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Ulysses 

948 

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BELLA: (Laughing) Omelette ... 

THE WHORES: (Laughing) Encore! Encore! 

STEPHEN: Mark me. I dreamt of a watermelon. 

ZOE: Go abroad and love a foreign lady. 

LYNCH: Across the world for a wife. 

FLORRY: Dreams goes by contraries. 

STEPHEN:  (Extends his arms) It was here. Street of 

harlots. In Serpentine avenue Beelzebub showed me her, a 

fubsy widow. Where’s the red carpet spread? 

BLOOM: (Approaching Stephen) Look ... 

STEPHEN: No, I flew. My foes beneath me. And ever 

shall be. World without end. (He cries) Pater! Free! 

BLOOM: I say, look ... 

STEPHEN: Break my spirit, will he? O merde alors! (He 

cries, his vulture talons sharpened) Hola! Hillyho! 

(Simon Dedalus’ voice hilloes in answer, somewhat sleepy but 

ready.) 

SIMON: That’s all right. (He swoops uncertainly through 

the air, wheeling, uttering cries of heartening, on strong ponderous 

buzzard wings) Ho, boy! Are you going to win? Hoop! 

Pschatt! Stable with those halfcastes. Wouldn’t let them 

within the bawl of an ass. Head up! Keep our flag flying! 

An eagle gules volant in a field argent displayed. Ulster 

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king at arms! Haihoop! (He makes the beagle’s call, giving 

tongue) Bulbul! Burblblburblbl! Hai, boy! 

(The fronds and spaces of the wallpaper file rapidly across 

country. A stout fox, drawn from covert, brush pointed, having 

buried his grandmother, runs swift for the open, brighteyed, 

seeking badger earth, under the leaves. The pack of staghounds 

follows, nose to the ground, sniffing their quarry, beaglebaying, 

burblbrbling to be blooded. Ward Union huntsmen and 

huntswomen live with them, hot for a kill. From Six Mile Point, 

Flathouse, Nine Mile Stone follow the footpeople with knotty 

sticks, hayforks, salmongaffs, lassos, flockmasters with stockwhips, 

bearbaiters with tomtoms, toreadors with bullswords, greynegroes 

waving torches. The crowd bawls of dicers, crown and anchor 

players, thimbleriggers, broadsmen. Crows and touts, hoarse 

bookies in high wizard hats clamour deafeningly.) 

THE CROWD: 

Card of the races. Racing card! 

Ten to one the field! 

Tommy on the clay here! Tommy on the 

clay! 

Ten to one bar one! Ten to one bar one! 

Try your luck on Spinning Jenny! 

Ten to one bar one! 

Sell the monkey, boys! Sell the monkey! 

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I’ll give ten to one! 

Ten to one bar one!  

(A dark horse, riderless, bolts like a phantom past the 

winningpost, his mane moonfoaming, his eyeballs stars. The field 

follows, a bunch of bucking mounts. Skeleton horses, Sceptre, 

Maximum the Second, Zinfandel, the Duke of Westminster’s 

Shotover, Repulse, the Duke of Beaufort’s Ceylon, prix de 

Paris. Dwarfs ride them, rustyarmoured, leaping, leaping in their, 

in their saddles. Last in a drizzle of rain on a brokenwinded 

isabelle nag, Cock of the North, the favourite, honey cap, green 

jacket, orange sleeves, Garrett Deasy up, gripping the reins, a 

hockeystick at the ready. His nag on spavined whitegaitered feet 

jogs along the rocky road.) 

THE ORANGE LODGES: (Jeering) Get down and 

push, mister. Last lap! You’ll be home the night! 

GARRETT DEASY: (Bolt upright, his nailscraped face 

plastered with postagestamps, brandishes his hockeystick, his blue 

eyes flashing in the prism of the chandelier as his mount lopes by 

at schooling gallop) 

Per vias rectas! 

(A yoke of buckets leopards all over him and his rearing nag a 

torrent of mutton broth with dancing coins of carrots, barley, 

onions, turnips, potatoes.) 

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THE GREEN LODGES: Soft day, sir John! Soft day, 

your honour! 

(Private Carr, Private Compton and Cissy Caffrey pass 

beneath the windows, singing in discord.) 

STEPHEN: Hark! Our friend noise in the street. 

ZOE: (Holds up her hand) Stop! 

PRIVATE CARR, PRIVATE COMPTON AND 

CISSY CAFFREY: 

Yet I’ve a sort a 

Yorkshire relish for ...  

ZOE: That’s me. (She claps her hands) Dance! Dance! 

(She runs to the pianola) Who has twopence? 

BLOOM: Who’ll ...? 

LYNCH: (Handing her coins) Here. 

STEPHEN:  (Cracking his fingers impatiently) Quick! 

Quick! Where’s my augur’s rod? (He runs to the piano and 

takes his ashplant, beating his foot in tripudium) 

ZOE: (Turns the drumhandle) There. 

(She drops two pennies in the slot. Gold, pink and violet 

lights start forth. The drum turns purring in low hesitation waltz. 

Professor Goodwin, in a bowknotted periwig, in court dress, 

wearing a stained inverness cape, bent in two from incredible age, 

totters across the room, his hands fluttering. He sits tinily on the 

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