to allow the ambulance car to gallop
past them for Jervis street.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Lenehan: </span>This way.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N9: </span>He said, walking to the right.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Lenehan: </span>I want to pop into
Lynam's to see Sceptre's starting price. What's the time by your gold
watch and chain?</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N9: </span>M'Coy peered into Marcus Tertius Moses' sombre office, then at
O'Neill's clock.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">M'Coy: </span>After three. Who's riding her?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Lenehan: </span>O. Madden. And a game filly she is.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N9: </span>While he waited in Temple bar M'Coy dodged a banana peel
with gentle pushes of his toe from the path to the gutter.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">M'Coy: </span>Fellow might
damn easy get a nasty fall there coming along tight in the dark.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N9: </span>The gates of the drive opened wide to give egress to the viceregal
cavalcade.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Lenehan: </span>Even money. I knocked against
Bantam Lyons in there going to back a bloody horse someone gave him
that hasn't an earthly. Through here.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N9: </span>They went up the steps and under Merchants' arch. A darkbacked
figure scanned books on the hawker's cart.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Lenehan: </span>There he is.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">M'Coy: </span>Wonder what he is buying.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Lenehan: </span>Leopoldo or the Bloom is on the Rye.</div><span class="stage">
[Exit Tom Rochford and Nosey Flynn]
</span><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">M'Coy: </span>He's dead nuts on sales. 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.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N9: </span>Lenehan laughed.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Lenehan: </span>I'll tell you a damn good one about comets' tails.
Come over in the sun.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N9: </span>They crossed to the metal bridge and went along Wellington
quay by the riverwall.</div>
<hr width="50%">
<div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N18: </span>Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam came out of Mangan's, late
Fehrenbach's, carrying a pound and a half of porksteaks.</div>
</div>
<hr width="50%"><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Lenehan: </span>There was a long spread out at Glencree reformatory.
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 ...</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">M'Coy: </span>I know. My missus sang there once.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Lenehan: </span>Did she?</div>
<hr width="50%">
<div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N3: </span>A card <span class="language">Unfurnished Apartments</span>
reappeared on the windowsash of
number 7 Eccles street.</div>
</div>
<hr width="50%"><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N9: </span>He checked his tale a moment but broke out in a wheezy laugh.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Lenehan: </span>But wait till I tell you, 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
curaçao to which we did ample justice. Fast and furious it was. After
liquids came solids. Cold joints galore and mince pies ...</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">M'Coy: </span>I know. The year the missus was there ...</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N9: </span>Lenehan linked his arm warmly.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Lenehan: </span>But wait till I tell you. We had a midnight lunch too
after all the jollification and when we sallied forth it was blue o'clock
the morning after the night before. Coming home it was a gorgeous
winter's night on the Featherbed Mountain. Bloom and Chris Callinan
were on one side of the car and I was with the wife on the other. We
started singing glees and duets:
<span class="language">Lo, the early beam of morning.</span> She was
well primed with a good load of Delahunt's port under her bellyband.
Every jolt the bloody car gave I had her bumping up against me.
Hell's delights! She has a fine pair, God bless her. Like that.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N9: </span>He held his caved hands a cubit from him, frowning:</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Lenehan: </span>I was tucking the rug under her and settling her boa all the
time. Know what I mean?</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N9: </span>His hands moulded ample curves of air. He shut his eyes tight
in delight, his body shrinking, and blew a sweet chirp from his lips.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Lenehan: </span>The lad stood to attention anyhow. She's
a gamey mare and no mistake. Bloom was pointing out all the stars
and the comets in the heavens to Chris Callinan and the jarvey: the
great bear and Hercules and the dragon, and the whole jingbang lot.
But, by God, I was lost, so to speak, in the milky way. He knows them
all, faith. At last she spotted a weeny weeshy one miles away. <span class="language">And
what star is that, Poldy?</span> says she. By God, she had Bloom cornered.
<span class="language">That one, is it?</span> says Chris Callinan,
<span class="language">sure that's only what you might call
a pinprick.</span> By God, he wasn't far wide of the mark.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N9: </span>Lenehan stopped and leaned on the riverwall, panting with soft
laughter.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Lenehan: </span><span class="stage">
[gasping]
</span> I'm weak.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N9: </span>M'Coy's white face smiled about it at instants and grew grave.
Lenehan walked on again. He lifted his yachtingcap and scratched his
hindhead rapidly. He glanced sideways in the sunlight at M'Coy.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Lenehan: </span>He's a cultured allroundman, Bloom is. He's not one of
your common or garden ... you know ... There's a touch
of the artist about old Bloom.</div>
<hr class="rock" width="75%"><h2>Rock 10</h2><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N10: </span>Mr Bloom turned over idly pages of <span class="title">The Awful Disclosures of
Maria Monk</span>, then of Aristotle's <span class="title">Masterpiece</span>.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Bloom: </span>Crooked botched print.
Plates: infants cuddled in a ball in bloodred wombs like livers of
slaughtered cows. Lots of them like that at this moment all over the
world. All butting with their skulls to get out of it.
