Ulysses

  —What is it? says John Wyse.

  —A nation? says Bloom. A nation is the same people living in the same place.

  —By God, then, says Ned, laughing, if that’s so I’m a nation for I’m living in the same place for the past five years.

  So of course everyone had a laugh at Bloom and says he, trying to muck out of it:

  —Or also living in different places.

  —That covers my case, says Joe.

  —What is your nation if I may ask, says the citizen.

  —Ireland, says Bloom. I was born here. Ireland.

  The citizen said nothing only cleared the spit out of his gullet and, gob, he spat a Red bank oyster out of him right in the corner.

  —After you with the push, Joe, says he, taking out his handkerchief to swab himself dry.

  —Here you are, citizen, says Joe. Take that in your right hand and repeat after me the following words.

  The muchtreasured and intricately embroidered ancient Irish facecloth attributed to Solomon of Droma and Manus Tomaltach og MacDonogh, authors of the Book of Ballymote, was then carefully produced and called forth prolonged admiration. No need to dwell on the legendary beauty of the cornerpieces, the acme of art, wherein one can distinctly discern each of the four evangelists in turn presenting to each of the four masters his evangelical symbol a bogoak sceptre, a North American puma (a far nobler king of beasts than the British article, be it said in passing), a Kerry calf and a golden eagle from Carrantuohill. The scenes depicted on the emunctory field, showing our ancient duns and raths and cromlechs and grianauns and seats of learning and maledictive stones, are as wonderfully beautiful and the pigments as delicate as when the Sligo illuminators gave free rein to their artistic fantasy long long ago in the time of the Barmecides. Glendalough, the lovely lakes of Killarney, the ruins of Clonmacnois, Cong Abbey, Glen Inagh and the Twelve Pins, Ireland’s Eye, the Green Hills of Tallaght, Croagh Patrick, the brewery of Messrs Arthur Guinness, Son and Company (Limited), Lough Neagh’s banks, the vale of Ovoca, Isolde’s tower, the Mapas obelisk, Sir Patrick Dun’s hospital, Cape Clear, the glen of Aherlow, Lynch’s castle, the Scotch house, Rathdown Union Workhouse at Loughlinstown, Tullamore jail, Castleconnel rapids, Kilballymacshonakill, the cross at Monasterboice, Jury’s Hotel, S. Patrick’s Purgatory, the Salmon Leap, Maynooth college refectory, Curley’s hole, the three birthplaces of the first duke of Wellington, the rock of Cashel, the bog of Allen, the Henry Street Warehouse, Fingal’s Cave—all these moving scenes are still there for us today rendered more beautiful still by the waters of sorrow which have passed over them and by the rich incrustations of time.

  —Shove us over the drink, says I. Which is which?

  —That’s mine, says Joe, as the devil said to the dead policeman.

  —And I belong to a race too, says Bloom, that is hated and persecuted. Also now. This very moment. This very instant.

  Gob, he near burnt his fingers with the butt of his old cigar.

  —Robbed, says he. Plundered. Insulted. Persecuted. Taking what belongs to us by right. At this very moment, says he, putting up his fist, sold by auction off in Morocco like slaves or cattles.

  —Are you talking about the new Jerusalem? says the citizen.

  —I’m talking about injustice, says Bloom.

  —Right, says John Wyse. Stand up to it then with force like men.

  That’s an almanac picture for you. Mark for a soft-nosed bullet. Old lardyface standing up to the business end of a gun. Gob, he’d adorn a sweepingbrush, so he would, if he only had a nurse’s apron on him. And then he collapses all of a sudden, twisting around all the opposite, as limp as a wet rag.

  —But it’s no use, says he. Force, hatred, history, all that. That’s not life for men and women, insult and hatred. And everybody knows that it’s the very opposite of that that is really life.

  —What? says Alf.

