2. Nestor
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[1113][ 2 ]
[1114]
[1115]—You, Cochrane, what city sent for him?
[1116]
[1117]—Tarentum, sir.
[1118]
[1119]—Very good. Well?
[1120]
[1121]—There was a battle, sir.
[1122]
[1123]—Very good. Where?
[1124]
[1125]The boy’s blank face asked the blank window.
[1126]
[1127]Fabled by the daughters of memory. And yet it was in some way if not as
[1128]memory fabled it. A phrase, then, of impatience, thud of Blake’s wings
[1129]of excess. I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and toppling
[1130]masonry, and time one livid final flame. What’s left us then?
[1131]
[1132]—I forget the place, sir. 279 B. C.
[1133]
[1134]—Asculum, Stephen said, glancing at the name and date in the
[1135]gorescarred book.
[1136]
[1137]—Yes, sir. And he said: Another victory like that and we are done for.
[1138]
[1139]That phrase the world had remembered. A dull ease of the mind. From
[1140]a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his officers,
[1141]leaned upon his spear. Any general to any officers. They lend ear.
[1142]
[1143]—You, Armstrong, Stephen said. What was the end of Pyrrhus?
[1144]
[1145]—End of Pyrrhus, sir?
[1146]
[1147]—I know, sir. Ask me, sir, Comyn said.
[1148]
[1149]—Wait. You, Armstrong. Do you know anything about Pyrrhus?
[1150]
[1151]A bag of figrolls lay snugly in Armstrong’s satchel. He curled them
[1152]between his palms at whiles and swallowed them softly. Crumbs adhered
[1153]to the tissue of his lips. A sweetened boy’s breath. Welloff people,
[1154]proud that their eldest son was in the navy. Vico Road, Dalkey.
[1155]
[1156]—Pyrrhus, sir? Pyrrhus, a pier.
[1157]
[1158]All laughed. Mirthless high malicious laughter. Armstrong looked round
[1159]at his classmates, silly glee in profile. In a moment they will laugh
[1160]more loudly, aware of my lack of rule and of the fees their papas pay.
[1161]
[1162]—Tell me now, Stephen said, poking the boy’s shoulder with the book,
[1163]what is a pier.
[1164]
[1165]—A pier, sir, Armstrong said. A thing out in the water. A kind of a
[1166]bridge. Kingstown pier, sir.
[1167]
[1168]Some laughed again: mirthless but with meaning. Two in the back bench
[1169]whispered. Yes. They knew: had never learned nor ever been innocent.
[1170]All. With envy he watched their faces: Edith, Ethel, Gerty, Lily. Their
[1171]likes: their breaths, too, sweetened with tea and jam, their bracelets
[1172]tittering in the struggle.
[1173]
[1174]—Kingstown pier, Stephen said. Yes, a disappointed bridge.
[1175]
[1176]The words troubled their gaze.
[1177]
[1178]—How, sir? Comyn asked. A bridge is across a river.
[1179]
[1180]For Haines’s chapbook. No-one here to hear. Tonight deftly amid wild
[1181]drink and talk, to pierce the polished mail of his mind. What then? A
[1182]jester at the court of his master, indulged and disesteemed, winning a
[1183]clement master’s praise. Why had they chosen all that part? Not wholly
[1184]for the smooth caress. For them too history was a tale like any other
[1185]too often heard, their land a pawnshop.
[1186]
[1187]Had Pyrrhus not fallen by a beldam’s hand in Argos or Julius Caesar
[1188]not been knifed to death. They are not to be thought away. Time has
[1189]branded them and fettered they are lodged in the room of the infinite
[1190]possibilities they have ousted. But can those have been possible seeing
[1191]that they never were? Or was that only possible which came to pass?
[1192]Weave, weaver of the wind.
[1193]
[1194]—Tell us a story, sir.
[1195]
[1196]—O, do, sir. A ghoststory.
[1197]
[1198]—Where do you begin in this? Stephen asked, opening another book.
[1199]
[1200]—Weep no more, Comyn said.
[1201]
[1202]—Go on then, Talbot.
[1203]
[1204]—And the story, sir?
[1205]
[1206]—After, Stephen said. Go on, Talbot.
