blasphemous poem by Buck Mulligan (based on Joyce's friend Oliver Gogarty, who really wrote the poem); Stephen recalls Patrice reciting it as he drank warm milk ('lait chaud'), lapping it like a 'lapin' (rabbit), and expressing the hope that he would win something substantial in the French national lottery (gros lot: 'first prize'). Jules Michelet (1798-1874), French historian.
3. End (German). Conversation in French between Stephen and Patrice: 'It's screamingly funny, you know. I'm a socialist myself. I don't believe in the existence of God. Mustn't tell my father.' 'He is a believer?' 'My father, yes.' 4. I.e., the faculty of physics, chemistry, and biology at the Ecole de Medecine in Paris, where Stephen, like Joyce, took a premedical course for a short time. The faculty was popularly known as 'P.C.N.' (pronounced 'Paysayenn'). 5. Stew. 6. Popular Parisian abbreviation for the Boulevard Saint Michel. 7. 'He is me'?a parody of Louis XIV's remark 'L'etat c'est moi' (I am the state).
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220 6 / JAMES JOYCE
Look clock. iMust get. Ferme. Hired dog! Shoot him to bloody bits with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. Bits all khrrrrklak in place clack back. Not hurt? O, that's all right. Shake hands. See what I meant, see? O, that's all right. Shake a shake. O, that's all only all right.8
You were going to do wonders, what? Missionary to Europe after fiery Columbanus. Fiacre and Scotus on their creepystools9 in heaven spilt from their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: Euge!l Eugel Pretending to speak broken English as you dragged your valise, porter threepence, across the slimy pier at Newhaven. Comment? Rich booty you brought back; Le Tutu, five tattered numbers of Pantalon Blanc et Culotte Rouge,2 a blue French telegram, curiosity to show:
?Mother dying come home father.3
The aunt thinks you killed your mother. That's why she won't.4
Then here's a health to Mulligan's aunt And I'll tell you the reason why. She always kept things decent in The Hannigan famileye.
His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the sand furrows, along by the boulders of the south wall. He stared at them proudly, piled stone mammoth skulls. Gold light on sea, on sand, on boulders. The sun is there, the slender trees, the lemon houses.
Paris rawly waking, crude sunlight on her lemon streets. Moist pith of farls5 of bread, the froggreen wormwood, her matin incense, court the air. Belluomo rises from the bed of his wife's lover's wife, the kerchiefed housewife is astir, a saucer of acetic acid in her hand. In Rodot's Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering with gold teeth chaussons of pastry, their mouths yellowed with the pus of flan hreton.b Faces of Paris men go by, their wellpleased pleasers, curled conquistadores.7
Noon slumbers. Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes through fingers smeared with printer's ink,8 sipping his green fairy as Patrice his white. About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets. Un demi setter!9 A jet of coffee steam from the burnished caldron. She serves me at his beck. II est irlandais. Hollandais? Non fromage. Deux irlandais, nous, Irlande, vous savez? Ah, oui!] She thought you wanted a cheese hollandais. Your postprandial, do you know
8. A recollection of the occasion when, desperate 4. Stephen recalls Buck Mulligan's telling him for money, Stephen had received a money order that his (Mulligan's) aunt disapproved of Stephen for eight shillings from his mother. Afflicted with because, by refusing to pray at his dying mother's both hunger and toothache, he had gone to cash bedside, he had hastened her death. Stephen then it at the post office?which was closed, even tries to laugh away his guilty feeling by quoting though, as he expostulated with the man at the mentally a (slightly parodied) verse of a popular door, there were still two minutes ('encore deux song. minutes') until the official closing time. In his ret-5. Thin circular cakes. rospective rage he imagines himself shooting the 6. Memories of a restaurant in Paris. 'Chaussons': 'hired dog' to bits, and then in a revulsion of feel-pastry turnovers. 'Flan breton': pastry filled with ing has a mental reconciliation with him. custard. 9. Low stools. 'Columbanus': 6th-century Irish 7. Conquerors (Spanish). missionary on the Continent. Fiacre was a 6th-8. Egan (i.e., Joseph Casey) became a typesetter century Irish saint. John Duns Scotus (1266? for the Parisian edition of the New York Herald. 1308), Scottish scholastic theologian and philos-9. Abusive Parisian slang for a liquid measure opher. (about one-fourth of a liter)?here, presumably, of 1. Well done! wine or beer. 'Green Fairy': absinthe, a strong 2. Like Le Tutu, the name of a French popular green liqueur. periodical. 1. He is Irish. Dutch? Not cheese. We are two 3. This telegram was actually received by Joyce in Irishmen, Ireland, you understand? Oh, yes! Paris.
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ULYSSES [PROTEUS] / 220 7
that word? Postprandial. There was a fellow I knew once in Barcelona, queer fellow, used to call it his postprandial. Well: slainte!2 Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges. His breath hangs over our saucestained plates, the green fairy's fang thrusting between his lips. Of Ireland, the Dalcassians, of hopes, conspiracies, of Arthur Griffith now.3 To yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes our common cause. You're your father's son. I know the voice. His fustian shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its Spanish tassels at his secrets. M. Drumont,4 famous journalist, Drumont, know what he called queen Victoria? Old hag with the yellow teeth. Vieille ogresse with the dents jaunes. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, la Patrie, M. Millevoye, Felix Faure,' know how he died? Licentious men. Thefroeken, bonne a toutfaire,6 who rubs male nakedness in the bath at Upsala. Moi faire, she said, tous les messieurs.7 Not this monsieur, I said. Most licentious custom. Bath a most private thing. I wouldn't let my brother, not even my own brother, most lascivious thing. Green eyes, I see you. Fang, I feel. Lascivious people.
The blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. Loose tobacco shreds catch fire: a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Raw facebones under his peep of day boy's hat. How the head centre got away, authentic version. Got up as a young bride, man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the road to Malahide. Did, faith. Of lost leaders, the betrayed, wild escapes. Disguises, clutched at, gone not here.8
Spurned lover. I was a strapping young gossoon9 at that time, I tell you. I'll show you my likeness one day. I was, faith. Lover, for her love he prowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of his sept,1 under the walls of Clerkenwell2 and, crouching, saw a flame of vengeance hurl them upward in the fog. Shattered glass and toppling masonry. In gay Paree he hides, Egan of Paris, unsought by any save by me. Making his day's stations, the dingy printing-case, his three taverns, the Montmartre lair he sleeps short night in, rue de la Goutte-d'Or, damascened with flyblown faces of the gone. Loveless, landless, wifeless. She is quite nicey comfy without her outcast man,' madame in rue Git-le-Coeur, canary and two buck lodgers. Peachy cheeks, a zebra skirt, frisky as a young thing's. Spurned and undespairing. Tell Pat4 you saw me, won't you? I wanted to get poor Pat a job one time. Monfils, soldier of France. I taught him to sing The boys of Kilkenny are stout roaring blades. Know that old lay? I taught Patrice that. Old Kilkenny: saint Canice, Strongbow's castle on the Nore.5 Goes like this. O, O. He takes me, Napper Tandy,6 by the hand.
2. Your health! (Gaelic). 9. Boy. 3. Two extremes of Irish history. From the Dal-1. Clan. 'Tanist': successor-