  —Love, says Bloom. I mean the opposite of hatred. I must go now, says he to John Wyse. Just round to the court a moment to see if Martin is there. If he comes just say I’ll be back in a second. Just a moment.

  Who’s hindering you? And off he pops like greased lightning.

  —A new apostle to the gentiles, says the citizen. Universal love.

  —Well, says John Wyse, isn’t that what we’re told? Love your neighbours.

  —That chap? says the citizen. Beggar my neighbour is his motto. Love, Moya! He’s a nice pattern of a Romeo and Juliet.

  Love loves to love love. Nurse loves the new chemist. Constable 14A loves Mary Kelly. Gerty MacDowell loves the boy that has the bicycle. M. B. loves a fair gentleman. Li Chi Han lovey up kissy Cha Pu Chow. Jumbo, the elephant, loves Alice, the elephant. Old Mr Verschoyle with the ear trumpet loves old Mrs Verschoyle with the turnedin eye. The man in the brown macintosh loves a lady who is dead. His Majesty the King loves Her Majesty the Queen. Mrs Norman W. Tupper loves officer Taylor. You love a certain person. And this person loves that other person because everybody loves somebody but God loves everybody.

  —Well, Joe, says I, your very good health and song. More power, citizen.

  —Hurrah, there, says Joe.

  —The blessing of God and Mary and Patrick on you, says the citizen.

  And he ups with his pint to wet his whistle.

  —We know those canters, says he, preaching and picking your pocket. What about sanctimonious Cromwell and his ironsides that put the women and children of Drogheda to the sword with the bible text God is love pasted round the mouth of his cannon? The bible! Did you read that skit in the United Irishman today about that Zulu chief that’s visiting England?

  —What’s that? says Joe.

  So the citizen takes up one of his paraphernalia papers and he starts reading out:

  —A delegation of the chief cotton magnates of Manchester was presented yesterday to His Majesty the Alaki of Abeakuta by Gold Stick in Waiting, Lord Walkup on Eggs, to tender to His Majesty the heartfelt thanks of British traders for the facilities afforded them in his dominions. The delegation partook of luncheon at the conclusion of which the dusky potentate, in the course of a happy speech, freely translated by the British chaplain, the reverend Ananias Praisegod Barebones, tendered his best thanks to Massa Walkup and emphasised the cordial relations existing between Abeakuta and the British Empire, stating that he treasured as one of his dearest possessions an illuminated bible, the volume of the word of God and the secret of England’s greatness, graciously presented to him by the white chief woman, the great squaw Victoria, with a personal dedication from the august hand of the Royal Donor. The Alaki then drank a lovingcup of firstshot usquebaugh to the toast Black and White from the skull of his immediate predecessor in the dynasty Kakachakachak, surnamed Forty Warts, after which he visited the chief factory of Cottonopolis and signed his mark in the visitors’ book, subsequently executing an old Abeakutic wardance, in the course of which he swallowed several knives and forks, amid hilarious applause from the girl hands.

  —Widow woman, says Ned, I wouldn’t doubt her. Wonder did he put that bible to the same use as I would.

  —Same only more so, says Lenehan. And thereafter in that fruitful land the broadleaved mango flourished exceedingly.

  —Is that by Griffith? says John Wyse.

  —No, says the citizen. It’s not signed Shanganagh. It’s only initialled: P.

  —And a very good initial too, says Joe.

  —That’s how it’s worked, says the citizen. Trade follows the flag.

  —Well, says J. J., if they’re any worse than those Belgians in the Congo Free State they must be bad. Did you read that report by a man what’s this his name is?

  —Casement, says the citizen. He’s an Irishman.

  —Yes, that’s the man, says J. J. Raping the women and girls and flogging the natives on the belly to squeeze all the red rubber they can out of them.

  —I know where he’s gone, says Lenehan, cracking his fingers.

  —Who? says I.

  —
Bloom, says he, the courthouse is a bund. He had a few bob on Throwaway and he’s gone to gather in the shekels.

