o’madden burke is coming in, with stephen.

  burke: I escort a suppliant. Youth led by Experience visits Notoriety.

  crawford: O’Madden Burke, the sham squire himself. How do you do, Stephen? Your governor has just left.

  stephen: Good day, sir. I have this letter. Not mine. Mr Garrett Deasy asked me to . . .

  crawford: What’s this? Foot and mouth? Oh, I know him. And knew his wife too. The bloodiest old tartar God ever made. By Jesus, she had the foot and mouth disease and no mistake. The night she threw the soup in the waiter’s face at the Star and Garter. Oho. So then, you’ve become –

  stephen: A bullock-befriending bard.

  crawford: That’ll be all right. I’ll read the rest after. That’ll be all right. Look at the loose ties on ye. Cravats. Paris, past and present. Communards.

  burke: All the talents, eh? Law, the classics …

  lenehan: The turf. You want a dead cert for the Gold Cup? Sceptre, O’Madden up.

  crawford: Literature, the press.

  burke: If Bloom were here, the gentle art of advertisement.

  lenehan. And Madam Bloom. The vocal muse. Dublin’s prime favourite.

  Crawford: Prime beef. Stephen, my boy. I want you to write something for me. Something with a bite in it. You can do it. I see it in your face. Put us all into it, damn its soul. Father, Son and Holy Ghost and Jakes McCarthy.

  burke: We can all supply mental pabulum.

  stephen: In ten years time, perhaps. A Dublin day. A Dublin odyssey. All the adventures – Cyclops, Circe turning men into swine –

  lenehan: Mrs Cohen in the red-light district. So I’m told.

  crawford: To hell with ten years time. Do it now.

  stephen: I’m still looking for my Ulysses.

  burke: Ah well, no wanderers here. No more. This is the promised land. Soon, with the help of almighty God, we shall enter into our inheritance.

  crawford: And yet it is not long since we were weak, therefore worthless. You remember John F. Taylor?

  lenehan: Aye, there was an orator.

  crawford: There was this debate on the revival of the Irish language. Gerald Fitzgibbon, lord justice of appeal as he is now – he scorned the movement. No future in the Irish language, no future in a free Ireland. And then Taylor got up.

  burke: ‘Mr Chairman, ladies and gentlemen. Great was my admiration in listening to the remarks addressed to the youth of Ireland 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 -’

  lenehan: By Jesus, he knows it all, by God.

  crawford: Hush, man.

  burke: ‘ . . . I stood in ancient Egypt and was listening to the speech of some high priest of that land addressed to the youthful Moses . . .’

  The telephone rings.

  lenehan: Hallo. Oh, it is, is it? (To crawford.) It’s Bloom.

  crawford: Tell him to go to hell.

  lenehan: He says you’re to go to hell. (He puts the receiver down.)

  burke: ‘. . . And it seemed to me that I heard the voice of that Egyptian high priest raised in a tone of like haughtiness and like pride. “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 but emerged from primitive conditions; we have a literature, a priesthood, an agelong history and a polity …” ’

  The telephone rings again.

  lenehan: Ah, bugger that. Hallo.

  crawford: Tell that bloody sheeny to look for his lost prepuce.

  lenehan: He says you’re to . . . Never mind. (He puts the receiver down.)

  burke: ‘ “ . . . Israel is weak and few are her children: Egypt is an host and terrible are her arms. Vagrants and day-labourers are ye called: the world trembles at our name.” But had the youthful Moses listened, had he bowed his will and his spirit to that arrogant admonition he would never have brought the chosen people out of their …’

  The door briskly opens. It is bloom.

  bloom: Mr Crawford, it’s about this . . .

  crawford: God blast your eyes, you bloody . . . Finish it, Burke.

  burke: ‘ . . . 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.’

  bloom: But it’s important. It’s about this ad. Alexander Keyes, you know . . .

  crawford: God curse your bloody blatant soul, can’t you tell a solemn moment when you hear one?

