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Ulysses 

56 

of

 1305 

Two topboots jog dangling on to Dublin. Lal the ral the 

ra. Lal the ral the raddy. 

—That reminds me, Mr Deasy said. You can do me a 

favour, Mr Dedalus, with some of your literary friends. I 

have a letter here for the press. Sit down a moment. I have 

just to copy the end. 

He went to the desk near the window, pulled in his 

chair twice and read off some words from the sheet on the 

drum of his typewriter. 

—Sit down. Excuse me, he said over his shoulder, the 

dictates of common sense. Just a moment. 

He peered from under his shaggy brows at the 

manuscript by his elbow and, muttering, began to prod 

the stiff buttons of the keyboard slowly, sometimes 

blowing as he screwed up the drum to erase an error. 

Stephen seated himself noiselessly before the princely 

presence. Framed around the walls images of vanished 

horses stood in homage, their meek heads poised in air: 

lord Hastings’ Repulse, the duke of Westminster’s 

Shotover, the duke of Beaufort’s Ceylon, prix de Paris, 

1866. Elfin riders sat them, watchful of a sign. He saw 

their speeds, backing king’s colours, and shouted with the 

shouts of vanished crowds. 

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Ulysses 

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 1305 

—Full stop, Mr Deasy bade his keys. But prompt 

ventilation of this allimportant question ... 

Where Cranly led me to get rich quick, hunting his 

winners among the mudsplashed brakes, amid the bawls of 

bookies on their pitches and reek of the canteen, over the 

motley slush. Fair Rebel! Fair Rebel! Even money the 

favourite: ten to one the field. Dicers and thimbleriggers 

we hurried by after the hoofs, the vying caps and jackets 

and past the meatfaced woman, a butcher’s dame, nuzzling 

thirstily her clove of orange. 

Shouts rang shrill from the boys’ playfield and a 

whirring whistle. 

Again: a goal. I am among them, among their battling 

bodies in a medley, the joust of life. You mean that 

knockkneed mother’s darling who seems to be slightly 

crawsick? Jousts. Time shocked rebounds, shock by shock. 

Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the frozen deathspew of 

the slain, a shout of spearspikes baited with men’s bloodied 

guts. 

—Now then, Mr Deasy said, rising. 

He came to the table, pinning together his sheets. 

Stephen stood up. 

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Ulysses 

58 

of

 1305 

—I have put the matter into a nutshell, Mr Deasy said. 

It’s about the foot and mouth disease. Just look through it. 

There can be no two opinions on the matter. 

May I trespass on your valuable space. That doctrine of 

laissez faire which so often in our history. Our cattle trade. 

The way of all our old industries. Liverpool ring which 

jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme. European 

conflagration. Grain supplies through the narrow waters of 

the channel. The pluterperfect imperturbability of the 

department of agriculture. Pardoned a classical allusion. 

Cassandra. By a woman who was no better than she 

should be. To come to the point at issue. 

—I don’t mince words, do I? Mr Deasy asked as 

Stephen read on. 

Foot and mouth disease. Known as Koch’s preparation. 

Serum and virus. Percentage of salted horses. Rinderpest. 

Emperor’s horses at Murzsteg, lower Austria. Veterinary 

surgeons. Mr Henry Blackwood Price. Courteous offer a 

fair trial. Dictates of common sense. Allimportant 

question. In every sense of the word take the bull by the 

horns. Thanking you for the hospitality of your columns. 

—I want that to be printed and read, Mr Deasy said. 

You will see at the next outbreak they will put an 

embargo on Irish cattle. And it can be cured. It is cured. 

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Ulysses 

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My cousin, Blackwood Price, writes to me it is regularly 

treated and cured in Austria by cattledoctors there. They 

offer to come over here. I am trying to work up influence 

with the department. Now I’m going to try publicity. I 

am surrounded by difficulties, by ... intrigues by ... 

backstairs influence by ... 

He raised his forefinger and beat the air oldly before his 

voice spoke. 

—Mark my words, Mr Dedalus, he said. England is in 

the hands of the jews. In all the highest places: her finance, 

her press. And they are the signs of a nation’s decay. 

Wherever they gather they eat up the nation’s vital 

strength. I have seen it coming these years. As sure as we 

are standing here the jew merchants are already at their 

work of destruction. Old England is dying. 

He stepped swiftly off, his eyes coming to blue life as 

they passed a broad sunbeam. He faced about and back 

again. 

—Dying, he said again, if not dead by now. 

The harlot’s cry from street to street 

Shall weave old England’s windingsheet. 

His eyes open wide in vision stared sternly across the 

sunbeam in which he halted. 

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Ulysses 

60 

of

 1305 

—A merchant, Stephen said, is one who buys cheap 

and sells dear, jew or gentile, is he not? 

—They sinned against the light, Mr Deasy said gravely. 

And you can see the darkness in their eyes. And that is 

why they are wanderers on the earth to this day. 

On the steps of the Paris stock exchange the 

goldskinned men quoting prices on their gemmed fingers. 

Gabble of geese. They swarmed loud, uncouth about the 

temple, their heads thickplotting under maladroit silk hats. 

Not theirs: these clothes, this speech, these gestures. Their 

full slow eyes belied the words, the gestures eager and 

unoffending, but knew the rancours massed about them 

and knew their zeal was vain. Vain patience to heap and 

hoard. Time surely would scatter all. A hoard heaped by 

the roadside: plundered and passing on. Their eyes knew 

their years of wandering and, patient, knew the dishonours 

of their flesh. 

—Who has not? Stephen said. 

—What do you mean? Mr Deasy asked. 

He came forward a pace and stood by the table. His 

underjaw fell sideways open uncertainly. Is this old 

wisdom? He waits to hear from me. 

—History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I 

am trying to awake. 

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