<span class="stage">
[falsetto]
</span> Child born every
minute somewhere. Mrs Purefoy.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N10: </span>He laid both books aside and glanced at the third: <span class="title">Tales of the
Ghetto</span> by Leopold von Sacher Masoch.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Bloom: </span>That I had.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N10: </span>The shopman let two volumes fall on the counter.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Shopman: </span>Them are two good ones.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N10: </span>Onions of his breath came across the counter out of his ruined
mouth. He bent to make a bundle of the other books, hugged them
against his unbuttoned waistcoat and bore them off behind the dingy
curtain.</div>
<hr width="50%">
<div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N*: </span>On O'Connell bridge many persons observed the grave
deportment and gay apparel of Mr Denis J. Maginni, professor of
dancing etc.</div>
</div>
<hr width="50%"><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N10: </span>Mr Bloom, alone, looked at the titles.
<span class="title">Fair Tyrants</span> by James
Lovebirch.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Bloom: </span>Know the kind that is. Had it? Yes.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N10: </span>He opened it.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Bloom: </span>Thought so.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N10: </span>A woman's voice behind the dingy curtain.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Woman: </span>Listen: The man.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Bloom: </span>No: she wouldn't like that much. Got her it once.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N10: </span>He read the other title: <span class="title">Sweets of Sin</span>.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Bloom: </span>More in her line. Let us see.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N10: </span>He read where his finger opened.</div>
<div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Book: </span><span class="language">All the dollarbills her husband gave her were spent in the stores on
wondrous gowns and costliest frillies. For him! For Raoul!</span></div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Bloom: </span>Yes. This. Here. Try.</div>
<div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Book: </span><span class="language">Her mouth glued on his in a luscious voluptuous kiss while his hands
felt for the opulent curves inside her déshabillé.</span></div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Bloom: </span>Yes. Take this. The end.</div>
<div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Book: </span><span class="language">You are late, he spoke hoarsely, eyeing her with a suspicious
glare.</span></div>
<div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Book: </span><span class="language">The beautiful woman threw off her sabletrimmed wrap, displaying her
queenly shoulders and heaving embonpoint. An imperceptible smile played
round her perfect lips as she turned to him calmly.</span></div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N10: </span>Mr Bloom read again:</div>
<div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Book: </span><span class="language"> The beautiful woman.</span></div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N10: </span>Warmth showered gently over him, cowing his flesh. Flesh
yielded amply amid rumpled clothes: whites of eyes swooning up. His
nostrils arched themselves for prey. Melting breast ointments</div>
<div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Book: </span><span class="language">(for him! For Raoul!)</span></div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N10: </span>Armpits' oniony sweat. Fishgluey slime</div>
<div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Book: </span><span class="language">(her heaving embonpoint!).</span></div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N10: </span>Feel! Press! Crushed! Sulphur dung of lions!</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Bloom: </span>Young! <span class="stage">
[ with book ]
</span> Young!</div>
<hr width="50%">
<div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N*: </span>An elderly female, no more young, left the building of the courts
of chancery, king's bench, exchequer and common pleas having heard
in the lord chancellor's court the case in lunacy of Potterton, in the
admiralty division the summons, exparte motion, of the owners of the
Lady Cairns versus the owners of the barque Mona, in the court of
appeal reservation of judgment in the case of Harvey versus the Ocean
Accident and Guarantee Corporation.</div>
</div>
<hr width="50%"><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N10: </span>Phlegmy coughs shook the air of the bookshop, bulging out the
dingy curtains. The shopman's uncombed grey head came out and his
unshaven reddened face, coughing. He raked his throat rudely, spat
phlegm on the floor. He put his boot on what he had spat, wiping his
sole along it, and bent, showing a rawskinned crown, scantily haired.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N10: </span>Mr Bloom beheld it.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N10: </span>Mastering his troubled breath, he said:</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Bloom: </span>I'll take this one.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N10: </span>The shopman lifted eyes bleared with old rheum.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Shopman: </span><span class="title">Sweets of Sin</span>. <span class="stage">
[tapping on book]
</span>
That's a good one.</div>
<hr class="rock" width="75%"><h2>Rock 11</h2><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N11: </span>The lacquey by the door of Dillon's auctionrooms shook his
handbell twice again and viewed himself in the chalked mirror of the
cabinet.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N11: </span>Dilly Dedalus, loitering by the curbstone, heard the beats of the
bell, the cries of the auctioneer within.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Auctioneer: </span>Four and nine. Those lovely
curtains. Five shillings. Cosy curtains. Selling new at two guineas. Any
advance on five shillings? Going for five shillings.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N11: </span>The lacquey lifted his handbell and shook it:</div><span class="stage">
[Barang!]
