Yet I’ve a sort of 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 pianostool and lifts
and beats handless sticks of arms on the keyboard, nodding with
damsel’s grace, his bowknot bobbing.)_
ZOE: _(Twirls round herself, heeltapping.)_ Dance. Anybody here for
there? Who’ll dance? Clear the table.
_(The pianola with changing lights plays in waltz time the prelude of_
My Girl’s a Yorkshire Girl. _Stephen throws his ashplant on the table
and seizes Zoe round the waist. Florry and Bella push the table towards
the fireplace. Stephen, arming Zoe with exaggerated grace, begins to
waltz her round the room. Bloom stands aside. Her sleeve falling from
gracing arms, reveals a white fleshflower of vaccination. Between the
curtains Professor Maginni inserts a leg on the toepoint of which spins
a silk hat. With a deft kick he sends it spinning to his crown and
jauntyhatted skates in. He wears a slate frockcoat with claret silk
lapels, a gorget of cream tulle, a green lowcut waistcoat, stock collar
with white kerchief, tight lavender trousers, patent pumps and canary
gloves. In his buttonhole is an immense dahlia. He twirls in reversed
directions a clouded cane, then wedges it tight in his oxter. He places
a hand lightly on his breastbone, bows, and fondles his flower and
buttons.)_
MAGINNI: The poetry of motion, art of calisthenics. No connection with
Madam Legget Byrne’s or Levenston’s. Fancy dress balls arranged.
Deportment. The Katty Lanner step. So. Watch me! My terpsichorean
abilities. _(He minuets forward three paces on tripping bee’s feet.)
Tout le monde en avant! Révérence! Tout le monde en place!_
_(The prelude ceases. Professor Goodwin, beating vague arms shrivels,
sinks, his live cape falling about the stool. The air in firmer waltz
time sounds. Stephen and Zoe circle freely. The lights change, glow,
fade gold rosy violet.)_