  bloom: Something about one of my father’s ancestors, I gather. Now, about this ad, Mr Crawford . . .

  stephen: Gentlemen, as the next motion on the agenda paper may I suggest the house do now adjourn?

  burke: ’Tis the hour, methinks, when the winejug is most grateful in Ye Ancient Hostelry.

  stephen: You too, Mr . . .

  bloom: Bloom. Leopold Bloom. Friend of your father’s.

  lenehan farts.

  lenehan: Oh pardon.

  crawford: Did an angel speak?

  stephen: Ed egli avea del cul fatto trombetta.

  crawford: Chip off the old block. Where are those blasted keys?

  bloom: Keyes, yes, Mr Crawford. Alexander Keyes. This ad.

  crawford: Foot and mouth disease, that’s all right.That’ll go in. Those blasted keys. (He stamps out.)

  bloom: That was Italian, wasn’t it, Mr Dedalus? My wife Madam Marion Tweedy has a small problem of Italian pronunciation. In Don Giovanni. La ci darem la . . .

  crawford (stamping in, jangling keys): Got them. Away.

  bloom: A moment, Mr Crawford. This ad. I spoke to Mr Keyes just now. He’ll give a renewal for two months, he says. But he wants a paragraph about his new premises. What will I tell him, Mr Crawford?

  crawford: Will you tell him he can kiss my arse? Tell him that straight from the stable.

  bloom: He’d give the ad, I think. I think it’s worth a short par. I’ll tell him . . .

  crawford: He can kiss my royal Irish arse. Any time he likes, tell him.

  They start to go out. Voices recede.

  lenehan: Silence, all. My brand new riddle. What opera is like a set of railway lines? Give up? All give up? The Rose of Castille. Rows of Cast Steel. Get it?

  burke: Help. I feel a strong weakness.

  bloom is alone.

  bloom: Chosen people, eh? Tables of the law, language of the outlaw. They don’t know the first thing about it. Ought to eat, I suppose. Glass of chilled white wine, none of their Guinness. A few olives. Irish stew, ugh. House of bondage. Melons, citrons. Nice to hold, cool waxen fruit. Heavy, sweet, wild perfume. Coming all the way: Spain, Gibraltar, the Levant. Jaffa.

  No. 10

  He sings.

  Melon fields, orange groves,

  Almond-sellers in the street.

  Wandering wandering.

  Fennel-scented water, olives to eat.

  Wandering till sundown,

  A shiver of the trees,

  Evening breeze,

  Fading gold sky.

  Swift dusk falling.

  A mother watches from her door.

  Calling calling

  Her children home in their dark language, my

  Dark language, mine no more.

  Strings twang afar,

  Night sky moon, a dulcimer.

  No, no, not like that at all.

  A barren land, bare, waste,

  Dead sea, no fish, weedless, seedless,

  Wrinkle-skinned,

  No wind

  Could lift those waves, grey metal.

  Poisonous foggy waters. A rain

  Of brimstone. Cities of the plain.

  All dead names, Gomorrah, Sodom, Edam.

  A dead sea in a dead land, grey and old, grey,

  The oldest people,

  Wandering far away

  Under all the skies,

  Captivity to captivity,

  Multiplying, dying, giving birth

  Everywhere. There it lies,

  Now it can bear no more.

  Dead. An old woman’s.

  The grey shrunken cunt of the earth.

  Age age is riding me,

  Crusting me with a salt cloak.

  Cold oils sliding

  Along my arteries,

  Chilling me, chilling me,

  Gone like smoke,

  All all. All that’s left is

  Here and now. Now.

  To be near her warm flesh.