</span><hr width="50%">
<div><span class="stage">
[Bicycle bell rings]
</span><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N19 B: </span>Bang of the lastlap bell spurred the halfmile wheelmen to their
sprint. J. A. Jackson, W. E. Wylie, A. Munro and H. T. Gahan,
their stretched necks wagging, negotiated the curve by the College
library.</div>
</div>
<hr width="50%"><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N11: </span>Mr Dedalus, tugging a long moustache, came round from
Williams's row. He halted near his daughter.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Dilly: </span>It's time for you.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Simon D.: </span>Stand up straight for the love of the lord Jesus.
Are you trying to imitate your uncle John the cornetplayer, head
upon shoulder? Melancholy God!</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N11: </span>Dilly shrugged her shoulders. Mr Dedalus placed his hands on
them and held them back.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Simon D.: </span>Stand up straight, girl. You'll get curvature of the
spine. Do you know what you look like?</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N11: </span>He let his head sink suddenly down and forward, hunching his
shoulders and dropping his underjaw.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Dilly: </span>Give it up, father. All the people are looking at you.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N11: </span>Mr Dedalus drew himself upright and tugged again at his
moustache.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Dilly: </span>Did you get any money?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Simon D.: </span>Where would I get money? There is no-one in Dublin
would lend me fourpence.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Dilly: </span>You got some.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Simon D.: </span>How do you know that?</div>
<hr width="50%">
<div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N12: </span>Mr Kernan, pleased with the order he had booked, walked
boldly along James's street.</div>
</div>
<hr width="50%"><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Dilly: </span>I know you did. Were you in the Scotch house now?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Simon D.: </span>I was not then. Was it the little nuns
taught you to be so saucy? Here.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N11: </span>He handed her a shilling.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Simon D.: </span>See if you can do anything with that.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Dilly: </span>I suppose you got five. Give me more than that.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Simon D.: </span><span class="stage">
[threateningly]
</span> Wait awhile. You're like the
rest of them, are you? An insolent pack of little bitches since your poor
mother died. But wait awhile. You'll all get a short shrift and a long
day from me. Low blackguardism! I'm going to get rid of you.
Wouldn't care if I was stretched out stiff. He's dead. The man upstairs
is dead.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N11: </span>He left her and walked on. Dilly followed quickly and pulled
his coat.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Simon D.: </span>Well, what is it?</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N11: </span>The lacquey rang his bell behind their backs.</div><span class="stage">
[Barang!]
</span><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Simon D.: </span>Curse your bloody blatant soul.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N11: </span>The lacquey, aware of comment, shook the lolling clapper of his
bell but feebly:</div><span class="stage">
[Bang!]
</span><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N11: </span>Mr Dedalus stared at him.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Simon D.: </span>Watch him. It's instructive. I wonder will he allow us
to talk.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Dilly: </span>You got more than that, father.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Simon D.: </span>I'm going to show you a little trick. I'll leave
you all where Jesus left the jews. Look, that's all I have. I got two
shillings from Jack Power and I spent twopence for a shave for the
funeral.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N11: </span>He drew forth a handful of copper coins, nervously.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Dilly: </span>Can't you look for some money somewhere?</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N11: </span>Mr Dedalus thought and nodded.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Simon D.: </span><span class="stage">
[gravely]
</span> I will. I looked all along the gutter in
O'Connell street. I'll try this one now.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Dilly: </span><span class="stage">
[grinning]
</span> You're very funny</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Simon D.: </span>Here.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N11: </span>Mr Dedalus said, handing her two pennies.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Simon D.: </span>Get a glass of
milk for yourself and a bun or a something. I'll be home shortly.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N11: </span>He put the other coins in his pocket and started to walk on.</div>
<hr width="50%">
<div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N19 B: </span>The viceregal cavalcade passed, greeted by obsequious
policemen, out of Parkgate.</div>
</div>
<hr width="50%"><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Dilly: </span>I'm sure you have another shilling.</div><span class="stage">
[Lacquey bangs loudly!]
</span><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N11: </span>Mr Dedalus amid the din walked off, murmuring to himself with
a pursing mincing mouth gently:</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Simon D.: </span>The little nuns! Nice little things!
O, sure they wouldn't do
anything! O, sure they wouldn't really!
<span class="stage">
[Nun's bell]
</span>
Is it little sister Monica!</div>
<hr class="rock" width="75%"><h2>Rock 12</h2><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N12: </span>From the sundial towards James's Gate walked Mr Kernan
pleased with the order he had booked for Pulbrook Robertson,
boldly along James's street, past Shackleton's offices.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Kernan
-<em>[int.]</em>: </span>Got round him all right.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Kernan: </span>How do you do, Mr Crimmins?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Crimmins: </span>First rate, sir.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Kernan: </span>I was afraid
you might be up in your other establishment in Pimlico. How are
things going?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Crimmins: </span>Just keeping alive.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Kernan: </span>Lovely weather we're having.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Crimmins: </span>Yes, indeed.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Kernan: </span>Good for the country. Those farmers are always
grumbling. I'll just take a thimbleful of your best gin, Mr Crimmins.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Crimmins: </span>A small
gin, sir. Yes, sir.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Kernan: </span>Terrible affair that General Slocum explosion.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Crimmins: </span>Terrible, terrible!</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Kernan: </span>A thousand casualties. And heartrending scenes. Men
trampling down women and children. Most brutal thing.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Crimmins: </span>What do
they say was the cause?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Kernan: </span>Spontaneous combustion. Most scandalous
revelation. Not a single lifeboat would float and the firehose all
burst.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Crimmins: </span>What I can't understand is how the inspectors ever allowed a
boat like that ...</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Kernan: </span>Now you are talking straight, Mr Crimmins. You
know why? <span class="stage">
[rubbing fingers]
</span> Palm oil.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Crimmins: </span>Is that a fact?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Kernan: </span>Without a doubt.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Crimmins: </span>Well now, look at that.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Kernan: </span>And America they say is the land of the free. I thought we
were bad here.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Kernan: </span><span class="language">America</span>, <span class="language">What is it?
