Chapter. II

—You, Cochrane, what city sent for him?rnrn—Tarentum, sir.rnrn—Very good. Well?rnrn—There was a battle, sir.rnrn—Very good. Where?rnrnThe boy’s blank face asked the blank window.rnrnFabled by the daughters of memory. And yet it was in some way if not asrnmemory fabled it. A phrase, then, of impatience, thud of Blake’s wingsrnof excess. I hear the ruin of all space, shattered glass and topplingrnmasonry, and time one livid final flame. What’s left us then?rnrn—I forget the place, sir. 279 B. C.rnrn—Asculum, Stephen said, glancing at the name and date in therngorescarred book.rnrn—Yes, sir. And he said: _Another victory like that and we are donernfor._rnrnThat phrase the world had remembered. A dull ease of the mind. From arnhill above a corpsestrewn plain a general speaking to his officers,rnleaned upon his spear. Any general to any officers. They lend ear.rnrn—You, Armstrong, Stephen said. What was the end of Pyrrhus?rnrn—End of Pyrrhus, sir?rnrn—I know, sir. Ask me, sir, Comyn said.rnrn—Wait. You, Armstrong. Do you know anything about Pyrrhus?rnrnA bag of figrolls lay snugly in Armstrong’s satchel. He curled themrnbetween his palms at whiles and swallowed them softly. Crumbs adheredrnto the tissue of his lips. A sweetened boy’s breath. Welloff people,rnproud that their eldest son was in the navy. Vico Road, Dalkey.rnrn—Pyrrhus, sir? Pyrrhus, a pier.rnrnAll laughed. Mirthless high malicious laughter. Armstrong looked roundrnat his classmates, silly glee in profile. In a moment they will laughrnmore loudly, aware of my lack of rule and of the fees their papas pay.rnrn—Tell me now, Stephen said, poking the boy’s shoulder with the book,rnwhat is a pier.rnrn—A pier, sir, Armstrong said. A thing out in the water. A kind of arnbridge. Kingstown pier, sir.rnrnSome laughed again: mirthless but with meaning. Two in the back benchrnwhispered. Yes. They knew: had never learned nor ever been innocent.rnAll. With envy he watched their faces: Edith, Ethel, Gerty, Lily. Theirrnlikes: their breaths, too, sweetened with tea and jam, their braceletsrntittering in the struggle.rnrn—Kingstown pier, Stephen said. Yes, a disappointed bridge.rnrnThe words troubled their gaze.rnrn—How, sir? Comyn asked. A bridge is across a river.rnrnFor Haines’s chapbook. No-one here to hear. Tonight deftly amid wildrndrink and talk, to pierce the polished mail of his mind. What then? Arnjester at the court of his master, indulged and disesteemed, winning arnclement master’s praise. Why had they chosen all that part? Not whollyrnfor the smooth caress. For them too history was a tale like any otherrntoo often heard, their land a pawnshop.rnrnHad Pyrrhus not fallen by a beldam’s hand in Argos or Julius Caesar notrnbeen knifed to death. They are not to be thought away. Time has brandedrnthem and fettered they are lodged in the room of the infiniternpossibilities they have ousted. But can those have been possible seeingrnthat they never were? Or was that only possible which came to pass?rnWeave, weaver of the wind.rnrn—Tell us a story, sir.rnrn—O, do, sir. A ghoststory.rnrn—Where do you begin in this? Stephen asked, opening another book.rnrn—_Weep no more,_ Comyn said.rnrn—Go on then, Talbot.rnrn—And the story, sir?rnrn—After, Stephen said. Go on, Talbot.rnrnA swarthy boy opened a book and propped it nimbly under the breastworkrnof his satchel. He recited jerks of verse with odd glances at the text:rnrn_—Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no morernFor Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,rnSunk though he be beneath the watery floor..._rnrnIt must be a movement then, an actuality of the possible as possible.rnAristotle’s phrase formed itself within the gabbled verses and floatedrnout into the studious silence of the library of Saint Genevieve wherernhe had read, sheltered from the sin of Paris, night by night. By hisrnelbow a delicate Siamese conned a handbook of strategy. Fed and feedingrnbrains about me: under glowlamps, impaled, with faintly beatingrnfeelers: and in my mind’s darkness a sloth of the underworld,rnreluctant, shy of brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds. Thoughtrnis the thought of thought. Tranquil brightness. The soul is in a mannerrnall that is: the soul is the form of forms. Tranquility sudden, vast,rncandescent: form of forms.rnrnTalbot repeated:rnrn_—Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,rnrnThrough the dear might..._rnrn—Turn over, Stephen said quietly. I don’t see anything.rnrn—What, sir? Talbot asked simply, bending forward.rnrnHis hand turned the page over. He leaned back and went on again, havingrnjust remembered. Of him that walked the waves. Here also over theserncraven hearts his shadow lies and on the scoffer’s heart and lips andrnon mine. It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a coin of therntribute. To Caesar what is Caesar’s, to God what is God’s. A long lookrnfrom dark eyes, a riddling sentence to be woven and woven on thernchurch’s looms. Ay.rnrn     Riddle me, riddle me, randy ro.     My father gave me seeds to sow.rnrnTalbot slid his closed book into his satchel.rnrn—Have I heard all? Stephen asked.rnrn—Yes, sir. Hockey at ten, sir.rnrn—Half day, sir. Thursday.rnrn—Who can answer a riddle? Stephen asked.rnrnThey bundled their books away, pencils clacking, pages rustling.rnCrowding together they strapped and buckled their satchels, allrngabbling gaily:rnrn—A riddle, sir? Ask me, sir.rnrn—O, ask me, sir.rnrn—A hard one, sir.rnrn—This is the riddle, Stephen said:rnrn     The cock crew,     The sky was blue:     The bells in heavenrn     Were striking eleven.     ’Tis time for this poor soulrn     To go to heaven.rnrnWhat is that?rnrn—What, sir?rnrn—Again, sir. We didn’t hear.rnrnTheir eyes grew bigger as the lines were repeated. After a silencernCochrane said:rnrn—What is it, sir? We give it up.rnrnStephen, his throat itching, answered:rnrn—The fox burying his grandmother under a hollybush.rnrnHe stood up and gave a shout of nervous laughter to which their criesrnechoed dismay.rnrnA stick struck the door and a voice in the corridor called:rnrn—Hockey!rnrnThey broke asunder, sidling out of their benches, leaping them. Quicklyrnthey were gone and from the lumberroom came the rattle of sticks andrnclamour of their boots and tongues.rnrnSargent who alone had lingered came forward slowly, showing an openrncopybook. His tangled hair and scraggy neck gave witness of unreadinessrnand through his misty glasses weak eyes looked up pleading. On hisrncheek, dull and bloodless, a soft stain of ink lay, dateshaped, recentrnand damp as a snail’s bed.rnrnHe held out his copybook. The word _Sums_ was written on the headline.rnBeneath were sloping figures and at the foot a crooked signature withrnblind loops and a blot. Cyril Sargent: his name and seal.rnrn—Mr Deasy told me to write them out all again, he said, and show themrnto you, sir.rnrnStephen touched the edges of the book. Futility.rnrn—Do you understand how to do them now? he asked.rnrn—Numbers eleven to fifteen, Sargent answered. Mr Deasy said I was torncopy them off the board, sir.rnrn—Can you do them yourself? Stephen asked.rnrn—No, sir.rnrnUgly and futile: lean neck and tangled hair and a stain of ink, arnsnail’s bed. Yet someone had loved him, borne him in her arms and inrnher heart. But for her the race of the world would have trampled himrnunderfoot, a squashed boneless snail. She had loved his weak wateryrnblood drained from her own. Was that then real? The only true thing inrnlife? His mother’s prostrate body the fiery Columbanus in holy zealrnbestrode. She was no more: the trembling skeleton of a twig burnt inrnthe fire, an odour of rosewood and wetted ashes. She had saved him fromrnbeing trampled underfoot and had gone, scarcely having been. A poorrnsoul gone to heaven: and on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, redrnreek of rapine in his fur, with merciless