[1207]
[1208]A swarthy boy opened a book and propped it nimbly under the breastwork
[1209]of his satchel. He recited jerks of verse with odd glances at the text:
[1210]
[1211] —Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more
[1212] For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,
[1213] Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor...
[1214]It must be a movement then, an actuality of the possible as possible.
[1215]Aristotle’s phrase formed itself within the gabbled verses and floated
[1216]out into the studious silence of the library of Saint Genevieve where he
[1217]had read, sheltered from the sin of Paris, night by night. By his elbow
[1218]a delicate Siamese conned a handbook of strategy. Fed and feeding brains
[1219]about me: under glowlamps, impaled, with faintly beating feelers: and
[1220]in my mind’s darkness a sloth of the underworld, reluctant, shy of
[1221]brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds. Thought is the thought of
[1222]thought. Tranquil brightness. The soul is in a manner all that is: the
[1223]soul is the form of forms. Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form of
[1224]forms.
[1225]
[1226]Talbot repeated:
[1227]
[1228] —Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,
[1229] Through the dear might...
[1230]—Turn over, Stephen said quietly. I don’t see anything.
[1231]
[1232]—What, sir? Talbot asked simply, bending forward.
[1233]
[1234]His hand turned the page over. He leaned back and went on again, having
[1235]just remembered. Of him that walked the waves. Here also over these
[1236]craven hearts his shadow lies and on the scoffer’s heart and lips and
[1237]on mine. It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a coin of the
[1238]tribute. To Caesar what is Caesar’s, to God what is God’s. A long
[1239]look from dark eyes, a riddling sentence to be woven and woven on the
[1240]church’s looms. Ay.
[1241]
[1242] Riddle me, riddle me, randy ro.
[1243] My father gave me seeds to sow.
[1244]Talbot slid his closed book into his satchel.
[1245]
[1246]—Have I heard all? Stephen asked.
[1247]
[1248]—Yes, sir. Hockey at ten, sir.
[1249]
[1250]—Half day, sir. Thursday.
[1251]
[1252]—Who can answer a riddle? Stephen asked.
[1253]
[1254]They bundled their books away, pencils clacking, pages rustling.
[1255]Crowding together they strapped and buckled their satchels, all gabbling
[1256]gaily:
[1257]
[1258]—A riddle, sir? Ask me, sir.
[1259]
[1260]—O, ask me, sir.
[1261]
[1262]—A hard one, sir.
[1263]
[1264]—This is the riddle, Stephen said:
[1265]
[1266] The cock crew,
[1267] The sky was blue:
[1268] The bells in heaven
[1269] Were striking eleven.
[1270] ’Tis time for this poor soul
[1271] To go to heaven.
[1272]What is that?
[1273]
[1274]—What, sir?
[1275]
[1276]—Again, sir. We didn’t hear.
[1277]
[1278]Their eyes grew bigger as the lines were repeated. After a silence
[1279]Cochrane said:
[1280]
[1281]—What is it, sir? We give it up.
[1282]
[1283]Stephen, his throat itching, answered:
[1284]
[1285]—The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush.
[1286]
[1287]He stood up and gave a shout of nervous laughter to which their cries
[1288]echoed dismay.
[1289]
[1290]A stick struck the door and a voice in the corridor called:
[1291]
[1292]—Hockey!
[1293]
[1294]They broke asunder, sidling out of their benches, leaping them. Quickly
[1295]they were gone and from the lumberroom came the rattle of sticks and
[1296]clamour of their boots and tongues.
[1297]
[1298]Sargent who alone had lingered came forward slowly, showing an open
[1299]copybook. His tangled hair and scraggy neck gave witness of unreadiness
[1300]and through his misty glasses weak eyes looked up pleading. On his
[1301]cheek, dull and bloodless, a soft stain of ink lay, dateshaped, recent
[1302]and damp as a snail’s bed.
[1303]
[1304]He held out his copybook. The word Sums was written on the headline.
[1305]Beneath were sloping figures and at the foot a crooked signature with
[1306]blind loops and a blot. Cyril Sargent: his name and seal.
[1307]
[1308]—Mr Deasy told me to write them out all again, he said, and show them
[1309]to you, sir.
[1310]
[1311]Stephen touched the edges of the book. Futility.
[1312]
[1313]—Do you understand how to do them now? he asked.
[1314]
[1315]—Numbers eleven to fifteen, Sargent answered. Mr Deasy said I was to
[1316]copy them off the board, sir.