The sweepings of every country including our own.</span></div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Kernan: </span>Isn't that true?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Crimmins: </span>That's a fact.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Kernan: </span>Graft, my dear sir. Well, of course, where there's money going
there's always someone to pick it up.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Kernan
-<em>[int.]</em>: </span>Saw him looking at my frockcoat. Dress does it. Nothing like a
dressy appearance. Bowls them over.</div>
<hr width="50%">
<div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Cowley: </span>Hello, Simon.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N14: </span>Father Cowley said.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Cowley: </span>How are things?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Simon D.: </span>Hello, Bob, old man.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N14: </span>Mr Dedalus answered stopping.</div>
</div>
<hr width="50%"><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N12: </span>Mr Kernan halted and preened himself before the sloping mirror
of Peter Kennedy, hairdresser.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Kernan
-<em>[int.]</em>: </span>Stylish coat, beyond a doubt. | Scott of
Dawson street. | Well worth the half sovereign I gave Neary for it. |
Never built under three guineas. Fits me down to the ground. | Some
Kildare street club toff had it probably. || John Mulligan, the manager
of the Hibernian bank, gave me a very sharp eye yesterday on Carlisle
bridge as if he remembered me.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Kernan
-<em>[int.]</em>: </span>Aham! | Must dress the character for those fellows. Knight of the
road. Gentleman.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Kernan: </span>And now, Mr Crimmins, may we have the honour
of your custom again, sir. The cup that cheers but not inebriates, as
the old saying has it.</div>
<hr width="50%">
<div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N*: </span>North wall and sir John Rogerson's quay, with hulls and
anchorchains, sailing westward, sailed by a skiff, a crumpled throwaway,
rocked on the ferry-wash, Elijah is coming.</div>
</div>
<hr width="50%"><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N12: </span>Mr Kernan glanced in farewell at his image.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Kernan
-<em>[int.]</em>: </span>High colour, of
course. Grizzled moustache. Returned Indian officer. Bravely he bore
his stumpy body forward on spatted feet, squaring his shoulders. Is
that Lambert's brother over the way, Sam? What? Yes. He's as like
it as damn it. No. The windscreen of that motorcar in the sun there.
Just a flash like that. Damn like him.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Kernan: </span>Aham!</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N12: </span>Hot spirit of juniper juice warmed his vitals and his breath.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Kernan: </span>Good drop of gin, that was.</div><span class="stage">
[Exit Crimmins]
</span><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N12: </span>His frocktails winked in bright
sunshine to his fat strut.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Kernan
-<em>[int.]</em>: </span>Down there Emmet was hanged, drawn and quartered. Greasy
black rope. Dogs licking the blood off the street when the lord
lieutenant's wife drove by in her noddy.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Kernan
-<em>[int.]</em>: </span>Bad times those were. Well, well. Over and done with.
Great topers too. Fourbottle men.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Kernan
-<em>[int.]</em>: </span>Let me see. Is he buried in saint Michan's? Or no, there was a
midnight burial in Glasnevin. Corpse brought in through a secret
door in the wall. Dignam is there now. Went out in a puff. Well, well.
Better turn down here. Make a detour.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N12: </span>Mr Kernan turned and walked down the slope of Watling street
by the corner of Guinness's visitors' waitingroom. Outside the
Dublin Distillers Company's stores an outside car without fare or
jarvey stood, the reins knotted to the wheel.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Kernan: </span>Damn dangerous thing.
Some Tipperary bosthoon endangering the lives of the citizens. Runaway
horse.</div>
<hr width="50%">
<div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N*: </span>Denis Breen with his tomes, weary of having waited an hour in
John Henry Menton's office, led his wife over O'Connell bridge,
bound for the office of Messrs Collis and Ward.</div>
</div>
<hr width="50%"><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N12: </span>Mr Kernan approached Island street.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Kernan
-<em>[int.]</em>: </span>Times of the troubles. || Must ask Ned Lambert to lend me those
reminiscences of sir Jonah Barrington. | When you look back on it all
now in a kind of retrospective arrangement. || Gaming at Daly's. No
cardsharping then. One of those fellows got his hand nailed to the
table by a dagger. || Somewhere here lord Edward Fitzgerald escaped
from major Sirr. Stables behind Moira house.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Kernan: </span>Damn good gin that was.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Kernan
-<em>[int.]</em>: </span>Fine dashing young nobleman. Good stock, of course. That
ruffian, that sham squire, with his violet gloves, gave him away.
