No More Learning

Has Bloom himself been unfaithful here on Sandymount strand? Technically, no. But he has achieved a sexual conquest more satisfy- ing than any enacted on a strange bed-pleasure without regret or recriminations, no fear of pregnancy, no weeping, no going back, in detumescence, on tumescent promises. 'For this relief much thanks. ' (We can never get away from Hamlet. ) He has done better than Boylan today-an adoring letter and a sort of surrender, and both
from virgins. And this brief auto-erotic session is also an unpremedi- tated preparation for the taking up of his responsibilities later that night. He will follow Stephen to Nighttown, but, being spent of seed, he will not be tempted by female flesh: he will be stern with prostitutes, unseducible. Odysseus was saved from enchantment into a swine because he carried Mercury's gift, the flower moly. Bloom carries this flower in his trousers-'a languid floating flower', no rod to beat him to his knees, gibbering in beast's lust, in tbe house of Circe.
Bloom closes his eyes for a moment at the end of the chapter-
'just for a few'. The interior monologue swoops deeper than ever it
did in full daylight; it touches the borders of dreams and anticipates the sleep langnage of Finnegans Wake:
o sweety all your little girlwhite up I saw dirty bracegirdle made me do love sticky we two naughty Grace darling she him half past the bed met him pike hoses frillies for Raoul to perfume your wife black hair heave under embon senorita young eyes Mulvey plump years dreams return tail end Agendath swoony lovey showed me her next year in drawers return in her next her next.
One is persuaded that this is how the mind receives its images (little pictures all separate, no gluing of ideas together into logical state- ments) when it approaches sleep. Any reader presented with tbis passage unprepared would be baffled by it. If we have read UI)'Sses without skipping up to this point we shall recognise every single motif-Molly's version of 'metempsychosis" for instance, and the villain ofSweets o/Sin, Raoul, who is identified witb Boylan; Molly's first lover, Mulvey; the bit ofnewspaper (,Agendath Netaim') Bloom picked up in the butcher's that morning. Bloom's own recent sexual
'49
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~bandonand his briefsen~ualityon the street before breakfast, Mully III bed readmg her lover s letter, the phrase 'her heaving embon- point' from Sweets ofS,n-all are fused into a single emblem of desire and its fulfilment. It is a miracle of compression.
But the bats fly, sedng nothing, and Bloom will not come face to face with the fact of his cuckolding. It is left to the cuckoo-clock in the priest's house, where, evening service over, Canon O'Hanlon and Father Conroy and the Reverend John Hughes S. ]. are eating mutton chops with catsup, to proclaim to the world what Bloom now is-Cuckoo Cuckoo Cuckoo, and on to the stroke of nine. The night in which, cuckold or not, he shall beget a son and conquer all the suitors, is now beginning.
9: Bullockbefrienders
SHEER GOODNESS OF HEART,AND AKINDOFVICARIOUS MASOCHISM, send Bloom to the Lying-in Hospital in Holies Street at an hour when the pubs are gay and the theatres playing. Mrs Purefoy is trying to give birth and, as Mrs Breen told Bloom at lunchtime, having a hard time of it. Bloom knows her well and, with his capacity for imaginative penetration into the sufferings of women, is anxious to know how long it will be before she delivers. This is his motive for going to Sir Andrew Horne's house of labour and joy, but what comes out of the visit is the first fruitful meeting between himself and Stephen Dedalus. There have been two abortive con- tacts earlier in the day, but now Bloom and Stephen are to sit at the same table. Admittedly there will be the distraction of noisy company, tipsiness and ribaldry, for Stephen is carousing with the medical students in their common-room, but at last the rapproche- ment between body and soul, common sense and imagination is ready for parturition, and this chapter is an important one. Typically, Joyce refuses to let us have too clear a view of what is happening; he flashes an almost intolerable technical brilliance into our eyes, though this is not sheer wantonness. The Homeric correspondence must be kept up, an art or science celebrated, and a fresh literary technique attempted. This, though, is the most consciously virtuoso of all the episodes of Ulysses, and for some readers Joyce will seem to go too far.