[1317]
[1318]—Can you do them yourself? Stephen asked.
[1319]
[1320]—No, sir.
[1321]
[1322]Ugly and futile: lean neck and tangled hair and a stain of ink, a
[1323]snail’s bed. Yet someone had loved him, borne him in her arms and in
[1324]her heart. But for her the race of the world would have trampled him
[1325]underfoot, a squashed boneless snail. She had loved his weak watery
[1326]blood drained from her own. Was that then real? The only true thing in
[1327]life? His mother’s prostrate body the fiery Columbanus in holy zeal
[1328]bestrode. She was no more: the trembling skeleton of a twig burnt in
[1329]the fire, an odour of rosewood and wetted ashes. She had saved him from
[1330]being trampled underfoot and had gone, scarcely having been. A poor soul
[1331]gone to heaven: and on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red reek
[1332]of rapine in his fur, with merciless bright eyes scraped in the earth,
[1333]listened, scraped up the earth, listened, scraped and scraped.
[1334]
[1335]Sitting at his side Stephen solved out the problem. He proves by algebra
[1336]that Shakespeare’s ghost is Hamlet’s grandfather. Sargent peered
[1337]askance through his slanted glasses. Hockeysticks rattled in the
[1338]lumberroom: the hollow knock of a ball and calls from the field.
[1339]
[1340]Across the page the symbols moved in grave morrice, in the mummery of
[1341]their letters, wearing quaint caps of squares and cubes. Give hands,
[1342]traverse, bow to partner: so: imps of fancy of the Moors. Gone too from
[1343]the world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien and movement,
[1344]flashing in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of the world, a
[1345]darkness shining in brightness which brightness could not comprehend.
[1346]
[1347]—Do you understand now? Can you work the second for yourself?
[1348]
[1349]—Yes, sir.
[1350]
[1351]In long shaky strokes Sargent copied the data. Waiting always for a word
[1352]of help his hand moved faithfully the unsteady symbols, a faint hue
[1353]of shame flickering behind his dull skin. Amor matris: subjective and
[1354]objective genitive. With her weak blood and wheysour milk she had fed
[1355]him and hid from sight of others his swaddling bands.
[1356]
[1357]Like him was I, these sloping shoulders, this gracelessness. My
[1358]childhood bends beside me. Too far for me to lay a hand there once or
[1359]lightly. Mine is far and his secret as our eyes. Secrets, silent, stony
[1360]sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their
[1361]tyranny: tyrants, willing to be dethroned.
[1362]
[1363]The sum was done.
[1364]
[1365]—It is very simple, Stephen said as he stood up.
[1366]
[1367]—Yes, sir. Thanks, Sargent answered.
[1368]
[1369]He dried the page with a sheet of thin blottingpaper and carried his
[1370]copybook back to his bench.
[1371]
[1372]—You had better get your stick and go out to the others, Stephen said
[1373]as he followed towards the door the boy’s graceless form.
[1374]
[1375]—Yes, sir.
[1376]
[1377]In the corridor his name was heard, called from the playfield.
[1378]
[1379]—Sargent!
[1380]
[1381]—Run on, Stephen said. Mr Deasy is calling you.
[1382]
[1383]He stood in the porch and watched the laggard hurry towards the scrappy
[1384]field where sharp voices were in strife. They were sorted in teams and
[1385]Mr Deasy came away stepping over wisps of grass with gaitered feet. When
[1386]he had reached the schoolhouse voices again contending called to him. He
[1387]turned his angry white moustache.
[1388]
[1389]—What is it now? he cried continually without listening.
[1390]
[1391]—Cochrane and Halliday are on the same side, sir, Stephen said.
[1392]
[1393]—Will you wait in my study for a moment, Mr Deasy said, till I restore
[1394]order here.
[1395]
[1396]And as he stepped fussily back across the field his old man’s voice
[1397]cried sternly:
[1398]
[1399]—What is the matter? What is it now?
[1400]
[1401]Their sharp voices cried about him on all sides: their many forms closed
[1402]round him, the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of his illdyed head.