Course they were on the wrong side.
<span class="language">"They rose in dark and evil days."</span>
Fine poem that is: Ingram. || They were gentlemen. Ben Dollard does
sing that ballad touchingly. Masterly rendition.</div>
<div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Ben Dollard: </span><span class="stage">
[Air from The Croppy Boy]
</span><div class="song">At the siege of Ross did my father fall.</div>
</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N12: </span>A cavalcade in easy trot along Pembrook quay passed,
outriders leaping, leaping in their, in their saddles. Frockcoats. Cream
sunshades.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N12: </span>Mr Kernan hurried forward, blowing pursily.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Kernan: </span><span class="stage">
[Steps forward, points]
</span>
His Excellency! Too bad! Just missed that by a hair. Damn it!
What a pity!</div>
<hr class="rock" width="75%"><h2>Rock 13</h2><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N13: </span>Stephen Dedalus watched through the webbed window the
lapidary's fingers prove a timedulled chain.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span><span class="narrator">??? </span> Dust webbed the window and
the showtrays. Dust darkened the toiling fingers with their vulture
nails. Dust slept on dull coils of bronze and silver, lozenges of
cinnabar, on rubies, leprous and winedark stones.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span>Born all in the dark wormy earth, cold specks of fire, evil lights
shining in the darkness. Where fallen archangels flung the stars of
their brows. Muddy swinesnouts, hands, root and root, gripe and
wrest them.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span>She dances in a foul gloom where gum burns with garlic.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N13: </span>A sailorman, rustbearded, sips from a beaker rum and eyes her.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span>A long
and seafed silent rut. She dances, capers, wagging her sowish
haunches and her hips, on her gross belly flapping a ruby egg.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N13: </span>Old Russell with a smeared shammy rag burnished again his gem,
turned it and held it at the point of his Moses' beard.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span>Grandfather ape
gloating on a stolen hoard.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span>And you who wrest old images from the burial earth! The
brainsick words of sophists: Antisthenes. A lore of drugs. Orient and
immortal wheat standing from everlasting to everlasting.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N13: </span>Two old women fresh from their whiff of the briny trudged
through Irishtown along London bridge road, one with a
sanded tired umbrella, one with a midwife's bag in which eleven cockles
rolled.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N13: </span>The whirr of flapping leathern bands and hum of dynamos from
the powerhouse urged Stephen to be on.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span>Beingless beings. Stop!
Throb always without you and the throb always within. Your heart
you sing of. I between them. Where? Between two roaring worlds
where they swirl, I. Shatter them, one and both. But stun myself too
in the blow. Shatter me you who can. Bawd and butcher were the
words. I say! Not yet awhile. A look around.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span>Yes, quite true. Very large and wonderful and keeps famous
time. You say right, sir. A Monday morning, 'twas so, indeed.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N13: </span>Stephen went down Bedford row, the handle of the ash clacking
against his shoulderblade. In Clohissey's window a faded
eighteen hundred and sixty <span class="stage">
[1860]
</span> print
of Heenan boxing Sayers held his eye. Staring backers with square
hats stood round the roped prizering. The heavyweights in tight
loincloths proposed gently each to other his bulbous fists.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span>And they are
throbbing: heroes' hearts.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N13: </span>He turned and halted by the slanted bookcart.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Huckster: </span>Twopence each.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N13: </span>The huckster said.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Huckster: </span>Four for sixpence.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span>Tattered pages. <span class="title">The Irish Beekeeper</span>.
<span class="title">Life and Miracles of the Curé of
Ars</span>. <span class="title">Pocket Guide to Killarney</span>.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span>I might find here one of my pawned schoolprizes. <span class="language">Stephano
Dedalo, alumno optimo, palmam ferenti</span>.</div>
<hr width="50%">
<div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N1: </span>Father Conmee, having read his little hours, walked through the
hamlet of Donnycarney, murmuring vespers.</div>
</div>
<hr width="50%"><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span>Binding too good probably, what is this? Eighth and ninth book
of Moses: Secret of all secrets. Seal of King David. Thumbed pages:
read and read. Who has passed here before me? How to soften
chapped hands. Recipe for white wine vinegar. How to win a
woman's love. | For me this. | Say the following talisman three times
with hands folded:</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span><span class="stage">
[all whisper]
</span><span class="language">Se el yilo nebrakada femininum! Amor me solo!
Sanktus! Amen</span>.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span>Who wrote this? Charms and invocations of the most blessed
abbot Peter Salanka to all true believers divulged. As good as any
other abbot's charms, as mumbling Joachim's. Down, baldynoddle,
or we'll wool your wool.</div><span class="stage">
[Enter Dilly]
</span><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Dilly: </span>What are you doing here, Stephen.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span>Dilly's high shoulders and shabby dress.</div><span class="stage">
[Dilly or Stephen?]