Before, as a schoolboy, I smuggled my own copy of Ulysses into England, I was lent the Odyssey Press edition by my history master. This was in two volumes, and he gave me the second volume first. The second volume starts with this maternity hospital chapter, and I was thrown into the most difficult part of the whole book without preparation. But it seemed pretty clear what Joyce was trying to do. He begins with three ritual statements, each intoned three times. 'Deshil Holies Eamus'-let us go to Denzille and Holies Street.
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Bullockbefrienders
'Send us, bright one, light one, Harhorn, quickening and womb-
fruit. ' I took this to be an invocation to Hecate, goddess of the moon and patroness of women in childbirth, but I should have realised that the moon has nothing to do with the 'horhorn'-the phallic erection with which generation starts. The 'bright one' is the sun. The 'harhorn' (I could not know this till 1 had read the 'Sirens' chapter) goes back to Boylan, the musical-comedy presentation of his lust, but Sir Andrew Horne is in the picture too. Finally, we hear the joyful cries of the midwife when a son is born: 'Hoopsa, boyaboy, hoopsa! '-three times, of course. Then 1 plunged into the real
difficulties:
has its sexual meaning. As for the series of literary pastiches that
follow they have cunningly embedded in them references to the various stages of the development of the embryo-here comes the eye, here the jawbone and so on. The growth of the embryo is not uniform; some parts lag behind others. Joyce symbolises this in a deliberate harking back to an earlier stage of the language when, in terms of historical progress, there seems no justification for it. Thus, in the course of an Elizabethan pastiche a passage of Anglo-Saxon suddenly appears.
Complexities enough, but we still have the Homeric correspon- dences to deal with. We are given a clue as to what part of the Odyssey finds its parallel here at the very beginning-'Send us, bright one, light one, Horhorn . . . ' The 'bright one' is the ? sun, or rather the Sun-god, and 'Horhorn'-a duplicated form-refers to the two-horned oxen of the Sun-god. Odysseus and his men landed famished on the triangular island of Sicily, and-though they knew that this was a blasphemous act-the sailors slaughtered the holy oxen that were guarded there by the daughters of the god- Phaethusa and Lampetie, who find their correspondence in the two nurses of the Lying-in Hospital. All comes clear if we remember that the Oxen of the Sun stand for fertility, and that the medical students in Horne's house blaspheme against it, loudly expressing their belief in the separation ofsex from procreation- 'copulation without popula- tion'. Odysseus's men were struck down by the thunder of Zeus, and Stephen's companions are temporarily daunted by the thunder of the God of the Catholics.
References to triangles in this episode (the red triangle of the label of a bottle of Bass, for instance) keep the island of the Sun-god in our minds, and there are l. engthy references to bulls. We remem- ber that Stephen is a 'bullockbefriending bard', but, if"we have forgotten, somebody comes in with an evening paper in which Mr Deasy's letter about foot-and-mouth disease appears. Bloom is a 'bullockbefriender' in that he is on the side of fertility. He is, after all, a father, and his protective paternalism towards the drunken Stephen is given full scope for expression in the pastiches of prose of a more pious, God-and-fertility-centred, age. The following is in the style of Malory's Morte D'Arthur:
But sir Leopold was passing grave maugre his word by cause he still had pity ofthe terrorcausing shrieking ofshrill women in their. labour and as he was minded of his good lady Marion that had borne him an only manchild which on his eleventh day on live had died and no man of art
'53
Universally that person's acumen is esteemed very little perceptive con- cerning whatsoever matters are being held as most profitably by mortals with sapience endowed to be studied who is ignorant of that which the most in doctrine erudite and certainly by reason of that in them high mind's ornament deserving of veneration constantly maintain when by general consent they affirm that other circumstances being equal by no exterior splendour is the prosperity of a nation more efficaciously asserted than by the measure of how far forward may have progressed the tribute of its solicitude for that proliferent continuance which of evils the original if it be absent when fortunately present constitutes the certain sign of omnipollent nature's incorrupted benefaction.
Gibberish? Possibly, but Latin gibberish-an attemptto turn English into a limping, lumpish travesty of Latin. Why? The answer came after three ghastly paragraphs in this style, Bloom to the rescue:
Some man that wayfaring was stood by housedoor at night's oncoming. Of Israel's folk was that man that on earth wandering far had fared. Stark ruth of man his errand that him lone led till that house.