[1403]
[1404]Stale smoky air hung in the study with the smell of drab abraded leather
[1405]of its chairs. As on the first day he bargained with me here. As it was
[1406]in the beginning, is now. On the sideboard the tray of Stuart coins,
[1407]base treasure of a bog: and ever shall be. And snug in their spooncase
[1408]of purple plush, faded, the twelve apostles having preached to all the
[1409]gentiles: world without end.
[1410]
[1411]A hasty step over the stone porch and in the corridor. Blowing out his
[1412]rare moustache Mr Deasy halted at the table.
[1413]
[1414]—First, our little financial settlement, he said.
[1415]
[1416]He brought out of his coat a pocketbook bound by a leather thong. It
[1417]slapped open and he took from it two notes, one of joined halves, and
[1418]laid them carefully on the table.
[1419]
[1420]—Two, he said, strapping and stowing his pocketbook away.
[1421]
[1422]And now his strongroom for the gold. Stephen’s embarrassed hand
[1423]moved over the shells heaped in the cold stone mortar: whelks and money
[1424]cowries and leopard shells: and this, whorled as an emir’s turban,
[1425]and this, the scallop of saint James. An old pilgrim’s hoard, dead
[1426]treasure, hollow shells.
[1427]
[1428]A sovereign fell, bright and new, on the soft pile of the tablecloth.
[1429]
[1430]—Three, Mr Deasy said, turning his little savingsbox about in his
[1431]hand. These are handy things to have. See. This is for sovereigns. This
[1432]is for shillings. Sixpences, halfcrowns. And here crowns. See.
[1433]
[1434]He shot from it two crowns and two shillings.
[1435]
[1436]—Three twelve, he said. I think you’ll find that’s right.
[1437]
[1438]—Thank you, sir, Stephen said, gathering the money together with shy
[1439]haste and putting it all in a pocket of his trousers.
[1440]
[1441]—No thanks at all, Mr Deasy said. You have earned it.
[1442]
[1443]Stephen’s hand, free again, went back to the hollow shells. Symbols
[1444]too of beauty and of power. A lump in my pocket: symbols soiled by greed
[1445]and misery.
[1446]
[1447]—Don’t carry it like that, Mr Deasy said. You’ll pull it out
[1448]somewhere and lose it. You just buy one of these machines. You’ll find
[1449]them very handy.
[1450]
[1451]Answer something.
[1452]
[1453]—Mine would be often empty, Stephen said.
[1454]
[1455]The same room and hour, the same wisdom: and I the same. Three times
[1456]now. Three nooses round me here. Well? I can break them in this instant
[1457]if I will.
[1458]
[1459]—Because you don’t save, Mr Deasy said, pointing his finger. You
[1460]don’t know yet what money is. Money is power. When you have lived
[1461]as long as I have. I know, I know. If youth but knew. But what does
[1462]Shakespeare say? Put but money in thy purse.
[1463]
[1464]—Iago, Stephen murmured.
[1465]
[1466]He lifted his gaze from the idle shells to the old man’s stare.
[1467]
[1468]—He knew what money was, Mr Deasy said. He made money. A poet, yes,
[1469]but an Englishman too. Do you know what is the pride of the English?
[1470]Do you know what is the proudest word you will ever hear from an
[1471]Englishman’s mouth?
[1472]
[1473]The seas’ ruler. His seacold eyes looked on the empty bay: it seems
[1474]history is to blame: on me and on my words, unhating.
[1475]
[1476]—That on his empire, Stephen said, the sun never sets.
[1477]
[1478]—Ba! Mr Deasy cried. That’s not English. A French Celt said that. He
[1479]tapped his savingsbox against his thumbnail.
[1480]
[1481]—I will tell you, he said solemnly, what is his proudest boast. I paid
[1482]my way.
[1483]
[1484]Good man, good man.
[1485]
[1486]—I paid my way. I never borrowed a shilling in my life. Can you feel
[1487]that? I owe nothing. Can you?
[1488]
[1489]Mulligan, nine pounds, three pairs of socks, one pair brogues, ties.
[1490]Curran, ten guineas. McCann, one guinea. Fred Ryan, two shillings.
[1491]Temple, two lunches. Russell, one guinea, Cousins, ten shillings, Bob
[1492]Reynolds, half a guinea, Koehler, three guineas, Mrs MacKernan, five
[1493]weeks’ board. The lump I have is useless.
[1494]
[1495]—For the moment, no, Stephen answered.