</span><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span>Shut the book quick. Don't let see.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span><span class="stage">
[to Dilly]
</span> What are you doing?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span>A Stuart face of nonesuch Charles, lank locks falling at its sides.
It glowed as she crouched feeding the fire with broken boots. I told
her of Paris. Late lieabed under a quilt of old overcoats, fingering a
pinchbeck bracelet. Dan Kelly's token.
<span class="stage">
[all whisper]
</span><span class="language">Nebrakada femininum</span>.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span><span class="stage">
[to Dilly]
</span> What have you there?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Dilly: </span><span class="stage">
[laughing nervously]
</span>
I bought it from the other cart for a penny.
Is it any good?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span>My eyes they say she has. Do others see me so? Quick, far and
daring. Shadow of my mind.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N13: </span>He took the coverless book from her hand.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span>Chardenal's French primer.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span><span class="stage">
[to Dilly]
</span> What did you buy that for?
To learn French?</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N13: </span>She nodded, reddening and closing tight her lips.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span>Show no surprise. Quite natural.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span><span class="stage">
[to Dilly]
</span> Here. It's all right. Mind Maggy doesn't pawn
it on you. I suppose all my books are gone.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Dilly: </span>Some. We had to.</div><span class="stage">
[Exit Dilly]
</span><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span>She is drowning. Agenbite. Save her. Agenbite. All against us.
She will drown me with her, eyes and hair. Lank coils of seaweed hair
around me, my heart, my soul. Salt green death.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span>We.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span>Agenbite of inwit. Inwit's agenbite.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Stephen: </span>Misery! Misery!</div>
<hr class="rock" width="75%"><h2>Rock 14</h2><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Cowley: </span>Hello, Simon.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N14: </span>Father Cowley said.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Cowley: </span>How are things?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Simon D.: </span>Hello, Bob, old man.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N14: </span>Mr Dedalus answered, stopping.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N14: </span>They clasped hands loudly outside Reddy and Daughter's.
Father Cowley brushed his moustache often downward with a
scooping hand.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Simon D.: </span>What's the best news?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Cowley: </span>Why then not much. I'm barricaded up,
Simon, with two men prowling around the house trying to effect
an entrance.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Simon D.: </span>Jolly. Who is it?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Cowley: </span>O. A certain gombeen man of our
acquaintance.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Simon D.: </span>With a broken back, is it?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Cowley: </span>The same, Simon. Reuben of that
ilk. I'm just waiting for Ben Dollard. He's going to say a word to long
John to get him to take those two men off. All I want is a little time.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N14: </span>He looked with vague hope up and down the quay, a big apple
bulging in his neck.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Simon D.: </span>I know. Poor old bockedy Ben!
He's always doing a good turn for someone. Hold hard!</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N14: </span>He put on his glasses and gazed towards the metal bridge an
instant.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Simon D.: </span>There he is, by God, arse and pockets.</div><span class="stage">
[Enter Dollard]
</span><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N14: </span>Ben Dollard's loose blue cutaway and square hat above large
slops crossed the quay in full gait from the metal bridge. He came
towards them at an amble, scratching actively behind his coattails.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N14: </span>As he came near Mr Dedalus greeted:</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Simon D.: </span>Hold that fellow with the bad trousers.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Ben Dollard: </span>Hold him now.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N14: </span>Ben Dollard said.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N14: </span>Mr Dedalus eyed with cold wandering scorn various points of
Ben Dollard's figure. Then, turning to Father Cowley with a nod, he
muttered sneeringly:</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Simon D.: </span>That's a pretty garment, isn't it, for a summer's day?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Ben Dollard: </span><span class="stage">
[growling furiously]
</span> Why, God eternally curse your soul.
I threw out more clothes in my time than you ever saw.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N14: </span>He stood beside them beaming on them first and on his roomy
clothes from points of which Mr Dedalus flicked fluff, saying:</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Simon D.: </span>They were made for a man in his health, Ben, anyhow.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Ben Dollard: </span>Bad luck to the jewman that made them.