  —Is it that whiteyed kaffir? says the citizen, that never backed a horse in anger in his life.

  —That’s wherehe’s gone, says Lenehan. I met Bantam Lyons going to back that horse only I put him off it and he told me Bloom gave him the tip. Bet you what you like he has a hundred shillings to five on. He’s the only man in Dublin has it. A dark horse.

  —He’s a bloody dark horse himself, says Joe.

  —Mind, Joe, says I. Show us the entrance out.

  —There you are, says Terry.

  Goodbye Ireland I’m going to Gort. So I just went round to the back of the yard to pumpship and begob (hundred shillings to five) while I was letting off my (Throwaway twenty to) letting off my load gob says I to myself I knew he was uneasy in his (two pints off of Joe and one in Slattery’s off) in his mind to get off the mark to (hundred shillings is five quid) and when they were in the (dark horse) Pisser Burke was telling me card party and letting on the child was sick (gob, must have done about a gallon) flabbyarse of a wife speaking down the tube she’s better or she’s (ow!) all a plan so he could vamoose with the pool if he won or (Jesus, full up I was) trading without a licence (ow!) Ireland my nation says he (hoik! phthook!) never be up to those bloody (there’s the last of it) Jerusalem (ah!) cuckoos.

  So anyhow when I got back they were at it dingdong, John Wyse saying it was Bloom gave the idea for Sinn Fein to Griffith to put in his paper all kinds of jerrymandering, packed juries and swindling the taxes off of the Government and appointing consuls all over the world to walk about selling Irish industries. Robbing Peter to pay Paul. Gob, that puts the bloody kybosh on it if old sloppy eyes is mucking up the show. Give us a bloody chance. God save Ireland from the likes of that bloody mouseabout. Mr Bloom with his argol bargol. And his old fellow before him perpetrating frauds, old Methusalem Bloom, the robbing bagman, that poisoned himself with the prussic acid after he swamping the country with his baubles and his penny diamonds. Loans by post on easy terms. Any amount of money advanced on note of hand. Distance no object. No security. Gob he’s like Lanty MacHale’s goat that’d go a piece of the road with every one.

  —Well, it’s a fact, says John Wyse. And there’s the man now that’ll tell you about it, Martin Cunningham.

  Sure enough the castle car drove up with Martin on it and Jack Power with him and a fellow named Crofter or Crofton, pensioner out of the collector general’s, an orangeman Blackburn does have on the registration and he drawing his pay or Crawford gallivanting around the country at the king’s expense.

  Our travellers reached the rustic hostelry and alighted from their palfreys.

  —Ho, varlet! cried he, who by his mien seemed the leader of the party. Saucy knave! To us!

  So saying he knocked loudly with his swordhilt upon the open lattice.

  Mine host came forth at the summons girding him with his tabard.

  —Give you good den, my masters, said he with an obsequious bow.

  —Bestir thyself, sirrah! cried he who had knocked. Look to our steeds. And for ourselves give us of your best for ifaith we need it.

  —Lackaday, good masters, said the host, my poor house has but a bare larder. I know not what to offer your lordships.

  —How now, fellow? cried the second of the party, a man of pleasant countenance, so servest thou the king’s messengers, Master Taptun?

  An instantaneous change overspread the landlord’s visage.

  —Cry you mercy, gentlemen, he said humbly. An you be the king’s messengers (God shield His Majesty!) you shall not want for aught. The king’s friends (God bless His Majesty!) shall not go afasting in my house I warrant me.

  —Then about! cried the traveller who had not spoken, a lusty trencherman by his aspect. Hast aught to give us?

  Mine host bowed again as he made answer:

  —What say you, good masters, to a squab pigeon pasty, some collops of venison,a saddle of veal, widgeon with crisp hog’s bacon, a boar’s head with pistachios, a bason of jolly custard, a medlar tansy and a flagon of old Rhenish?