  I could go back now and then

  It would never happen –

  What’s going to happen,

  What’s going to happen again.

  crawford comes in.

  crawford: You still here, Bloom? Er shouldn’t have said what I did. A bit nervy, you know. Unwelcome visitors, and now I have to entertain. An editor’s duty. Stand a round. I’m a bit short. Cashier’s gone to lunch. Could you loan me half a bar?

  bloom: I seem to remember a matter of half a bar last month.

  crawford: I’ll pay it all back together. A round and golden sovereign. The money’s safe, you know that.

  bloom: Here’s two bob.

  crawford: Oh, all right then. Thanks, Bloom. You’re a real Christian.

  bloom grunts, crawford is heard leaving.

  Scene Six

  barney kiernan’s pub.

  hynes: Are you a strict TT?

  doran: Not taking anything between drinks, Joe.

  hynes: What about paying our respects to our friend?

  doran: The citizen? Having a great confab with that bloody dog of his. Sure, it’d be a corporal work of mercy to take it and wring its bloody neck. Mangy old bastard.

  citizen: Stand and deliver.

  hynes: That’s all right, citizen. Friends here.

  citizen: Pass, friends. And what would be your opinion of the times?

  hynes: I think the markets are on a rise.

  citizen: Foreign wars is the cause of it.

  hynes: It’s the Russians’ wish to tyrannize.

  doran: Arrah, give over your bloody codding, Joe. I’m blue mouldy for want of a pint.

  hynes: Give it a name, citizen.

  citizen: Wine of the country, a chara.

  hynes: Three pints, Terry.

  We hear the pints being drawn.

  doran: Jesus, a quid. A good-looking sovereign. Were you robbing the poor box, Joe?

  hynes: Sweat of my brow. ’Twas the prudent member gave me the wheeze.

  doran: Bloom? I saw him before I met you, talking to that bloody fool Purefoy. See me wife tonight for me, he says, for she’s far gone in labour and me with an appointment at Ringsend.

  hynes: Ringsend’s right. A gift for a stud farm. Purefoy’s patent meat injections.

  doran: So Bloom says certainly certainly I’ll see her, God help the poor woman, her fifteenth isn’t it?

  hynes. Ah, thanks be to God. Drink that, citizen.

  citizen: I will, honourable person.

  doran: Health. And all down the form. (He drinks ) Talk of the –

  The dog growls.

  citizen: Come in, come on, he won’t eat you.

  bloom (to terry): Has Mr Cunningham been around yet?

  terry: Not as I know of and I’m here all the time itself.

  hynes: Hallo, Bloom, what’ll you have?

  bloom: Well, I don’t really – not at this time – besides, I promised Martin Cunningham I’d – well, if you insist, I’ll just take a cigar.

  doran: Prudent member.

  bloom: I beg your pardon?

  hynes: Give us one of your prime stinkers, Terry.

  bloom is given and lights a cigar during the following.

  citizen: And when’s it going to come, eh? A new Ireland for the Irish?

  a drunk: Manzh besht friend. Give us the paw, doggy. Good old doggy. Give him a couple of biscuits outa that tin there, Terry.

  terry: It’s only crumbs is in it.

  The dog licks the tin dry.

  doran (very quietly to hynes): Talking about a new Ireland, he ought to go and get a new bloody dog so he ought. Scratching his scabs and sniffling and sneezing all round the bloody place.

  citizen: What was that then, a chara?

  doran: I was saying it was all done by kindness.

  citizen: A new Ireland built on the bones of the glorious dead. Sinn Fein. Sinn Fein amhain. The friends we love are by our side and the foes we hate before us.

  hynes: Same again, Terry. You’re sure, Bloom?

  bloom: Thank you, no. I’m here to see Martin Cunningham about this matter of poor Dignam’s insurance, don’t you see? You see he – Dignam, I mean – he didn’t serve any notice of the assignment on the company at the time and nominally under the act the mortgagee can’t recover on the policy.

  hynes: Holy wars, that’s a good one if old Shylock’s landed. So the wife comes out top dog, eh?

  bloom: Well, that’s a point for the wife’s admirers.

  hynes: Whose admirers?

  bloom: The wife’s advisers, I mean.