Thanks be to God he's not paid yet.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Cowley: </span>And how is that basso profondo, Benjamin?</div>
<hr width="50%">
<div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N17: </span>Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, murmuring,
glassyeyed, strode past the Kildare street club.</div>
</div>
<hr width="50%"><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N14: </span>Ben Dollard frowned and, making suddenly a chanter's mouth,
gave forth a deep note.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Ben Dollard: </span>Aw!</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Simon D.: </span>That's the style.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N14: </span>Mr Dedalus said, nodding to its drone.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Ben Dollard: </span>What about that? Not too dusty? What?</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N14: </span>He turned to both.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Cowley: </span>That'll do.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N14: </span>Father Cowley said, nodding also.</div>
<hr width="50%">
<div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N8: </span>The reverend Hugh C. Love walked from the old chapterhouse
of saint Mary's abbey past James and Charles Kennedy's, rectifiers,
attended by Geraldines tall and personable, towards the Tholsel
beyond the ford of hurdles.</div>
</div>
<hr width="50%"><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N14: </span>Ben Dollard with a heavy list towards the shopfronts led them
forward, his joyful fingers in the air.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Ben Dollard: </span>Come along with me to the subsheriff's office. I want
to show you the new beauty Rock has for a bailiff. He's a cross
between Lobengula and Lynchehaun. He's well worth seeing, mind
you. Come along. I saw John Henry Menton casually in the Bodega
just now and it will cost me a fall if I don't ... wait awhile ... We're
on the right lay, Bob, believe you me.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Cowley: </span><span class="stage">
[anxiously]
</span> For a few days tell him.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N14: </span>Ben Dollard halted and stared, his loud orifice open, a dangling
button of his coat wagging brightbacked from its thread as he wiped
away the heavy shraums that clogged his eyes to hear aright.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Ben Dollard: </span><span class="stage">
[booming]
</span> What few days? Hasn't your landlord distrained
for rent?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Cowley: </span>He has.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Ben Dollard: </span>Then our friend's writ is not worth the paper it's printed on.
The landlord has the prior claim. I gave him all the
particulars. 29 Windsor avenue. Love is the name?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Fr Cowley: </span>That's right. The reverend Mr Love. He's
a minister in the country somewhere. But are you sure of that?</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Ben Dollard: </span>You can tell Barabbas from me, that he can
put that writ where Jacko put the nuts.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N14: </span>He led Father Cowley boldly forward linked to his bulk.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Simon D.: </span>Filberts I believe they were.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N14: </span>Mr Dedalus said, as he dropped
his glasses on his coatfront, following them.</div>
<hr class="rock" width="75%"><h2>Rock 15</h2><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Martin Cunningham: </span>The youngster will be all right.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N15: </span>Martin Cunningham said, as
they passed out of the Castleyard gate.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N15: </span>The policeman touched his forehead.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Martin Cunningham: </span>God bless you.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N15: </span>He signed to the waiting jarvey who chucked at the reins and set
on towards Lord Edward street.</div>
<hr width="50%">
<div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N*: </span>Bronze by gold, Miss Kennedy's head by Miss Douce's head,
appeared above the crossblind of the Ormond hotel.</div>
</div>
<hr width="50%"><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Martin Cunningham: </span>Yes. I wrote to
Father Conmee and laid the whole case before him.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Mr Power: </span>You could try our friend.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N15: </span>Mr Power suggested backward.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Martin Cunningham: </span>Boyd? Touch me not.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N15: </span>John Wyse Nolan, lagging behind, reading the list, came after
them quickly down Cork hill.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N15: </span>On the steps of the City hall Councillor Nannetti, descending,
hailed Alderman Cowley and Councillor Abraham Lyon ascending.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N15: </span>The castle car wheeled empty into upper Exchange street.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">John Wyse Nolan: </span>Look here Martin.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N15: </span>John Wyse Nolan said, overtaking them at
the <span class="title">Mail</span> office.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">John Wyse Nolan: </span>I see Bloom put his name down for five shillings.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Martin Cunningham: </span>Quite right. And put
down the five shillings too.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Mr Power: </span>Without a second word either.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Martin Cunningham: </span>Strange but true.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N15: </span>John Wyse Nolan opened wide eyes.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">John Wyse Nolan: </span><span class="stage">
[quoting]
</span>
I'll say there is much kindness in the jew.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N15: </span>They went down Parliament street.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Mr Power: </span>There's Jimmy Henry, just heading out of
Kavanagh's.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Martin Cunningham: </span>Righto. Here goes.</div>
<hr width="50%">
<div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N5: </span>Outside <span class="language">la Maison Claire</span>
Blazes Boylan waylaid Jack Mooney's
brother-in-law, humpy, tight, making for the liberties.</div>
</div>
<hr width="50%"><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N15: </span>John Wyse Nolan fell back with Mr Power, while Martin
Cunningham took the elbow of a dapper little man in a shower of hail suit
who walked uncertainly, with hasty steps past Micky Anderson's
watches.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">John Wyse Nolan: </span>The assistant town clerk's corns are giving him some trouble.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N15: </span>They followed round the corner towards James Kavanagh's
winerooms. The empty castle car fronted them at rest in Essex gate. Martin
Cunningham, speaking always, showed often the list at which Jimmy
Henry did not glance.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">John Wyse Nolan: </span>And long John Fanning is here too, as large as life.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N15: </span>The tall form of long John Fanning filled the doorway where
he stood.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Martin Cunningham: </span>Good day, Mr Subsheriff.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N15: </span>Martin Cunningham said, as all
halted and greeted.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N15: </span>Long John Fanning made no way for them. He removed his large
Henry Clay decisively and his large fierce eyes scowled intelligently
over all their faces.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Long John Fanning: </span>Are the conscript fathers pursuing their peaceful
deliberations?</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N15: </span>He said with rich acrid utterance to the assistant
town clerk.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Jimmy Henry: </span><span class="stage">
[pettishly]
</span> Hell open to christians they were having
about their damned Irish language. Where was the marshal,
I want to know, to keep order in the council chamber? And old
Barlow the macebearer laid up with asthma, no mace on the table,
nothing in order, no quorum even, and Hutchinson, the lord mayor,
in Llandudno <span class="stage">
[Chlan-did-no]
</span> and little Lorcan Sherlock doing
<span class="language">locum tenens</span> for him.
