STEPHEN: Vidi aquam egredientem de templo a latere dextro. Lynch, his jockeycap low on his brow, attends him, a sneer of discontent wrinkling his face.) (Stephen, flourishing the ashplant in his left hand, chants with joy the introit for paschal time. PRIVATE CARR: (Turns and calls) What ho, parson!ĬISSY CAFFREY: (Her voice soaring higher) PRIVATE COMPTON: (Jerks his finger) Way for the parson. Stephen Dedalus and Lynch pass through the crowd close to the redcoats.) (Private Carr and Private Compton turn and counterretort, their tunics bloodbright in a lampglow, black sockets of caps on their blond cropped polls. More power the Cavan girl.ĬISSY CAFFREY: More luck to me. (Private Carr and Private Compton, swaggersticks tight in their oxters, as they march unsteadily rightaboutface and burst together from their mouths a volleyed fart. Cissy Caffrey's voice, still young, sings shrill from a lane.)
In a room lit by a candle stuck in a bottleneck a slut combs out the tatts from the hair of a scrofulous child. A plate crashes: a woman screams: a child wails. At a comer two night watch in shouldercapes, their hands upon their staffholsters, loom tall. A drunken navvy grips with both hands the railings of an area, lurching heavily.
A bandy child, asquat on the doorstep with a paper shuttlecock, crawls sidling after her in spurts, clutches her skirt, scrambles up. The crone makes back for her lair, swaying her lamp. He heaves his booty, tugs askew his peaked cap and hobbles off mutely. A crone standing by with a smoky oillamp rams her last bottle in the maw of his sack. On a step a gnome totting among a rubbishtip crouches to shoulder a sack of rags and bones. A form sprawled against a dustbin and muffled by its arm and hat snores, groans, grinding growling teeth, and snores again. A pigmy woman swings on a rope slung between two railings, counting. THE IDIOT: (Lifts a palsied left arm and gurgles) Grhahute! A chain of children 's hands imprisons him.)
(A deafmute idiot with goggle eyes, his shapeless mouth dribbling, jerks past, shaken in Saint Vitus' dance. THE CALLS: Wait, my love, and I'll be with you. The swancomb of the gondola, highreared, forges on through the murk, white and blue under a lighthouse. They grab wafers between which are wedged lumps of coral and copper snow. Round Rabaiotti's halted ice gondola stunted men and women squabble. The Mabbot street entrance of nighttown, before which stretches an uncobbled tramsiding set with skeleton tracks, red and green will-o'-the-wisps and danger signals. (in PDF, epub, and Kindle ebook formats) PART TWO.
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