[1496]
[1497]Mr Deasy laughed with rich delight, putting back his savingsbox.
[1498]
[1499]—I knew you couldn’t, he said joyously. But one day you must feel
[1500]it. We are a generous people but we must also be just.
[1501]
[1502]—I fear those big words, Stephen said, which make us so unhappy.
[1503]
[1504]Mr Deasy stared sternly for some moments over the mantelpiece at the
[1505]shapely bulk of a man in tartan fillibegs: Albert Edward, prince of
[1506]Wales.
[1507]
[1508]—You think me an old fogey and an old tory, his thoughtful voice
[1509]said. I saw three generations since O’Connell’s time. I remember the
[1510]famine in ’46. Do you know that the orange lodges agitated for repeal
[1511]of the union twenty years before O’Connell did or before the prelates
[1512]of your communion denounced him as a demagogue? You fenians forget some
[1513]things.
[1514]
[1515]Glorious, pious and immortal memory. The lodge of Diamond in Armagh the
[1516]splendid behung with corpses of papishes. Hoarse, masked and armed, the
[1517]planters’ covenant. The black north and true blue bible. Croppies lie
[1518]down.
[1519]
[1520]Stephen sketched a brief gesture.
[1521]
[1522]—I have rebel blood in me too, Mr Deasy said. On the spindle side. But
[1523]I am descended from sir John Blackwood who voted for the union. We are
[1524]all Irish, all kings’ sons.
[1525]
[1526]—Alas, Stephen said.
[1527]
[1528]—Per vias rectas, Mr Deasy said firmly, was his motto. He voted for
[1529]it and put on his topboots to ride to Dublin from the Ards of Down to do
[1530]so.
[1531]
[1532] Lal the ral the ra
[1533] The rocky road to Dublin.
[1534]A gruff squire on horseback with shiny topboots. Soft day, sir John!
[1535]Soft day, your honour!... Day!... Day!... Two topboots jog dangling on
[1536]to Dublin. Lal the ral the ra. Lal the ral the raddy.
[1537]
[1538]—That reminds me, Mr Deasy said. You can do me a favour, Mr Dedalus,
[1539]with some of your literary friends. I have a letter here for the press.
[1540]Sit down a moment. I have just to copy the end.
[1541]
[1542]He went to the desk near the window, pulled in his chair twice and read
[1543]off some words from the sheet on the drum of his typewriter.
[1544]
[1545]—Sit down. Excuse me, he said over his shoulder, the dictates of
[1546]common sense. Just a moment.
[1547]
[1548]He peered from under his shaggy brows at the manuscript by his elbow
[1549]and, muttering, began to prod the stiff buttons of the keyboard slowly,
[1550]sometimes blowing as he screwed up the drum to erase an error.
[1551]
[1552]Stephen seated himself noiselessly before the princely presence. Framed
[1553]around the walls images of vanished horses stood in homage, their
[1554]meek heads poised in air: lord Hastings’ Repulse, the duke of
[1555]Westminster’s Shotover, the duke of Beaufort’s Ceylon, prix de
[1556]Paris, 1866. Elfin riders sat them, watchful of a sign. He saw their
[1557]speeds, backing king’s colours, and shouted with the shouts of
[1558]vanished crowds.
[1559]
[1560]—Full stop, Mr Deasy bade his keys. But prompt ventilation of this
[1561]allimportant question...
[1562]
[1563]Where Cranly led me to get rich quick, hunting his winners among the
[1564]mudsplashed brakes, amid the bawls of bookies on their pitches and reek
[1565]of the canteen, over the motley slush. Even money Fair Rebel. Ten to one
[1566]the field. Dicers and thimbleriggers we hurried by after the hoofs, the
[1567]vying caps and jackets and past the meatfaced woman, a butcher’s dame,
[1568]nuzzling thirstily her clove of orange.
[1569]
[1570]Shouts rang shrill from the boys’ playfield and a whirring whistle.
[1571]
[1572]Again: a goal. I am among them, among their battling bodies in a medley,
[1573]the joust of life. You mean that knockkneed mother’s darling who seems
[1574]to be slightly crawsick? Jousts. Time shocked rebounds, shock by shock.
[1575]Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the frozen deathspew of the slain,
[1576]a shout of spearspikes baited with men’s bloodied guts.
[1577]
[1578]—Now then, Mr Deasy said, rising.