Damned Irish language, language of our forefathers.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N15: </span>Long John Fanning blew a plume of smoke from his lips.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N15: </span>Martin Cunningham spoke by turns, twirling the peak of his
beard, to the assistant town clerk and the subsheriff, while John Wyse
Nolan held his peace.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Long John Fanning: </span>What Dignam was that?</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N15: </span>Jimmy Henry made a grimace and lifted his left foot.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Jimmy Henry: </span><span class="stage">
[plaintively]
</span> O, my corns! Come upstairs for goodness'
sake till I sit down somewhere. Uff! Ooo! Mind!</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N15: </span>Testily he made room for himself beside long John Fanning's
flank and passed in and up the stairs.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Martin Cunningham: </span>Come on up. I
don't think you knew him or perhaps you did, though.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N15: </span>With John Wyse Nolan Mr Power followed them in.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Mr Power: </span>Decent little soul he was.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N15: </span>Mr Power said to the stalwart
back of long John Fanning ascending towards long John Fanning
in the mirror.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Martin Cunningham: </span>Rather lowsized, Dignam of Menton's office that was.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N15: </span>Long John Fanning could not remember him.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N15: </span>Clatter of horsehoofs sounded from the air.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Martin Cunningham: </span>What's that?</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N15: </span>All turned <span class="stage">
[all turn]
</span> where they stood.
John Wyse Nolan came down
again. From the cool shadow of the doorway he saw the horses pass
Parliament street, harness and glossy pasterns in sunlight shimmering.
Gaily they went past before his cool unfriendly eyes, not quickly. In
saddles of the leaders, leaping leaders, rode outriders.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Martin Cunningham: </span>What was it?</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N15: </span>Martin Cunningham asked, as they went on up the staircase.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">John Wyse Nolan: </span><span class="stage">
[steps forward]
</span>
The lord lieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N15: </span>John Wyse Nolan answered from the stairfoot.</div>
<hr class="rock" width="75%"><h2>Rock 16</h2><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N16: </span>As they trod across the thick carpet Buck Mulligan whispered
behind his panama to Haines.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Buck Mulligan: </span>Parnell's brother. There in the corner.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N16: </span>They chose a small table near the window, opposite a longfaced
man whose beard and gaze hung intently down on a chessboard.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Haines: </span>Is that he?</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N16: </span>Haines asked, twisting round in his seat.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Buck Mulligan: </span>Yes. That's John Howard, his brother, our
city marshal.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N16: </span>John Howard Parnell translated a white bishop quietly and his
grey claw went up again to his forehead whereat it rested.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N16: </span>An instant after, under its screen, his eyes looked quickly,
ghostbright, at his foe and fell once more upon a working corner.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Haines: </span>I'll take a <span class="language">mélange</span>.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N16: </span>Haines said to the waitress.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Buck Mulligan: </span>Two <span class="language">mélanges</span>. And bring us some scones
and butter and some cakes as well.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N16: </span>When she had gone he said, laughing:</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Buck Mulligan: </span>We call it D. B. C. because they have damn bad cakes. O, but
you missed Dedalus on <span class="title">Hamlet</span>.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N16: </span>Haines opened his newbought book.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Haines: </span>I'm sorry. Shakespeare is the happy huntingground
of all minds that have lost their balance.</div>
<hr width="50%">
<div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N3: </span>The onelegged sailor growled at the area of 14 Nelson Street:</div>
<div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Sailor: </span><div class="song">England expects ...</div>
</div>
</div>
<hr width="50%"><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N16: </span>Buck Mulligan's primrose waistcoat shook gaily to his laughter.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Buck Mulligan: </span>You should see him, when his body loses its balance.
Wandering Ængus I call him.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Haines: </span>I am sure he has an <span class="language">idée fixe</span>.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N16: </span>Haines said, pinching his chin
thoughtfully with thumb and forefinger.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Haines: </span>Now I am speculating what
it would be likely to be. Such persons always have.</div><div class="narrator"><span class="narrator">N16: </span>Buck Mulligan bent across the table gravely.</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Buck Mulligan: </span>They drove his wits astray, by visions of hell. He will
never capture the Attic note. The note of Swinburne, of all poets, the
white death and the ruddy birth. That is his tragedy. He can never be
a poet. The joy of creation ...</div><div class="speaker"><span class="speaker">Haines: </span>Eternal punishment. <span class="stage">
[nodding curtly]
</span> I see. I
tackled him this morning on belief. There was something on his mind, I
saw. It's rather interesting because professor Pokorny of Vienna