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Ulysses 245
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up. Then Paddy Hooper worked Tay Pay who took him on to the Star. Now he’s got in with Blumenfeld. That’s press. That’s talent. Pyatt! He was all their daddies! —The father of scare journalism, Lenehan confirmed, and the brother-in-law of Chris Callinan. —Hello? ... Are you there? ... Yes, he’s here still. Come across yourself. —Where do you find a pressman like that now, eh? the editor cried. He flung the pages down. —Clamn dever, Lenehan said to Mr O’Madden Burke. —Very smart, Mr O’Madden Burke said. Professor MacHugh came from the inner office. —Talking about the invincibles, he said, did you see that some hawkers were up before the recorder —O yes, J. J. O’Molloy said eagerly. Lady Dudley was walking home through the park to see all the trees that were blown down by that cyclone last year and thought she’d buy a view of Dublin. And it turned out to be a commemoration postcard of Joe Brady or Number One or Skin-the-Goat. Right outside the viceregal lodge, imagine! —They’re only in the hook and eye department, Myles Crawford said. Psha! Press and the bar! Where have you a man now at the bar like those fellows, like Whiteside, like Ulysses 246
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Isaac Butt, like silvertongued O’Hagan. Eh? Ah, bloody nonsense. Psha! Only in the halfpenny place. His mouth continued to twitch unspeaking in nervous curls of disdain. Would anyone wish that mouth for her kiss? How do you know? Why did you write it then? RHYMES AND REASONS Mouth, south. Is the mouth south someway? Or the south a mouth? Must be some. South, pout, out, shout, drouth. Rhymes: two men dressed the same, looking the same, two by two.
He saw them three by three, approaching girls, in green, in rose, in russet, entwining, per l’aer perso, in mauve, in purple, quella pacifica oriafiamma, gold of oriflamme, di rimirar fe piu ardenti. But I old men, penitent, leadenfooted, underdarkneath the night: mouth south: tomb womb. —Speak up for yourself, Mr O’Madden Burke said. SUFFICIENT FOR THE DAY
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... J. J. O’Molloy, smiling palely, took up the gage. —My dear Myles, he said, flinging his cigarette aside, you put a false construction on my words. I hold no brief, as at present advised, for the third profession qua profession but your Cork legs are running away with you. Why not bring in Henry Grattan and Flood and Demosthenes and Edmund Burke? Ignatius Gallaher we all know and his Chapelizod boss, Harmsworth of the farthing press, and his American cousin of the Bowery guttersheet not to mention Paddy Kelly’s Budget, Pue’s
Why bring in a master of forensic eloquence like Whiteside? Sufficient for the day is the newspaper thereof. LINKS WITH BYGONE DAYS OF YORE —Grattan and Flood wrote for this very paper, the editor cried in his face. Irish volunteers. Where are you now? Established 1763. Dr Lucas. Who have you now like John Philpot Curran? Psha! —Well, J. J. O’Molloy said, Bushe K.C., for example. Ulysses 248
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—Bushe? the editor said. Well, yes: Bushe, yes. He has a strain of it in his blood. Kendal Bushe or I mean Seymour Bushe. —He would have been on the bench long ago, the professor said, only for ... But no matter. J. J. O’Molloy turned to Stephen and said quietly and slowly: —One of the most polished periods I think I ever listened to in my life fell from the lips of Seymour Bushe. It was in that case of fratricide, the Childs murder case. Bushe defended him.
By the way how did he find that out? He died in his sleep. Or the other story, beast with two backs? —What was that? the professor asked. ITALIA, MAGISTRA ARTIUM —He spoke on the law of evidence, J. J. O’Molloy said, of Roman justice as contrasted with the earlier Mosaic code, the lex talionis. And he cited the Moses of Michelangelo in the vatican. —Ha.
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—A few wellchosen words, Lenehan prefaced. Silence! Pause. J. J. O’Molloy took out his cigarettecase. False lull. Something quite ordinary. Messenger took out his matchbox thoughtfully and lit his cigar. I have often thought since on looking back over that strange time that it was that small act, trivial in itself, that striking of that match, that determined the whole aftercourse of both our lives. A POLISHED PERIOD J. J. O’Molloy resumed, moulding his words: —He said of it: that stony effigy in frozen music, horned and terrible, of the human form divine, that eternal symbol of wisdom and of prophecy which, if aught that the imagination or the hand of sculptor has wrought in marble of soultransfigured and of soultransfiguring deserves to live, deserves to live. His slim hand with a wave graced echo and fall. —Fine! Myles Crawford said at once. —The divine afflatus, Mr O’Madden Burke said. —You like it? J. J. O’Molloy asked Stephen. Stephen, his blood wooed by grace of language and gesture, blushed. He took a cigarette from the case. J. J.
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