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Ulysses 

51 

of

 1305 

—What is the matter? What is it now? 

Their sharp voices cried about him on all sides: their 

many forms closed round him, the garish sunshine 

bleaching the honey of his illdyed head. 

Stale smoky air hung in the study with the smell of 

drab abraded leather of its chairs. As on the first day he 

bargained with me here. As it was in the beginning, is 

now. On the sideboard the tray of Stuart coins, base 

treasure of a bog: and ever shall be. And snug in their 

spooncase of purple plush, faded, the twelve apostles 

having preached to all the gentiles: world without end. 

A hasty step over the stone porch and in the corridor. 

Blowing out his rare moustache Mr Deasy halted at the 

table. 

—First, our little financial settlement, he said. 

He brought out of his coat a pocketbook bound by a 

leather thong. It slapped open and he took from it two 

notes, one of joined halves, and laid them carefully on the 

table. 

—Two, he said, strapping and stowing his pocketbook 

away. 

And now his strongroom for the gold. Stephen’s 

embarrassed hand moved over the shells heaped in the 

cold stone mortar: whelks and money cowries and leopard 

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shells: and this, whorled as an emir’s turban, and this, the 

scallop of saint James. An old pilgrim’s hoard, dead 

treasure, hollow shells. 

A sovereign fell, bright and new, on the soft pile of the 

tablecloth. 

—Three, Mr Deasy said, turning his little savingsbox 

about in his hand. These are handy things to have. See. 

This is for sovereigns. This is for shillings. Sixpences, 

halfcrowns. And here crowns. See. 

He shot from it two crowns and two shillings. 

—Three twelve, he said. I think you’ll find that’s right. 

—Thank you, sir, Stephen said, gathering the money 

together with shy haste and putting it all in a pocket of his 

trousers. 

—No thanks at all, Mr Deasy said. You have earned it. 

Stephen’s hand, free again, went back to the hollow 

shells. Symbols too of beauty and of power. A lump in my 

pocket: symbols soiled by greed and misery. 

—Don’t carry it like that, Mr Deasy said. You’ll pull it 

out somewhere and lose it. You just buy one of these 

machines. You’ll find them very handy. 

Answer something. 

—Mine would be often empty, Stephen said. 

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The same room and hour, the same wisdom: and I the 

same. Three times now. Three nooses round me here. 

Well? I can break them in this instant if I will. 

—Because you don’t save, Mr Deasy said, pointing his 

finger. You don’t know yet what money is. Money is 

power. When you have lived as long as I have. I know, I 

know. If youth but knew. But what does Shakespeare say? 

Put but money in thy purse. 

—Iago, Stephen murmured. 

He lifted his gaze from the idle shells to the old man’s 

stare. 

—He knew what money was, Mr Deasy said. He made 

money. A poet, yes, but an Englishman too. Do you 

know what is the pride of the English? Do you know 

what is the proudest word you will ever hear from an 

Englishman’s mouth? 

The seas’ ruler. His seacold eyes looked on the empty 

bay: it seems history is to blame: on me and on my words, 

unhating. 

—That on his empire, Stephen said, the sun never sets. 

—Ba! Mr Deasy cried. That’s not English. A French 

Celt said that. He tapped his savingsbox against his 

thumbnail. 

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—I will tell you, he said solemnly, what is his proudest 

boast. I paid my way. 

Good man, good man. 

—I paid my way. I never borrowed a shilling in my life. Can 

you feel that? I owe nothing. Can you? 

Mulligan, nine pounds, three pairs of socks, one pair 

brogues, ties. Curran, ten guineas. McCann, one guinea. 

Fred Ryan, two shillings. Temple, two lunches. Russell, 

one guinea, Cousins, ten shillings, Bob Reynolds, half a 

guinea, Koehler, three guineas, Mrs MacKernan, five 

weeks’ board. The lump I have is useless. 

—For the moment, no, Stephen answered. 

Mr Deasy laughed with rich delight, putting back his 

savingsbox. 

—I knew you couldn’t, he said joyously. But one day 

you must feel it. We are a generous people but we must 

also be just. 

—I fear those big words, Stephen said, which make us 

so unhappy. 

Mr Deasy stared sternly for some moments over the 

mantelpiece at the shapely bulk of a man in tartan filibegs: 

Albert Edward, prince of Wales. 

—You think me an old fogey and an old tory, his 

thoughtful voice said. I saw three generations since 

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O’Connell’s time. I remember the famine in ‘46. Do you 

know that the orange lodges agitated for repeal of the 

union twenty years before O’Connell did or before the 

prelates of your communion denounced him as a 

demagogue? You fenians forget some things. 

Glorious, pious and immortal memory. The lodge of 

Diamond in Armagh the splendid behung with corpses of 

papishes. Hoarse, masked and armed, the planters’ 

covenant. The black north and true blue bible. Croppies 

lie down. 

Stephen sketched a brief gesture. 

—I have rebel blood in me too, Mr Deasy said. On the 

spindle side. But I am descended from sir John Blackwood 

who voted for the union. We are all Irish, all kings’ sons. 

—Alas, Stephen said. 

—Per vias rectas, Mr Deasy said firmly, was his motto. 

He voted for it and put on his topboots to ride to Dublin 

from the Ards of Down to do so. 

Lal the ral the ra 

The rocky road to Dublin. 

A gruff squire on horseback with shiny topboots. Soft 

day, sir John! Soft day, your honour! ... Day! ... Day! ... 

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