feb 15, 2012
“Stephen raised the sheets in his hand.
—Well, sir, he began …
—I foresee, Mr Deasy said, that you will not remain
here very long at this work. You were not born to be a
teacher, I think. Perhaps I am wrong.
—A learner rather, Stephen said.
And here what will you learn more?
Mr Deasy shook his head.
—Who knows? he said. To learn one must be humble.
But life is the great teacher.
Stephen rustled the sheets again.
—As regards these, he began.
—Yes, Mr Deasy said. You have two copies there. If
you can have them published at once.
Telegraph. Irish Homestead.
—I will try, Stephen said, and let you know tomorrow.
I know two editors slightly.
—That will do, Mr Deasy said briskly. I wrote last
night to Mr Field, M.P. There is a meeting of the
cattletraders’ association today at the City Arms hotel. I
asked him to lay my letter before the meeting. You see if
you can get it into your two papers. What are they?
—The Evening Telegraph …
—That will do, Mr Deasy said. There is no time to
lose. Now I have to answer that letter from my cousin.
—Good morning, sir, Stephen said, putting the sheets
in his pocket. Thank you.
—Not at all, Mr Deasy said as he searched the papers
on his desk. I like to break a lance with you, old as I am.
—Good morning, sir, Stephen said again, bowing to
his bent back.
He went out by the open porch and down the gravel
path under the trees, hearing the cries of voices and crack
of sticks from the playfield. The lions couchant on the
pillars as he passed out through the gate: toothless terrors.
Still I will help him in his fight. Mulligan will dub me a
new name: the bullockbefriending bard.”
Stephen finally pries himself away from Mr. Deasy, and a recurring theme is introduced.