No Latin here-indeed, nothing but Anglo-Saxon. Joyce's purpose became clear. The Latin stood for the feminine element-here shapeless and unfertilised-in the English language; the Anglo- Saxon represented the masculine. One would have to fertilise the other before English as we know it could come to birth. From then on the technique explained itself: a sort of history of English prose from Anglo-Saxon to the present day seemed to indicate growth- surely, the growth of the embryo in the womb? Then the language of the future could be born-a hybrid giant.
When 1 eventually read Stuart Gilbert's commentary on Ulysses I discovered that 1 had not gone far enough. Now 1 know that it is Bloom himself who stands for the fertilising principle: he enters, phallus-like, the house of all-woman; even the taking off of his hat
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Bullockbefrienders
When Joyce reaches the age of romanticism he becomes more ambi-
tious, making a rich De Qyincey vision out of a word that Bloom has half-heartedly puzzled ahout all day ('Parallax stalks behind and ~oads them . . . '), that butcher's-shop slip of newspaper ('Agendath IS a waste land, a home of screechowls and the sandblind upupa'), Bloom's pen-friend, daughter, and wife ('And 10, wonder of metem- psychosis, it is she, the everlasting bride . . . Martha, thou lost one'- a reference to 'M'appari', sung that afternoon by Simon Dedalus- 'Millicent, the young, the dear, the radiant'). At the same time Joyce keeps his eye on the fertility theme in its Homeric aspect- 'Alpha, a ruby and trjangled sign upon the forehead of Taurus' (there is your Bass labell-and does not forget the 'moving moaning multitude, murderers of the sun'. It is a brilliant performance.
But the mere fact that Joyce has to find static material for his literary pastiches (ideas, images, motifs) in order to fill up the nine months of gestation and nine hundred years of linguistic history makes us doubtful about the validity of his technique. He seems to be forgetting about Bloom and Stephen; they have been subordinated to a mere display of ingenuity-that at least is what we are inclined to object. On the other hand, it is right that we see them both under as many social and mythical aspects as possible, and this Can only be done by a kind of metempsychosis-Stephen and Bloom through the ages, wearing a whole museum of dress, using the whole of English speech as a sort of Oxtail Book of English Prose might present it, becoming the heroes of every major English writer from King
Alfred to Carlyle. And yet the ghosts of these writers-as conjured
in that drunken common-roam-are not concerned at all with these
heroes, only with the orts and oifal of their thoughts and speech. The
dress remains fancy dress, the whole thing is a pageant-charade.
Joyce has to go to his bulls-tauric, papal, Irish-for the Swiftian climax of the chapter, and to concoct masterly dishes of mere kitchen scraps for the rest. When, at last, Mrs Purefoy's child is born (naturally, we have been bludgeoned by sheer technique into for- getting all about this) Bloom makes an important decision which it is all too easy to miss in the general flurry:
By heaven, Theodore Purefoy, thou hast done a doughty deed and no? botch! Thou art, I vow, the remarkablest progenitor barring none in this chaffering aUincluding most farraginous chronicle. Astounding! In her lay a Godframed Godgiven preformed possibility which thou hast fructified with thy modicum of man's work. Cleave to her! Serve! Toil on, labour like a very bandog and let scholarship and all Malthusiasts go hang. Thou art all their daddies, Theodore.
155
could save so dark is destiny. And she was wondrous stricken of heart for that evil hap and for his burial did him on a fair corselet of lamb's wool, the flower of the flock, lest he might perish utterly and lie akeled (for it was then about the midst of the winter) and now sir Leopold that had of his body no manchild for an heir looked upon him his friend's son and was shut up in 'sorrow for his forepassed happiness and as sad as he was that him failed a son of such gentle courage (for all accounted him of real parts) so grieved he also in no less measure for young Stephen for that he lived riotously with those wastrels and murdered his goods with whores.
Stephen himself, with Thomistic logic, insists on the right true end of sex:
Gramercy, what ofthose Godpossibled souls that we nightly impossibilise. which is the sin against the Holy Ghost, Very God, Lord and Giver of Life? For, sirs, he said, our lust is brief. We are means to those small creatures within us and nature has other ends than we.
Bloom and Stephen, however, are alone in according reverence to
the sacred oxen.