[1579]
[1580]He came to the table, pinning together his sheets. Stephen stood up.
[1581]
[1582]—I have put the matter into a nutshell, Mr Deasy said. It’s about
[1583]the foot and mouth disease. Just look through it. There can be no two
[1584]opinions on the matter.
[1585]
[1586]May I trespass on your valuable space. That doctrine of laissez faire
[1587]which so often in our history. Our cattle trade. The way of all our old
[1588]industries. Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme.
[1589]European conflagration. Grain supplies through the narrow waters of
[1590]the channel. The pluterperfect imperturbability of the department of
[1591]agriculture. Pardoned a classical allusion. Cassandra. By a woman who
[1592]was no better than she should be. To come to the point at issue.
[1593]
[1594]—I don’t mince words, do I? Mr Deasy asked as Stephen read on.
[1595]
[1596]Foot and mouth disease. Known as Koch’s preparation. Serum and
[1597]virus. Percentage of salted horses. Rinderpest. Emperor’s horses at
[1598]Mürzsteg, lower Austria. Veterinary surgeons. Mr Henry Blackwood Price.
[1599]Courteous offer a fair trial. Dictates of common sense. Allimportant
[1600]question. In every sense of the word take the bull by the horns.
[1601]Thanking you for the hospitality of your columns.
[1602]
[1603]—I want that to be printed and read, Mr Deasy said. You will see at
[1604]the next outbreak they will put an embargo on Irish cattle. And it can
[1605]be cured. It is cured. My cousin, Blackwood Price, writes to me it is
[1606]regularly treated and cured in Austria by cattledoctors there. They
[1607]offer to come over here. I am trying to work up influence with the
[1608]department. Now I’m going to try publicity. I am surrounded by
[1609]difficulties, by... intrigues by... backstairs influence by...
[1610]
[1611]He raised his forefinger and beat the air oldly before his voice spoke.
[1612]
[1613]—Mark my words, Mr Dedalus, he said. England is in the hands of the
[1614]jews. In all the highest places: her finance, her press. And they are
[1615]the signs of a nation’s decay. Wherever they gather they eat up the
[1616]nation’s vital strength. I have seen it coming these years. As sure
[1617]as we are standing here the jew merchants are already at their work of
[1618]destruction. Old England is dying.
[1619]
[1620]He stepped swiftly off, his eyes coming to blue life as they passed a
[1621]broad sunbeam. He faced about and back again.
[1622]
[1623]—Dying, he said again, if not dead by now.
[1624]
[1625] The harlot’s cry from street to street
[1626] Shall weave old England’s windingsheet.
[1627]His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly across the sunbeam in which
[1628]he halted.
[1629]
[1630]—A merchant, Stephen said, is one who buys cheap and sells dear, jew
[1631]or gentile, is he not?
[1632]
[1633]—They sinned against the light, Mr Deasy said gravely. And you can see
[1634]the darkness in their eyes. And that is why they are wanderers on the
[1635]earth to this day.
[1636]
[1637]On the steps of the Paris stock exchange the goldskinned men quoting
[1638]prices on their gemmed fingers. Gabble of geese. They swarmed loud,
[1639]uncouth about the temple, their heads thickplotting under maladroit silk
[1640]hats. Not theirs: these clothes, this speech, these gestures. Their full
[1641]slow eyes belied the words, the gestures eager and unoffending, but
[1642]knew the rancours massed about them and knew their zeal was vain. Vain
[1643]patience to heap and hoard. Time surely would scatter all. A hoard
[1644]heaped by the roadside: plundered and passing on. Their eyes knew their
[1645]years of wandering and, patient, knew the dishonours of their flesh.
[1646]
[1647]—Who has not? Stephen said.
[1648]
[1649]—What do you mean? Mr Deasy asked.
[1650]
[1651]He came forward a pace and stood by the table. His underjaw fell
[1652]sideways open uncertainly. Is this old wisdom? He waits to hear from me.
[1653]
[1654]—History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to
[1655]awake.
[1656]
[1657]From the playfield the boys raised a shout. A whirring whistle: goal.
[1658]What if that nightmare gave you a back kick?
[1659]
[1660]—The ways of the Creator are not our ways, Mr Deasy said. All human
[1661]history moves towards one great goal, the manifestation of God.
