Ulysses by James Joyce (ready to read books TXT) 📖

HAND OF SCULPTOR HAS WROUGHT IN MARBLE OF SOULTRANSFIGURED AND OF SOULTRANSFIGURING DESERVES TO LIVE, DESERVES TO LIVE.

His slim hand with a wave graced echo and fall.

—Fine! Myles Crawford said at once.

—The divine afflatus, Mr O’Madden Burke said.

—You like it? J. J. O’Molloy asked Stephen.

Stephen, his blood wooed by grace of language and gesture, blushed. He took a cigarette from the case. J. J. O’Molloy offered his case to Myles Crawford. Lenehan lit their cigarettes as before and took his trophy, saying:

—Muchibus thankibus.

A MAN OF HIGH MORALE

—Professor Magennis was speaking to me about you, J. J. O’Molloy said to Stephen. What do you think really of that hermetic crowd, the opal hush poets: A. E. the mastermystic? That Blavatsky woman started it. She was a nice old bag of tricks. A. E. has been telling some yankee interviewer that you came to him in the small hours of the morning to ask him about planes of consciousness. Magennis thinks you must have been pulling A. E.‘s leg. He is a man of the very highest morale, Magennis.

Speaking about me. What did he say? What did he say? What did he say about me? Don’t ask.

—No, thanks, professor MacHugh said, waving the cigarettecase aside. Wait a moment. Let me say one thing. The finest display of oratory I ever heard was a speech made by John F Taylor at the college historical society. Mr Justice Fitzgibbon, the present lord justice of appeal, had spoken and the paper under debate was an essay (new for those days), advocating the revival of the Irish tongue.

He turned towards Myles Crawford and said:

—You know Gerald Fitzgibbon. Then you can imagine the style of his discourse.

—He is sitting with Tim Healy, J. J. O’Molloy said, rumour has it, on the Trinity college estates commission.

—He is sitting with a sweet thing, Myles Crawford said, in a child’s frock. Go on. Well?

—It was the speech, mark you, the professor said, of a finished orator, full of courteous haughtiness and pouring in chastened diction I will not say the vials of his wrath but pouring the proud man’s contumely upon the new movement. It was then a new movement. We were weak, therefore worthless.

He closed his long thin lips an instant but, eager to be on, raised an outspanned hand to his spectacles and, with trembling thumb and ringfinger touching lightly the black rims, steadied them to a new focus.

IMPROMPTU

In ferial tone he addressed J. J. O’Molloy:

—Taylor had come there, you must know, from a sickbed. That he had prepared his speech I do not believe for there was not even one shorthandwriter in the hall. His dark lean face had a growth of shaggy beard round it. He wore a loose white silk neckcloth and altogether he looked (though he was not) a dying man.

His gaze turned at once but slowly from J. J. O’Molloy’s towards Stephen’s face and then bent at once to the ground, seeking. His unglazed linen collar appeared behind his bent head, soiled by his withering hair. Still seeking, he said:

—When Fitzgibbon’s speech had ended John F Taylor rose to reply. Briefly, as well as I can bring them to mind, his words were these.

He raised his head firmly. His eyes bethought themselves once more. Witless shellfish swam in the gross lenses to and fro, seeking outlet.

He began:

—MR CHAIRMAN, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN: GREAT WAS MY ADMIRATION IN LISTENING TO THE REMARKS ADDRESSED TO THE YOUTH OF IRELAND A MOMENT SINCE BY MY LEARNED FRIEND. IT SEEMED TO ME THAT I HAD BEEN TRANSPORTED INTO A COUNTRY FAR AWAY FROM THIS COUNTRY, INTO AN AGE REMOTE FROM THIS AGE, THAT I STOOD IN ANCIENT EGYPT AND THAT I WAS LISTENING TO THE SPEECH OF SOME HIGHPRIEST OF THAT LAND ADDRESSED TO THE YOUTHFUL MOSES.

His listeners held their cigarettes poised to hear, their smokes ascending in frail stalks that flowered with his speech. And let our crooked smokes. Noble words coming. Look out. Could you try your hand at it yourself?

