Horhot ho hray hor hother’s hest.
_(He gives up the ghost. A violent erection of the hanged sends gouts
of sperm spouting through his deathclothes on to the cobblestones. Mrs
Bellingham, Mrs Yelverton Barry and the Honourable Mrs Mervyn Talboys
rush forward with their handkerchiefs to sop it up.)_
RUMBOLD: I’m near it myself. _(He undoes the noose.)_ Rope which hanged
the awful rebel. Ten shillings a time. As applied to Her Royal
Highness. _(He plunges his head into the gaping belly of the hanged and
draws out his head again clotted with coiled and smoking entrails.)_ My
painful duty has now been done. God save the king!
EDWARD THE SEVENTH: _(Dances slowly, solemnly, rattling his bucket, and
sings with soft contentment.)_
On coronation day, on coronation day,
O, won’t we have a merry time,
Drinking whisky, beer and wine!
PRIVATE CARR: Here. What are you saying about my king?
STEPHEN: _(Throws up his hands.)_ O, this is too monotonous! Nothing.
He wants my money and my life, though want must be his master, for some
brutish empire of his. Money I haven’t. _(He searches his pockets
vaguely.)_ Gave it to someone.
PRIVATE CARR: Who wants your bleeding money?
STEPHEN: _(Tries to move off.)_ Will someone tell me where I am least
likely to meet these necessary evils? _Ça se voit aussi à Paris._ Not
that I... But, by Saint Patrick...!
_(The women’s heads coalesce. Old Gummy Granny in sugarloaf hat appears
seated on a toadstool, the deathflower of the potato blight on her
breast.)_
STEPHEN: Aha! I know you, gammer! Hamlet, revenge! The old sow that
eats her farrow!
OLD GUMMY GRANNY: _(Rocking to and fro.)_ Ireland’s sweetheart, the
king of Spain’s daughter, alanna. Strangers in my house, bad manners to
them! _(She keens with banshee woe.)_ Ochone! Ochone! Silk of the kine!
_(She wails.)_ You met with poor old Ireland and how does she stand?
STEPHEN: How do I stand you? The hat trick! Where’s the third person of
the Blessed Trinity? Soggarth Aroon? The reverend Carrion Crow.
CISSY CAFFREY: _(Shrill.)_ Stop them from fighting!
A ROUGH: Our men retreated.
PRIVATE CARR: _(Tugging at his belt.)_ I’ll wring the neck of any
fucker says a word against my fucking king.
BLOOM: _(Terrified.)_ He said nothing. Not a word. A pure
misunderstanding.