  —Gadzooks! cried the last speaker. That likes me well. Pistachios!

  —Aha! cried he of the pleasant countenance. A poor house and a bare larder, quotha! ’Tis a merry rogue.

  So in comes Martin asking where was Bloom.

  —Where is he? says Lenehan. Defrauding widows and orphans.

  —Isn’t that a fact, says John Wyse, what I was telling the citizen about Bloom and the Sinn Fein?

  —That’s so, says Martin. Or so they allege.

  —Who made those allegations? says Alf.

  —I, says Joe. I’m the alligator.

  —And after all, says John Wyse, why can’t a jew love his country like the next fellow?

  —Why not? says J. J., when he’s quite sure which country it is.

  —Is he a jew or a gentile or a holy Roman or a swaddler or what the hell is he? says Ned. Or who is he? No offence, Crofton.

  —We don’t want him, says Crofter the Orangeman or presbyterian.

  —Who is Junius? says J. J.

  —He’s a perverted jew, says Martin, from a place in Hungary and it was he drew up all the plans according to the Hungarian system. We know that in the castle.

  —Isn’t he a cousin of Bloom the dentist? says Jack Power.

  —Not at all, says Martin. Only namesakes. His name was Virag. The father’s name that poisoned himself. He changed it by deed poll, the father did.

  —That’s the new Messiah for Ireland! says the citizen. Island of saints and sages!

  —Well they’re still waiting for their redeemer, says Martin. For that matter so are we.

  —Yes, says J. J., and every male that’s born they think it may be their Messiah. And every jew is in a tall state of excitement, I believe, till he knows if he’s a father or a mother.

  —Expecting every moment will be his next, says Lenehan.

  —O, by God, says Ned, you should have seen Bloom before that son of his that died was born. I met him one day in the south city markets buying a tin of Neave’s food six weeks before the wife was delivered.

  —En ventre sa mère, says J. J.

  —Do you call that a man? says the citizen.

  —I wonder did he ever put it out of sight, says Joe.

  —Well, there were two children born anyhow, says Jack Power.

  —And who does he suspect? says the citizen.

  Gob, there’s many a true word spoken in jest. One of those mixed middlings he is. Lying up in the hotel Pisser was telling me once a month with headache like a totty with her courses. Do you know what I’m telling you? It’d be an act of God to take a hold of a fellow the like of that and throw him in the bloody sea. Justifiable homicide, so it would. Then sloping off with his five quid without putting up a pint of stuff like a man. Give us your blessing. Not as much as would blind your eye.

  —Charity to the neighbour, says Martin. But where is he? We can’t wait.

  —A wolf in sheep’s clothing, says the citizen. That’s what he is. Virag from Hungary! Ahasuerus I call him. Cursed by God.

  —Have you time for a brief libation, Martin? says Ned.

  —Only one, says Martin. We must be quick. J. J. and S.

  —You Jack? Crofton? Three half ones, Terry.

  —Saint Patrick would want to land again at Bally-kinlar and convert us, says the citizen, after allowing things like that to contaminate our shores.

  —Well, says Martin, rapping for his glass. God bless all here is my prayer.

  —Amen, says the citizen.

  —And I’m sure he will, says Joe.