—AND IT SEEMED TO ME THAT I HEARD THE VOICE OF THAT EGYPTIAN HIGHPRIEST RAISED IN A TONE OF LIKE HAUGHTINESS AND LIKE PRIDE. I HEARD HIS WORDS AND THEIR MEANING WAS REVEALED TO ME.

FROM THE FATHERS

It was revealed to me that those things are good which yet are corrupted which neither if they were supremely good nor unless they were good could be corrupted. Ah, curse you! That’s saint Augustine.

—WHY WILL YOU JEWS NOT ACCEPT OUR CULTURE, OUR RELIGION AND OUR LANGUAGE? YOU ARE A TRIBE OF NOMAD HERDSMEN: WE ARE A MIGHTY PEOPLE. YOU HAVE NO CITIES NOR NO WEALTH: OUR CITIES ARE HIVES OF HUMANITY AND OUR GALLEYS, TRIREME AND QUADRIREME, LADEN WITH ALL MANNER MERCHANDISE FURROW THE WATERS OF THE KNOWN GLOBE. YOU HAVE BUT EMERGED FROM PRIMITIVE CONDITIONS: WE HAVE A LITERATURE, A PRIESTHOOD, AN AGELONG HISTORY AND A POLITY.

Nile.

Child, man, effigy.

By the Nilebank the babemaries kneel, cradle of bulrushes: a man supple in combat: stonehorned, stonebearded, heart of stone.

—YOU PRAY TO A LOCAL AND OBSCURE IDOL: OUR TEMPLES, MAJESTIC AND MYSTERIOUS, ARE THE ABODES OF ISIS AND OSIRIS, OF HORUS AND AMMON RA. YOURS SERFDOM, AWE AND HUMBLENESS: OURS THUNDER AND THE SEAS. ISRAEL IS WEAK AND FEW ARE HER CHILDREN: EGYPT IS AN HOST AND TERRIBLE ARE HER ARMS. VAGRANTS AND DAYLABOURERS ARE YOU CALLED: THE WORLD TREMBLES AT OUR NAME.

A dumb belch of hunger cleft his speech. He lifted his voice above it boldly:

—BUT, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, HAD THE YOUTHFUL MOSES LISTENED TO AND ACCEPTED THAT VIEW OF LIFE, HAD HE BOWED HIS HEAD AND BOWED HIS WILL AND BOWED HIS SPIRIT BEFORE THAT ARROGANT ADMONITION HE WOULD NEVER HAVE BROUGHT THE CHOSEN PEOPLE OUT OF THEIR HOUSE OF BONDAGE, NOR FOLLOWED THE PILLAR OF THE CLOUD BY DAY. HE WOULD NEVER HAVE SPOKEN WITH THE ETERNAL AMID LIGHTNINGS ON SINAI’S MOUNTAINTOP NOR EVER HAVE COME DOWN WITH THE LIGHT OF INSPIRATION SHINING IN HIS COUNTENANCE AND BEARING IN HIS ARMS THE TABLES OF THE LAW, GRAVEN IN THE LANGUAGE OF THE OUTLAW.

He ceased and looked at them, enjoying a silence.

 

OMINOUS—FOR HIM!

 

J. J. O’Molloy said not without regret:

—And yet he died without having entered the land of promise.

—A sudden—at—the—moment—though—from—lingering—illness— often—previously—expectorated—demise, Lenehan added. And with a great future behind him.

The troop of bare feet was heard rushing along the hallway and pattering up the staircase.

—That is oratory, the professor said uncontradicted. Gone with the wind. Hosts at Mullaghmast and Tara of the kings. Miles of ears of porches. The tribune’s words, howled and scattered to the four winds. A people sheltered within his voice. Dead noise. Akasic records of all that ever anywhere wherever was. Love and laud him: me no more.

I have money.

—Gentlemen, Stephen said. As the next motion on the agenda paper may I suggest that the house do now adjourn?

—You take my breath away. It is not perchance a French compliment? Mr O’Madden Burke asked. ‘Tis the hour, methinks, when the winejug, metaphorically speaking, is most grateful in Ye ancient hostelry.

—That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved. All that are in favour say ay, Lenehan announced. The contrary no. I declare it carried. To which particular boosing shed? … My casting vote is: Mooney’s!

