ULYSSES. James Joyce

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 dining rooms 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, scampering 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 spécial!

      — 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 it if it’s not too late I told councillor Nannetti from theKilkenny People. I can have access to it in the national library. House of keys, don’t you see? His name is Keyes. It’s a play on the name. But he practically promised he’d give the renewal. But he wants just a little puff. What will I tell him, Mr Crawford?

      K. M. A.

      — Will you tell him he can kiss my arse? Myles Crawford said, throwing out his arm for emphasis. Tell him that straight from the stable.

      A bit nervy. Look out for squalls. All off for a drink. Arm in arm. Lenehan’s yachting cap on the cadge beyond. Usual blarney. Wonder is that young Dedalus the moving spirit. Has a good pair of boots on him today. Last time I saw him he had his heels on view. Been walking in muck somewhere. Careless chap. What was he doing in Irishtown?

      — Well, Mr Bloom said, his eyes returning, if I can get the design I suppose it’s worth a short par. He’d give the ad I think. I’ll tell him…

      K. M. R. I. A.

      — He can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles Crawford cried loudly over his shoulder. Any time he likes, tell him.

      While Mr Bloom stood weighing the point and about to smile he strode on jerkily.

      RAISING THE WIND

      — Nulla bona, Jack, he said, raising his hand to his chin. I’m up to here. I’ve been through the hoop myself. I was looking for a fellow to back a bill for me no later than last week. You must take the will for the deed. Sorry, Jack. With a heart and a half if I could raise the wind anyhow.

      J. J. O’Molloy pulled a long face and walked on silently. They caught up on the others and walked abreast.

      — When they have eaten the brawn and the bread and wiped their twenty fingers in the paper the bread was wrapped in, they go nearer to the railings.

      — Something for you, the professor explained to Myles Crawford. Two old Dublin women on the top of Nelson’s pillar.

      SOME COLUMN! — THAT’S WHAT WADDLER ONE SAID

      — That’s new, Myles Crawford said. That’s copy. Out for the waxies’ Dargle. Two old trickies, what?

      — But they are afraid the pillar will fall, Stephen went on. They see the roofs and argue about where the different churches are : Rathmines’blue dome, Adam and Eve’s, saint Laurence O’Toole’s. But it makes them giddy to look so they pull up their skirts…

      THOSE SLIGHTLY RAMBUNCTIOUS FEMALES

      — Easy all, Myles Crawford said, no poetic licence. We’re in the archdiocese here.

      — And settle down on their striped petticoats, peering up at the statue of the onehandled adulterer.

      — Onehandled adulterer! the professor cried. I like that. I see the idea. I see what you mean.

      DAMES DONATE DUBLIN’S CITS SPEEDPILLS VELOCITOUS AEROLITHS, BELIEF

      — It gives them a crick in their necks, Stephen said, and they are too tired to look up or down or to speak. They put the bag of plums between them and eat the plums out of it one after another, wiping off with their handkerchiefs the plumjuice that dribbles out of their mouths and spitting the plumstones slowly out between the railings.

      He gave a sudden loud young laugh as a close. Lenehan and Mr O’Madden Burke, hearing, turned, beckoned and led on across towards Mooney’s.

      — Finished? Myles Crawford said. So long as they do no worse.

      SOPHIST WALLOPS HAUGHTY HELEN SQUARE ON PROBOSCIS. SPARTANS GNASH MOLARS. ITHACANS VOW PEN IS CHAMP

      — You remind me of Antisthenes, the professor said, a disciple of Gorgias, the sophist. It is said of him that none could tell if he were bitterer against others or against himself. He was the son of a noble and a bondwoman. And he wrote a book in which he took away the palm of beauty from Argive Helen and handed it to poor Penelope.

      Poor Penelope. Penelope Rich.

      They made ready to cross O’Connell street.

      HELLO THERE, CENTRAL!

      At various points along the eight lines tramcars with motionless trolleys stood in their tracks, bound for or from Rathmines, Rathfarnham, Kingstown, Blackrock and Dalkey, Sandymount Green, Ringsend and Sandymount tower Donnybrook, Palmerston Park and Upper Rathmines, all still, becalmed in short circuit. Hackney cars, cabs, delivery waggons, mailvans, private broughams, aerated mineral water floats with rattling crates of bottles, rattled, rolled, horsedrawn, rapidly.

      AND LIKEWISE — WHERE?

      — But what do you call it? Myles Crawford asked. Where did they get the plums?

      VIRGILIAN, SAYS PEDAGOGUE. SOPHOMORE PLUMPS FOR OLD MAN MOSES

      — Call it, wait, the professor said, opening his long lips wide to reflect. Call it, let me see. Call it : deus nobis hæc otia fecit.

      — No, Stephen said, I call it A Pisgah Sight of Palestine or The Parable of the Plums.

      — I see, the professor said.

      He laughed richly.

      — I see, he said again with new pleasure. Moses and the promised land. We gave him that idea, he added to J. J. O’Molloy.

      HORATIO