This chapter has a function over and above stylistic display, symbolism, the slow pushing-on with the story. Joyce has amassed a great deal of material which has not been developed, and the time has come to use it. He is concerned here primarily with shapes, forms, styles of writing, but form cannot exist without content. The content, then, may as well come from the odds and ends, the slogans, songs, small obsessions of the day. Thus, when-in this historical survey of English prose-it becomes necessary to imitate the style of the Authorised Version of the Bible, the subject-matter is drawn from those early musings of Stephen on the beach, the wild geese, exiled artists and patriots whom Ireland has forgotten:
Look forth now, my people, upon the land of behest, even from Horeb and from Nebo and from Pisgah, and from the Horns of Hatten unto a land flowing with milk and honey. But thou has suckled me with a bitter milk: my moon and sun thou hast quenched for ever. And thou hast left me alone for ever in the dark ways of my bitterness: and with a kiss of ashes hast thou kissed my mouth.
Stephen's thoughts of the tied-up navel-strings of the world leading back to the ultimate telephone exchange find a reference in a pastiche of Sir Thomas Browne:
And as no man knows the ubicity of his tumulus nor to what processes we shall thereby be ushered nor whether to Tophet or to Edenville in the like way is all hidden when we would backward see from what region of remoteness the whatness of our whoness hath fetched his whenceness.
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The point about fertili~is well taken, but Bloom is more important t~an Mr Purefoy: he IS supposed to be all their daddies. With ddliculty, in a blaze ofslang, neologisms, foreign loan-words, pidgin (the language of the future I), we follow Stephen and his fellow- drunks to Burke's. pub, and we follow Bloom solicitously following after. Then we thmk we hear Stephen's voice:
Lynch! Hey? Sign on long o. me. ,Denzille lan~ this way. Change here for Bawdyhouse. We two, she saId, WIll seek the kips where shady Mary is.
We have to seek those kips ourselves before we can COme into the cle~r light of sanity, and even then it is a drunken phantasmagoric samty, the only kind available in Nighttown. It seems strange that we should have to go to the next chapter to find out what has hap- pened in this.
And. yet, of all the episodes of Ulysses, this is the one I should most lIke to have written, and there are many authors who would aip'ee with me. It is an author's chapter, a dazzliug and authoritative dlspla~of w~at. Englis~ can do. Moreover, it is a fulfilment of every author s egonsncal deSIre not merely to add to English literature but to enclo;e what IS already there. Literary history is a line; Joyce wants to s~e l~ a. s a series. of concentric circles, himself the outer ring. Agam, It IS heartenmg to be reminded that literary creation-iu w~atever century-is an act of homage to the oxen of fertility, that writers are the remarkablest progenitors of them all. But it is a pity that Stephen and Bloom have to get lost in the process of glorifying an art that is supposed to be their servant.
10: Men into Swine
THAT 'OXEN OF THE SUN' CHAPTER CELEBRATED FERTILITY, THE
womb, the sober art of medicine. Now everything turns bad. Instead of a maternity hospital, a brothel; instead of mothers, whores. The locomotor apparatus-which syphilis can ruin with tabes dorsalis-and the wayward and dangerous art of magic rule in the land of Circe. In the last chapter rain fell on the earth; now all is mist, twisting the real into the fantastic. It is Mr Bloom's strangest territ? ry and not one he would himself choose. But, we learn, he feels It a fatherly duty to follow out Stephen's night to its crapulous end. Stephen and Lynch-the peripatetic audience of theorising Stephen in A Portrait-have come to Mabbot Street by train from Westland Row;. all other friends-especially Mulligan and Haines, who cadged drmks to the end- have deserted the drunken poet. Drunken poets do well in brothel districts, but Bloom fears disaster for the son he wants to adopt. He is well able to look after him, as well as himself. He has drunk little in Burke's. He carries the flower moly to protect him from sensual enchantment-his recent ejacula- tIOn on the beach, the spiritual presence of his wife (her name is very nearly 'Moly'). The potato he carries in his pocket, a homely talisman for warding off rheumatism, will serve as the outward sigu of these inward graces: it is not romantic, it is something that, with its aura of home and normality, may well ward off a whore's ad- vances. Bloom also has his soap, faithful back-pocket companion of the day's wanderings. To weigh down his pockets further, he buys himself a pig's trotter and a sheep's foot. These are also protective talismans, but they are drawn into the huge animal symbolism of Circe's island. Gree turned Odysseus's companions into swine. Here there is more a zoo than a farm-every form of beast, especially the lowlier forms, will swal10w a man's soul. When man remains man he becomes twisted, stunted, drooling. Only Bloom remains the paragon of animals, Odysseus the untouched of any debasing wand.