  And at the sound of the sacring bell, headed by a crucifer with acolytes, thurifers, boatbearers, readers, ostiarii, deacons and subdeacons, the blessed company drew nigh of mitred abbots and priors and guardians and monks and friars: the monks of Benedict of Spoleto, Carthusians and Camaldolesi, Cistercians and Olivetans, Oratorians and
Vallombrosans, and the friars of Augustine, Brigittines, Premonstratesians, Servi, Trinitarians, and the children of Peter Nolasco: and therewith from Carmel mount the children of Elijah prophet led by Albert bishop and by Teresa of Avik, calced and other: and friars brown and grey, sons of poor Francis, capuchins, cordeliers, minimes and observants and the daughters of Clara: and the sons of Dominic, the friars preachers, and the sons of Vincent: and the monks of S. Wolstan: and Ignatius his children: and the confraternity of the Christian brothers led by the reverend brother Edmund Ignatius Rice. And after came all saints and martyrs, virgins and confessors: S. Cyr and S. Isidore Arator and S. James the Less and S. Phocas of Sinope and S. Julian Hospitator and S. Felix de Cantalice and S. Simon Stylites and S. Stephen Protomartyr and S. John of God and S. Ferreol and S. Leugarde and S. Theodotus and S. Vulmar and S. Richard and S. Vincent de Paul and S. Martin of Todi and S. Martin of Tours and S. Alfred and S. Joseph and S. Denis and S. Cornelius and S. Leopold and S. Bernard and S. Terence and S. Edward and S. Owen Caniculus and S. Anonymous and S. Eponymous and S. Pseudonymous and S. Homonymous and S. Paronymous and S. Synonymous and S. Laurence O’ Toole and S. James of Dingle and Compostella and S. Columcille and S. Columba and S. Celestine and S. Colman and S. Kevin and S. Brendan and S. Frigidian and S. Senan and S. Fachtna and S. Columbanus and S. Gall and S. Fursey and S. Fintan and S. Fiacre and S. John Nepomuc and S. Thomas Aquinas and S. Ives of Brittany and S. Michan and S. Herman-Joseph and the three patrons of holy youth S. Aloysius Gonzaga and S. Stanislaus Kostka and S. John Berchmans and the saints Gervasius, Servasius and Bonifacius and S. Bride and S. Kieran and S. Canice of Kilkenny and S. Jarlath of Tuam and S. Finbarr and S. Pappin of Ballymun and Brother Aloysius Pacificus and Brother Louis Bellicosus and the saints Rose of Lima and of Viterbo and S. Martha of Bethany and S. Mary of Egypt and S. Lucy and S. Brigid and S. Attracta and S. Dympna and S. Ita and S. Marion Calpensis and the Blessed Sister Teresa of the Child Jesus and S. Barbara and S. Scholastica and S. Ursula with eleven thousand virgins. And all came with nimbi and aureoles and gloriae, bearing palms and harps and swords and olive crowns, in robes whereon were woven the blessed symbols of their efficacies, inkhorns, arrows, loaves, cruses, fetters, axes, trees, bridges, babes in a bathtub, shells, wallets, shears, keys, dragons, lilies, buckshot, beards, hogs, lamps, bellows, beehives, soup-ladles, stars, snakes, anvils, boxes of vaseline, bells, crutches, forceps, stags’ horns, watertight boots, hawks, millstones, eyes on a dish, wax candles, aspergills, unicorns. And as they wended their way by Nelson’s Pillar, Henry Street, Mary Street, Capel Street, Little Britain Street, chanting the introit in Epiphania Domini which beginneth Surge, illuminare and thereafter most sweetly the gradual Onmes which saith de Saba venient they did divers wonders such as casting out devils, raising the dead to life, multiplying fishes, healing the halt and the blind, discovering various articles which had been mislaid, interpreting and fulfilling the scriptures, blessing and prophesying. And last, beneath a canopy of cloth of gold came the reverend Father O’Flynn attended by Malachi and Patrick. And when the good fathers had reached the appointed place, the house of Bernard Kiernan and Co, limited, 8, 9 and 10 little Britain street, wholesale grocers, wine and brandy shippers, licensed for the sale of beer, wine and spirits for consumption on the premises, the celebrant blessed the house and censed the mullioned windows and the groynes and the vaults and the arrises and the capitals and the pediments and the cornices and the engrailed arches and the spires and the cupolas and sprinkled the lintels thereof with blessed water and prayed that God might bless that house as he had blessed the house of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob and make the angels of His light to inhabit therein. And entering he blessed the viands and the beverages and the company of all the blessed answered his prayers.