Ulysses Part 72

--And long John Fanning is here too, John Wyse Nolan said, as large as life.

The tall form of long John Fanning filled the doorway where he stood.

--Good day, Mr Subsheriff, Martin Cunningham said, as all halted and greeted.

Long John Fanning made no way for them. He removed his large Henry Clay decisively and his large fierce eyes scowled intelligently over all their faces.

--Are the conscript fathers pursuing their peaceful deliberations? he said with rich acrid utterance to the a.s.sistant town clerk.

h.e.l.l open to christians they were having, Jimmy Henry said pettishly, about their d.a.m.ned Irish language. Where was the marshal, he wanted to know, to keep order in the council chamber. And old Barlow the macebearer laid up with asthma, no mace on the table, nothing in order, no quorum even, and Hutchinson, the lord mayor, in Llandudno and little Lorcan Sherlock doing _loc.u.m tenens_ for him. d.a.m.ned Irish language, language of our forefathers.

Long John Fanning blew a plume of smoke from his lips.

Martin Cunningham spoke by turns, twirling the peak of his beard, to the a.s.sistant town clerk and the subsheriff, while John Wyse Nolan held his peace.

--What Dignam was that? long John Fanning asked.

Jimmy Henry made a grimace and lifted his left foot.

--O, my corns! he said plaintively. Come upstairs for goodness' sake till I sit down somewhere. Uff! Ooo! Mind!

Testily he made room for himself beside long John Fanning's flank and pa.s.sed in and up the stairs.

--Come on up, Martin Cunningham said to the subsheriff. I don't think you knew him or perhaps you did, though.

With John Wyse Nolan Mr Power followed them in.

--Decent little soul he was, Mr Power said to the stalwart back of long John Fanning ascending towards long John Fanning in the mirror.

--Rather lowsized. Dignam of Menton's office that was, Martin Cunningham said.

Long John Fanning could not remember him.

Clatter of horsehoofs sounded from the air.

--What's that? Martin Cunningham said.

All turned where they stood. John Wyse Nolan came down again. From the cool shadow of the doorway he saw the horses pa.s.s Parliament street, harness and glossy pasterns in sunlight s.h.i.+mmering. Gaily they went past before his cool unfriendly eyes, not quickly. In saddles of the leaders, leaping leaders, rode outriders.

--What was it? Martin Cunningham asked, as they went on up the staircase.

--The lord lieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland, John Wyse Nolan answered from the stairfoot.

As they trod across the thick carpet Buck Mulligan whispered behind his Panama to Haines:

--Parnell's brother. There in the corner.

They chose a small table near the window, opposite a longfaced man whose beard and gaze hung intently down on a chessboard.

--Is that he? Haines asked, twisting round in his seat.

--Yes, Mulligan said. That's John Howard, his brother, our city marshal.

John Howard Parnell translated a white bishop quietly and his grey claw went up again to his forehead whereat it rested. An instant after, under its screen, his eyes looked quickly, ghostbright, at his foe and fell once more upon a working corner.

--I'll take a _melange,_ Haines said to the waitress.

--Two _melanges,_ Buck Mulligan said. And bring us some scones and b.u.t.ter and some cakes as well.

When she had gone he said, laughing:

--We call it D.B.C. because they have d.a.m.n bad cakes. O, but you missed Dedalus on _Hamlet._

Haines opened his newbought book.

--I'm sorry, he said. Shakespeare is the happy huntingground of all minds that have lost their balance.

The onelegged sailor growled at the area of 14 Nelson street:

--_England expects_...

Buck Mulligan's primrose waistcoat shook gaily to his laughter.

--You should see him, he said, when his body loses its balance.

Wandering Aengus I call him.

--I am sure he has an _idee fixe,_ Haines said, pinching his chin thoughtfully with thumb and forefinger. Now I am speculating what it would be likely to be. Such persons always have.

Buck Mulligan bent across the table gravely.

--They drove his wits astray, he said, by visions of h.e.l.l. He will never capture the Attic note. The note of Swinburne, of all poets, the white death and the ruddy birth. That is his tragedy. He can never be a poet.

The joy of creation...

--Eternal punishment, Haines said, nodding curtly. I see. I tackled him this morning on belief. There was something on his mind, I saw.

It's rather interesting because professor Pokorny of Vienna makes an interesting point out of that.

Buck Mulligan's watchful eyes saw the waitress come. He helped her to unload her tray.

--He can find no trace of h.e.l.l in ancient Irish myth, Haines said, amid the cheerful cups. The moral idea seems lacking, the sense of destiny, of retribution. Rather strange he should have just that fixed idea. Does he write anything for your movement?

He sank two lumps of sugar deftly longwise through the whipped cream.

Buck Mulligan slit a steaming scone in two and plastered b.u.t.ter over its smoking pith. He bit off a soft piece hungrily.

--Ten years, he said, chewing and laughing. He is going to write something in ten years.

--Seems a long way off, Haines said, thoughtfully lifting his spoon.

Still, I shouldn't wonder if he did after all.