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l\1en into Swine
This chapter is the longest in the book- 142 pages in the 1960 Bodley Head edition. Structurally, it is the most important. We have seen, in the previous episode, how strongly Joyce is feeling the urgency of developing his themes. Among the oxen these themes have been treated within a series of formal frameworks which sug- gests a gigantic musical suite. Imagine an opera of Wagnerian dimensions. Two acts have gone by and innumerable musical themes -though some, perhaps, only half a bar long-have been presented. The third act calls for a survey of musical forms from plainchant to post-Webem serialism. The composer would be a fool ifhe invented new themes, knowing that his audience would not yet have dige~ted the existing ones. And so these latter must appear in new gUlses,
combined in new relationships. Supposing now another act. has to follow. The audience can take neither fresh themes nor formal ingenuity. All it will be able to take is a free fantasy, again based on existing themes. This is pretty well the position at this phase of Ulysses. .
Perhaps sonata-form is a better analogy than opera. In the expos. ,-
tion section o f a movement in sonata-form there are usually two mam
contrasting subjects around which cluster groups of subsidiary themes. In Ulysses we have had the equivalent of these in Bloom and Stephen, each with his many satellites of characteristic preoccupa- tions. The exposition will not make sense until it has been followed by a development section in which the subjects combine, lend each other their subsidiary motifs, swirl about each other in an area of dreamlike fantasy, bump into each other drunkenly, melt into each other on the discovery of previously unguessed affinities. Mter that- in the recapitulation section-they can appear soberly and singly, properly dressed and tidied up, but they cannot be as they were before, in the exposition. They have learned stra? ge thmgs about each other and about themselves, they have had a mght out together.
That region of dreams has influenced reality.
The technique of this 'Circe' chapter is concerned les~ with dream than with hallucination. The characters are presented dIrectly to us, in dramatic form, and they meet their fantasies directly. Bloom becomes Lord Mayor of Dublin, gives birth to a number of sons, sees the building of the New Bloomusalem, turns into Ruby, Pride of the Ring, witnesses the end of the world. If he is really seeing these fantasies he is either drunk or drugged. But he is not; he is fully sober. He is exhausted, yes, but not exhausted enough to conjure such visions. The hallucinations, then, are coming from without, are
158
summoned by the author's own magic. Such magic is capable of making an apparition of Stephen's dead mother use a locutIOn from Martha Clifford's letter to Bloom, and Bloom and Stephen see, in a mirror, the same cuckolded travesty of Shakespeare burbling a line of Goldsmith. If the phantasmagorias are subjective, then Bloom and Stephen are the same person. It is easier to conclude that this is a genuine free fantasy in the manner of a sonata's development section, that the rapprochement between Stephen and Bloom is something that is made, through magic, to happen extraneously, and that this huge dramatic exercise is not dramatic at all.
Only one real, as opposed to hallucinatoty, event is of any si~ifi- cance. This is the striking down of Stephen by a couple of Bntish soldiers at the end of the section. All flee except Bloom, who then assumes responsibility for him. This could have happened as easily outside Burke's in the previous chapter and Joyce, in the interests of fictional economy, could have saved himself a great deal of work. But it is dangerous now to think in such terms. Havmg come so far with Bloom (and this is Bloom's chapter more than Stephen's), we must go all the way, uncover every conceivable fantasy of which Bloom is capable and see him-like Bottom-in a sort of grisly faity- land. No critic, to my knowledge, has yet invoked A Midsummer Night's Dream as a classical source-the uncommon common man set upon by magic. The usual comparison is with the Walpurgisnacht
scene in Goethe's Faust and Flaubert's Tentation. But Shakespeare is, first as last, the true patron of Ulysses.
