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Ulysses 

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of

 1305 

—First my riddle, Lenehan said. Are you ready? 

Mr O’Madden Burke, tall in copious grey of Donegal 

tweed, came in from the hallway. Stephen Dedalus, 

behind him, uncovered as he entered. 

—Entrez, mes enfants! Lenehan cried. 

—I escort a suppliant, Mr O’Madden Burke said 

melodiously. Youth led by Experience visits Notoriety. 

—How do you do? the editor said, holding out a hand. 

Come in. Your governor is just gone. 

? ? ? 

Lenehan said to all: 

—Silence! What opera resembles a railwayline? Reflect, 

ponder, excogitate, reply. 

Stephen handed over the typed sheets, pointing to the 

title and signature. 

—Who? the editor asked. 

Bit torn off. 

—Mr Garrett Deasy, Stephen said. 

—That old pelters, the editor said. Who tore it? Was 

he short taken? 

On swift sail flaming 

From storm and south 

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He comes, pale vampire, 

Mouth to my mouth. 

—Good day, Stephen, the professor said, coming to 

peer over their shoulders. Foot and mouth? Are you 

turned ...? 

Bullockbefriending bard. 

SHINDY IN WELLKNOWN 

RESTAURANT 

—Good day, sir, Stephen answered blushing. The letter 

is not mine. Mr Garrett Deasy asked me to ... 

—O, I know him, Myles Crawford said, and I 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 in the 

Star and Garter. Oho! 

A woman brought sin into the world. For Helen, the 

runaway wife of Menelaus, ten years the Greeks. 

O’Rourke, prince of Breffni. 

—Is he a widower? Stephen asked. 

—Ay, a grass one, Myles Crawford said, his eye 

running down the typescript. Emperor’s horses. Habsburg. 

An Irishman saved his life on the ramparts of Vienna. 

Don’t you forget! Maximilian Karl O’Donnell, graf von 

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Tirconnell in Ireland. Sent his heir over to make the king 

an Austrian fieldmarshal now. Going to be trouble there 

one day. Wild geese. O yes, every time. Don’t you forget 

that! 

—The moot point is did he forget it, J. J. O’Molloy 

said quietly, turning a horseshoe paperweight. Saving 

princes is a thank you job. 

Professor MacHugh turned on him. 

—And if not? he said. 

—I’ll tell you how it was, Myles Crawford began. A 

Hungarian it was one day ... 

LOST CAUSES 

NOBLE MARQUESS MENTIONED 

—We were always loyal to lost causes, the professor 

said. Success for us is the death of the intellect and of the 

imagination. We were never loyal to the successful. We 

serve them. I teach the blatant Latin language. I speak the 

tongue of a race the acme of whose mentality is the 

maxim: time is money. Material domination. Dominus! 

Lord! Where is the spirituality? Lord Jesus? Lord Salisbury? 

A sofa in a westend club. But the Greek! 

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KYRIE ELEISON! 

A smile of light brightened his darkrimmed eyes, 

lengthened his long lips. 

—The Greek! he said again. Kyrios! Shining word! The 

vowels the Semite and the Saxon know not. Kyrie! The 

radiance of the intellect. I ought to profess Greek, the 

language of the mind. Kyrie eleison! The closetmaker and 

the cloacamaker will never be lords of our spirit. We are 

liege subjects of the catholic chivalry of Europe that 

foundered at Trafalgar and of the empire of the spirit, not 

an  imperium, that went under with the Athenian fleets at 

Aegospotami. Yes, yes. They went under. Pyrrhus, misled 

by an oracle, made a last attempt to retrieve the fortunes of 

Greece. Loyal to a lost cause. 

He strode away from them towards the window. 

—They went forth to battle, Mr O’Madden Burke said 

greyly, but they always fell. 

—Boohoo! Lenehan wept with a little noise. Owing to 

a brick received in the latter half of the matinée. Poor, 

poor, poor Pyrrhus! 

He whispered then near Stephen’s ear: 

LENEHAN’S LIMERICK 

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There’s a ponderous pundit MacHugh 

Who wears goggles of ebony hue. 

As he mostly sees double 

To wear them why trouble? 

I can’t see the Joe Miller. Can you? 

In mourning for Sallust, Mulligan says. Whose mother 

is beastly dead. 

Myles Crawford crammed the sheets into a sidepocket. 

—That’ll be all right, he said. I’ll read the rest after. 

That’ll be all right. 

Lenehan extended his hands in protest. 

—But my riddle! he said. What opera is like a 

railwayline? 

—Opera? Mr O’Madden Burke’s sphinx face reriddled. 

Lenehan announced gladly: 

—The Rose of Castile. See the wheeze? Rows of cast 

steel. Gee! 

He poked Mr O’Madden Burke mildly in the spleen. 

Mr O’Madden Burke fell back with grace on his umbrella, 

feigning a gasp. 

—Help! he sighed. I feel a strong weakness. 

Lenehan, rising to tiptoe, fanned his face rapidly with 

the rustling tissues. 

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