  The clock strikes four, o’molloy and lambert come in.

  citizen: God save you.

  lambert: And you, citizen. What’ll it be, O’Molloy?

  o’molloy: J and J and lithia water.

  citizen: Well, what’s the latest from the scene of action? What did those tinkers in the city hall decide about the Irish language?

  lambert: They talked. There was a lot of talk.

  citizen: It’s on the march. To hell with the bloody brutal Sassenachs and their patois.

  bloom: They built a civilization on it.

  citizen: Syphilization is what you mean. To hell with them. The curse of a good for nothing God light sideways on the bloody thicklugged sons of whores’ gets. Any civilization they have they stole from us. Tongue-tied sons of bastards’ ghosts.

  lenehan comes in.

  doran: What’s up with you, Lenehan? You look like a fellow that lost a bob and found a tanner.

  lenehan: Gold Cup.

  terry: Who won, Mr Lenehan?

  lenehan: Throwaway, at twenty to one. Rank outsider. And the rest nowhere. Twenty to bloody one. Such is life in an outhouse. Throwaway. Frailty, thy name is Sceptre.

  doran: And Zinfandel. And – ah, never mind.

  citizen (who speaks during the above): Where are they all? Our missing twenty millions of Irish, our lost tribes? And our trade. We had our trade with Spain and the French and the Flemings before those mongrels were whelped.

  hynes: And will again.

  citizen: And with the help of the Holy Mother of God we will again.

  No. 11

  He sings.

  Rise again, Ireland,

  Gleaming in beauty,

  Do we our duty –

  Build a new Ireland.

  Come on, sing.

  Though ashamed of this sentimentality, the others sing while the citizen provides a counterpoint.

  Damasks from the looms of Antrim,

  Limerick for lace and poplin,

  Tanneries and tweeds from Foxford,

  Finest in the whole creation.

  The others sigh in relief but have to resume with the citizen.

  Wine-barks on the wine-dark waters,

  Spanish ale a-froth in Galway,

  Blacksod Bay and Queenstown harbour,

  Filled with ships of every nation.

  And there is our greater Ireland across the seas ready to come home and help restore our greatness.

  hynes: And Europe too.

  citizen: Europe? What did they ever do for us? The French. Set of dancing masters. Never worth a roasted fart to Ireland. And as for the Germans, haven’t we had enough of those sausage-eating bastards on the throne from George the elector to the flatulent old bitch that’s dead?

  o’molloy: Well, we have Edward the peacemaker now.

  citizen: Tell that to a fool. There’s a bloody sight more pox than pax about that boyo.

  hynes: Will you try another, citizen?

  citizen: Yes sir, I will.

  hynes (to others): You? You? (There are assenting ayes.) Repeat that dose.

  bloom: But all countries have been persecuted. The history of the world is full of it. Perpetuating national hatred among nations.

  doran: But do you know what a nation means?

  bloom: A nation? A nation is the same people living in the same place.

  lambert: By God, then, if that’s so I’m a nation for I’m living in the same place for the past five years.

  Cruel laughter.

  bloom: Or also living in different places.

  hynes: That covers my case.

  citizen (to bloom): What is your nation, if I may ask?

  bloom: Ireland. I was born here. Ireland.

  The citizen spits copiously.

  And I belong to a race too that is hated and persecuted.

  Also now. This very moment. This very instant.

  The citizen comes in with a new verse which the rest have to accompany in counterpoint.

  citizen:

  Curses on the foes of Ireland,

  Tyrannizers and exploiters,

  Nail them on a cross, O Saviour,

  Persecute our persecutors.

  bloom: Robbed. Plundered. Insulted. At this very moment sold by auction off in Morocco like slaves or cattle.

  citizen (with chorus as before):

  Rise again with love and justice,

  Pour the fires of righteous hatred

  On the swine who earn our loathing,

  To ourselves be just and loving.

  bloom: Scorned, reviled, imprisoned, enslaved.

  citizen: Are you talking about the new Jerusalem?

  bloom: I’m talking about injustice.