Shakespeare's fairies . have comic-fantastic names. Joyc~'s th. ree whores sum up the whole physical world: Zoe stands for ammal hfe, Florry for vegetable life, and Kitty for the mineral kingdom. The presiding sorceress, Circe herself, is Bella Cohen, the brothel- madam, who, in the most masochistic part of ~he ~loom fantasy, becomes a man and changes her name to Bello. These characters, like the brutal British soldiers, are real enough, but they inhabit the same world as the many dead, fictional, and actual-though-absent persons who flutter or gibber in then off again, and they are subj1ect to the same laws. or lackof them. The vision that merely touched the fringes of Gabriel Conroy's consciousness in 'The Dead' is here not just palpable but larger than life: there is only one world, and it
belongs equally to living and dead, to animal, vegetable, mineral and,
for that matter, abstract.
The two soldiers, Privates Compton and Carr (their names taken from personal enemies ofJoyce in Zurich) appear very early, making
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Men into Swine
'a volleyed fart' burst from their mouths and calling 'What ho, parsonl' when they see black-garbed Stephen. In swirling fog, the companions of Gerty MacDowell, together with the sandcastle- building twins Tommy and Jacky Caffrey, are seen, debased, animal- ised. Then Bloom makes his entrance, his interior monologue now an audible soliloquy. His father and mother speak to him, Rudolph Virag a comic stage Jew ('They make you kaput, Leopoldleben. You watch them chaps') and Ellen Bloom a pantomime dame. They are hallucinations from the author's brain, not his hero's, but there is nothing vague or shadowy about them. The physical appearance of all the apparitions is most carefully described and their dress
detailed scrupulously. Poor suicidal Virag is described as follows: 'A stooped bearded figure appears garbed in the long caftan of an elder in Zion and a smoking cap with magenta tassels. Horned spectacles hang down at the wings of the nose. Yellow poison streaks are on the drawn face. ' Ellen Bloom wears a 'stringed . mobcap, crinoline and bustle, widow Twankey's blouse with muttonleg sleeves buttoned behind, grey mittens and cameo brooch, her hair plaited in a crispine net'. Under her 'reef of skirt' there is a 'striped blay petticoat' from which fall out 'a phial, an Agnus Dei,. shrivelled potato and a celluloid doll'.
Of course, this detail is characteristic of a certain kind of drugged vision, but Joyce's concern is with the symbolism of clothes in the context of magic. Clothes are what we. usually see of a person, but they are so easily changed. They are a kind of secondary body. Magic can change the external form of a creature (Circe turns men into swine) but cannot affect the deeper, God-willed, process of metem- psychosis. Bloom is perpetually changing his secondary body-his changes of costume are uncountable- but he remains the same Bloom. Here, encountering his father and mother, he appears in youth's clothes, mud-caked with racing with the harriers: '. . . smart blue Oxford suit with white vestslips, narrowshouldered, in brown Alpine hat, wearing gent's sterling silver waterbury keyless watch and double curb Albert with seal attached, one side of him coated with stiffening mud. '
As for the transformation-inta-beasts motif, this is hinted at in
animal imagery (Molly Bloom appears in Oriental dress, with camel,
'plump as a pampered pouter pigeon'; a whore, squeaking, 'flaps her
bat shawl and runs') and also more boldly expressed in terms of actual enchantment. Thus dead Paddy Dignam appears as a beagle with dachshund coat, worming his way down a coalhole; Tom Roch-
160
ford, 'robinredbreasted', executes a 'daredevil salmon leap in the air'. The human locomotor apparatus itself is enchanted.
Bloom's bestial imaginings are brought into open court-society women give hair-raising evidence and promise dire punishments: 'Thrash the mongrel within an inch of his life. That cat-o'-nine-tails. Geld him. Vivisect him. ' Bloom's masochism shows in joyous tremu- lous nakedness while a newsboy goes by: 'Messenger ofthe Sacred Heart and Evening Telegraph with Saint Patrick's Day Supplement. Containing the new addresses of all the cuckolds in Dublin. ' But Bloom is not disqualified from being crowned Leopold the First, 'His Most Catholic Majesty'. The mob turns against him, as it turned against Parnell, and, despite his miracles (including giving birth to 'eight male yellow and white children', each with 'his name printed in legible letters on his shirtfront: Nasodoro, Goldfinger, Chrysostomos, Maindoree, Silversmile, Silberselber, Vifargent, Panargyros'), he is burnt alive by the Dublin Fire Brigade. And, while all this, and more, is going on, he is being taken by Zoe to Bella Cohen's brothel.