[1662]
[1663]Stephen jerked his thumb towards the window, saying:
[1664]
[1665]—That is God.
[1666]
[1667]Hooray! Ay! Whrrwhee!
[1668]
[1669]—What? Mr Deasy asked.
[1670]
[1671]—A shout in the street, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders.
[1672]
[1673]Mr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings of his nose tweaked
[1674]between his fingers. Looking up again he set them free.
[1675]
[1676]—I am happier than you are, he said. We have committed many errors and
[1677]many sins. A woman brought sin into the world. For a woman who was no
[1678]better than she should be, Helen, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten
[1679]years the Greeks made war on Troy. A faithless wife first brought
[1680]the strangers to our shore here, MacMurrough’s wife and her leman,
[1681]O’Rourke, prince of Breffni. A woman too brought Parnell low. Many
[1682]errors, many failures but not the one sin. I am a struggler now at the
[1683]end of my days. But I will fight for the right till the end.
[1684]
[1685] For Ulster will fight
[1686] And Ulster will be right.
[1687]Stephen raised the sheets in his hand.
[1688]
[1689]—Well, sir, he began.
[1690]
[1691]—I foresee, Mr Deasy said, that you will not remain here very long
[1692]at this work. You were not born to be a teacher, I think. Perhaps I am
[1693]wrong.
[1694]
[1695]—A learner rather, Stephen said.
[1696]
[1697]And here what will you learn more?
[1698]
[1699]Mr Deasy shook his head.
[1700]
[1701]—Who knows? he said. To learn one must be humble. But life is the
[1702]great teacher.
[1703]
[1704]Stephen rustled the sheets again.
[1705]
[1706]—As regards these, he began.
[1707]
[1708]—Yes, Mr Deasy said. You have two copies there. If you can have them
[1709]published at once.
[1710]
[1711]Telegraph. Irish Homestead.
[1712]
[1713]—I will try, Stephen said, and let you know tomorrow. I know two
[1714]editors slightly.
[1715]
[1716]—That will do, Mr Deasy said briskly. I wrote last night to Mr Field,
[1717]M.P. There is a meeting of the cattletraders’ association today at the
[1718]City Arms hotel. I asked him to lay my letter before the meeting. You
[1719]see if you can get it into your two papers. What are they?
[1720]
[1721]—The Evening Telegraph...
[1722]
[1723]—That will do, Mr Deasy said. There is no time to lose. Now I have to
[1724]answer that letter from my cousin.
[1725]
[1726]—Good morning, sir, Stephen said, putting the sheets in his pocket.
[1727]Thank you.
[1728]
[1729]—Not at all, Mr Deasy said as he searched the papers on his desk. I
[1730]like to break a lance with you, old as I am.
[1731]
[1732]—Good morning, sir, Stephen said again, bowing to his bent back.
[1733]
[1734]He went out by the open porch and down the gravel path under the trees,
[1735]hearing the cries of voices and crack of sticks from the playfield.
[1736]The lions couchant on the pillars as he passed out through the gate:
[1737]toothless terrors. Still I will help him in his fight. Mulligan will dub
[1738]me a new name: the bullockbefriending bard.
[1739]
[1740]—Mr Dedalus!
[1741]
[1742]Running after me. No more letters, I hope.
[1743]
[1744]—Just one moment.
[1745]
[1746]—Yes, sir, Stephen said, turning back at the gate.
[1747]
[1748]Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath.
[1749]
[1750]—I just wanted to say, he said. Ireland, they say, has the honour
[1751]of being the only country which never persecuted the jews. Do you know
[1752]that? No. And do you know why?
[1753]
[1754]He frowned sternly on the bright air.
[1755]
[1756]—Why, sir? Stephen asked, beginning to smile.
[1757]
[1758]—Because she never let them in, Mr Deasy said solemnly.
[1759]
[1760]A coughball of laughter leaped from his throat dragging after it a
[1761]rattling chain of phlegm. He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing,
[1762]his lifted arms waving to the air.
[1763]
[1764]—She never let them in, he cried again through his laughter as he
[1765]stamped on gaitered feet over the gravel of the path. That’s why.
[1766]
[1767]On his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun flung
[1768]spangles, dancing coins.
[1769]
[1770]
[1771]
[1772]
[1773]
[1774]