He led the way, admonishing:

—We will sternly refuse to partake of strong waters, will we not? Yes, we will not. By no manner of means.

Mr O’Madden Burke, following close, said with an ally’s lunge of his umbrella:

—Lay on, Macduff!

—Chip of the old block! the editor cried, clapping Stephen on the shoulder. Let us go. Where are those blasted keys?

He fumbled in his pocket pulling out the crushed typesheets.

—Foot and mouth. I know. That’ll be all right. That’ll go in. Where are they? That’s all right.

He thrust the sheets back and went into the inner office.

LET US HOPE

J. J. O’Molloy, about to follow him in, said quietly to Stephen:

—I hope you will live to see it published. Myles, one moment.

He went into the inner office, closing the door behind him.

—Come along, Stephen, the professor said. That is fine, isn’t it? It has the prophetic vision. FUIT ILIUM! The sack of windy Troy. Kingdoms of this world. The masters of the Mediterranean are fellaheen today.

The first newsboy came pattering down the stairs at their heels and rushed out into the street, yelling:

—Racing special!

Dublin. I have much, much to learn.

They turned to the left along Abbey street.

—I have a vision too, Stephen said.

—Yes? the professor said, skipping to get into step. Crawford will follow.

Another newsboy shot past them, yelling as he ran:

—Racing special!

DEAR DIRTY DUBLIN

Dubliners.

—Two Dublin vestals, Stephen said, elderly and pious, have lived fifty and fiftythree years in Fumbally’s lane.

—Where is that? the professor asked.

—Off Blackpitts, Stephen said.

Damp night reeking of hungry dough. Against the wall. Face glistering tallow under her fustian shawl. Frantic hearts. Akasic records. Quicker, darlint!

On now. Dare it. Let there be life.

—They want to see the views of Dublin from the top of Nelson’s pillar. They save up three and tenpence in a red tin letterbox moneybox. They shake out the threepenny bits and sixpences and coax out the pennies with the blade of a knife. Two and three in silver and one and seven in coppers. They put on their bonnets and best clothes and take their umbrellas for fear it may come on to rain.

—Wise virgins, professor MacHugh said.

LIFE ON THE RAW

—They buy one and fourpenceworth of brawn and four slices of panloaf at the north city diningrooms in Marlborough street from Miss Kate Collins, proprietress … They purchase four and twenty ripe plums from a girl at the foot of Nelson’s pillar to take off the thirst of the brawn. They give two threepenny bits to the gentleman at the turnstile and begin to waddle slowly up the winding staircase, grunting, encouraging each other, afraid of the dark, panting, one asking the other have you the brawn, praising God and the Blessed Virgin, threatening to come down, peeping at the airslits. Glory be to God. They had no idea it was that high.

Their names are Anne Kearns and Florence MacCabe. Anne Kearns has the lumbago for which she rubs on Lourdes water, given her by a lady who got a bottleful from a passionist father. Florence MacCabe takes a crubeen and a bottle of double X for supper every Saturday.

—Antithesis, the professor said nodding twice. Vestal virgins. I can see them. What’s keeping our friend?

He turned.

A bevy of scampering newsboys rushed down the steps, scattering in all directions, yelling, their white papers fluttering. Hard after them Myles Crawford appeared on the steps, his hat aureoling his scarlet face, talking with J. J. O’Molloy.

—Come along, the professor cried, waving his arm.

He set off again to walk by Stephen’s side.

RETURN OF BLOOM

—Yes, he said. I see them.

Mr Bloom, breathless, caught in a whirl of wild newsboys near the offices of the IRISH CATHOLIC AND DUBLIN PENNY JOURNAL, called:

—Mr Crawford! A moment!

—TELEGRAPH! Racing special!

—What is it? Myles Crawford said, falling back a pace.

A newsboy cried in Mr Bloom’s face:

—Terrible tragedy in Rathmines! A child bit by a bellows!

INTERVIEW WITH THE EDITOR

—Just this ad, Mr Bloom said, pushing through towards the steps, puffing, and taking the cutting from his pocket. I spoke with Mr Keyes just now. He’ll give a renewal for two months, he says. After he’ll see. But he wants a par to call attention in the TELEGRAPH too, the Saturday pink. And he wants