Stephen and Lynch are ! here, as well as Zoe's 'two sister whores'.
Florry has, appropriately,' a stye on her eyelid, and Stephen tells us
where we are, tipsily erudite about 'priests haihooping round David's
that is Circe's or what am I saying Ceres' altar'. The perversion of the Christian rite in an eventual Black Mass is prefigured here. There are fresh apparitions, including an astonishing one o f Bloom's grandfather-a sort of f1y;ng weasel that comes down the chimney- before Bella Cohen, massive whoremistress, enters. Almost at once she turns into Bello, all aromatic he-man, and Bloom becomes a shuddering female. But, female or not, he is still taunted for his lack of manhood:
BELLO: . . . Can you do a man's job?
BLOOM: Eccles street . . .
BELLO: (Sarcastically) I wouldn't hurt your feelings for the world but
there's a man of brawn in possession there. The tables are turned, my gay young fellow! He is something like a fullgrown outdoor man. Well for you, you muff, if you had that weapon with knobs and lumps and warts allover it. He shot his bolt, I can tell you 1Foot to foot, knee to knee, belly to belly, bubs to breast! He's no eunuch.
Bloom's humiliation knows no limits, but it is a humiliation he secretly-here,ofcourse,notatallsecretly-desires. Soonthepractical man reasserts himself, shakes off the hallucinations, and stops
Stephen from giving all his money to the whores. But the masochist ,6,
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Men into Swine
cannot hide for long. Bloom, dressed as a flunkey, an antlered hatstand on his head, acquiesces in his cuckolding, watching Boylan and Molly in the act, urging them on to the laughter of the whores and the ecstasy of the two Sirens from the Ormond. And then:
(Stephen and Bloom gaze in the mirror. The face of William Shakespeare, beardless, appears there, rigid in facial paralysis, crowned by the reflection o/the reindeer antlered hatrack in the hall. )
SHAKESPEARE: (In dignified ventriloquy) 'Tis the loud laugh bespeaks the
vacant mind. (To Bloom) Thou thoughtest as how thou wastest invisible. Gaze. (He crow, with a black capon', laugh) ! agogo! How my Oldfellow chokit his Thursdaymomun. Iagogogo!
That vision is not possible, apparently, to either Stephen or Bloom alone-only to both together.
Stephen 'gabbles, with marionette jerks', a broken English pros-
pectus of the delights of Paris night-life: '. . . Enter gentlemen to see in mirrors every positions trapezes all that machine there besides also if desire act awfully bestial butcher's boy pollutes in warm veal liver or omelette on the belly piece de Shakespeare. ' All Stephen's dignity is gone, the intellectual imagination has been replaced by a grotesque leer. Both he and Bloom have sunk to the bottom. What is needed now is the horrid consummation o f everything in a Dance of Death. The pianola plays 'My Girl's a Yorkshire Girl' and living creatures whirl with dead, the dance ending in the sudden shocking rising from the grave of Stephen's mother 'in leper grey with a wreath of faded orange blossoms and a torn bridal veil, her face worn and noseless, green with grave mould . . . She fixes her bluecircled hol- low eyesockets on Stephen and opens her toothless mouth uttering a silent word . . . ' A choir of virgins and confessors sings without voice, while Buck Mulligan, in jester's dress on top of a tower, weeps molten butter into a split scone. Grotesquely terrible though it is, this hallucination loses something by coming after so many others: our capacity for being harrowed is somewhat blunted by this time. But Stephen's mother, after using words associated with Bloom- 'More women than men in the world' and 'I pray for you in "my other world' -identifies herself with the suffering Christ and, crying 'Beware! God's hand1', makes a 'green crab with malignant red eyes' stick its claws in Stephen's heart. Stephen shrieks his non serviam, turns himself into Siegfried so that his ashplant becomes the
sword Nothung, and smashes the chandelier of the brothel parlour. In trying to kill the butcher God, Stephen destroys both time and space-the nightmare of history and the noise in the street
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(back to the 'Nestor' chapter) shatter in glass and toppling masonry. Stephen dashes into the street to meet a fresh mixture ofactuality and fantasy, Bloom following swiftly after. The noise which is God is not there, but the British State, in the shape of Privates Carr and Compton, is waiting. The soldiers are ttuculent, accusing Stephen of insulting their girl-friend (who happens to be also Gerty Mac-
Dowell's). Stephen, like Bloom, preaches pacifism, despite the voices that cry revenge for Ireland's wrongs. The milkwoman. of the first chapter of the book appears as 'Old Gummy Granny', but Stephen recognises 'the old sow that eats her farrow'. Edward the Seventh preaches peace more grotesquely and insincerely than Stephen, an entente cordiale bucket labelled 'Defense d'uriner' in his hand, masonic
. robes over a white jersey stitched with an image of the Sacred Heart. The Citizen confronts Major Tweedy, Molly Bloom's father; the dead of Dublin rise; witches ride the air; Armageddon is sanctified with a Black Mass. Then language cracks into violent obscenity:
PRIVATE CARR: (With firocious articulation) I'll do him in, so help me fucking Christ! I'll wring the bastard fucker's bleeding blasted fucking windpipe!
Bloom the appeaser, the man of good will and calm sense, fails to stop Carr from hitting Stephen in the face. Stephen lies stunned, the crowd clears on the coming of the police, and Bloom assumes responsibility for the dead-out poet. It is the big moment of the book.
Stephen, more drunk than hurt, murmurs words of the song he sang for his dying mother-'Who . . . drive . . . Fergns now. And pierce . . . wood's woven shade? . . . ' Bloom does not understand: 'Fergnson, I think I caught. A girl. Some girl. ' Then he too murmurs words of magical import: '. . . swear that I will always hail, ever conceal, never reveal, any part or parts, art or arts . . . in the rough sands of the sea . . . a cabletow's length from the shore . . . where the tide ebbs . . . and flows . . . ' The imposed magic ofthe sorceress has dissolved. The stumbling and capering and gibbering of men turned to animals is no more; there is a great nocturnal stillness.
Stephen and Bloom must, if they want magic, now make their own. Stephen is a poet, his art is magical. Bloom is a mason, member of an honourable and secret craft. He stands gnarding Stephen, 'his fingers at his lips in the attitude of secret master'. At once, as by the conjuration of a white and wholesome sorcery, the final vision of the night takes shape. It is of Rudy, Bloom's dead son as he might have . 163
? ? ? ? ? The Labyrinth
been had he reached eleven years (he would have been just that now), not eleven days. Bloom, wonderstruck, calls his name inaudibly. But Rudy is a fairy boy, 'a changeling, kidnapped'; he reads Hebrew, kissing the page, smiling, unseeing. The forces of life waited on Stephen's dead mother; the trappings ofdeath have been transmuted here to the fanciful dress ofresurrection- the glass and bronze ofthe little coffin have become 'glass shoes and a little bronze helmet'; the white coverlet oflamb's wool that Molly made to keep her son warm in his coffin has turned to a 'white lambkin' peeping out of his waistcoat pocket; the dead delicate mauve face is a live delicate mauve face. In his Eton suit, drawn from his impossibled future, Rudy hovers above recumbent Stephen. Only the hardest-hearted
of readers will withhold his tears.
II: Home is the Sailor
'CIRCE' ENDS THE ODYSSEY PROPER; NOW WE MUST HAVE THE Nostos, the going home. In a sense, this is less a return than a fresh start, since Bloom will be going home with Stephen and three lives will now be modified for ever. We see now another reason for the massive musical development of themes in the hallucinations of the brothel district: Joyce wanted to 'work them out' in both senses of the term-purge them by magicalising them. The extent to which he has done this is best seen, or heard, in the bit of surrealism which represents the pianola-version of 'My Girl's a Yorkshire Girl' (Stephen's 'Dance of death'). Let us look back a little.
In the 'Wandering Rocks' episode Dilly Dedalus, Stephen's sister, sees and hears 'the lacquey by the door of Dillon's auction-rooms' shake his handbell : 'Bar. ng! ' then 'Bang! ' then, after a feeble shaking in response to Mr Dedalus's curse, a loud bang again. In the same episode a one-legged sailor swings his way to Eccles Street, singing, receiving an alms from Molly Bloom.