bright eyes scraped in thernearth, listened, scraped up the earth, listened, scraped and scraped.rnrnSitting at his side Stephen solved out the problem. He proves byrnalgebra that Shakespeare’s ghost is Hamlet’s grandfather. Sargentrnpeered askance through his slanted glasses. Hockeysticks rattled in thernlumberroom: the hollow knock of a ball and calls from the field.rnrnAcross the page the symbols moved in grave morrice, in the mummery ofrntheir letters, wearing quaint caps of squares and cubes. Give hands,rntraverse, bow to partner: so: imps of fancy of the Moors. Gone too fromrnthe world, Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien andrnmovement, flashing in their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of thernworld, a darkness shining in brightness which brightness could notrncomprehend.rnrn—Do you understand now? Can you work the second for yourself?rnrn—Yes, sir.rnrnIn long shaky strokes Sargent copied the data. Waiting always for arnword of help his hand moved faithfully the unsteady symbols, a faintrnhue of shame flickering behind his dull skin. _Amor matris:_ subjectivernand objective genitive. With her weak blood and wheysour milk she hadrnfed him and hid from sight of others his swaddling bands.rnrnLike him was I, these sloping shoulders, this gracelessness. Myrnchildhood bends beside me. Too far for me to lay a hand there once orrnlightly. Mine is far and his secret as our eyes. Secrets, silent, stonyrnsit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of theirrntyranny: tyrants, willing to be dethroned.rnrnThe sum was done.rnrn—It is very simple, Stephen said as he stood up.rnrn—Yes, sir. Thanks, Sargent answered.rnrnHe dried the page with a sheet of thin blottingpaper and carried hisrncopybook back to his bench.rnrn—You had better get your stick and go out to the others, Stephen saidrnas he followed towards the door the boy’s graceless form.rnrn—Yes, sir.rnrnIn the corridor his name was heard, called from the playfield.rnrn—Sargent!rnrn—Run on, Stephen said. Mr Deasy is calling you.rnrnHe stood in the porch and watched the laggard hurry towards the scrappyrnfield where sharp voices were in strife. They were sorted in teams andrnMr Deasy came away stepping over wisps of grass with gaitered feet.rnWhen he had reached the schoolhouse voices again contending called tornhim. He turned his angry white moustache.rnrn—What is it now? he cried continually without listening.rnrn—Cochrane and Halliday are on the same side, sir, Stephen said.rnrn—Will you wait in my study for a moment, Mr Deasy said, till I restorernorder here.rnrnAnd as he stepped fussily back across the field his old man’s voicerncried sternly:rnrn—What is the matter? What is it now?rnrnTheir sharp voices cried about him on all sides: their many formsrnclosed round him, the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of hisrnilldyed head.rnrnStale smoky air hung in the study with the smell of drab abradedrnleather of its chairs. As on the first day he bargained with me here.rnAs it was in the beginning, is now. On the sideboard the tray of Stuartrncoins, base treasure of a bog: and ever shall be. And snug in theirrnspooncase of purple plush, faded, the twelve apostles having preachedrnto all the gentiles: world without end.rnrnA hasty step over the stone porch and in the corridor. Blowing out hisrnrare moustache Mr Deasy halted at the table.rnrn—First, our little financial settlement, he said.rnrnHe brought out of his coat a pocketbook bound by a leather thong. Itrnslapped open and he took from it two notes, one of joined halves, andrnlaid them carefully on the table.rnrn—Two, he said, strapping and stowing his pocketbook away.rnrnAnd now his strongroom for the gold. Stephen’s embarrassed hand movedrnover the shells heaped in the cold stone mortar: whelks and moneyrncowries and leopard shells: and this, whorled as an emir’s turban, andrnthis, the scallop of saint James. An old pilgrim’s hoard, deadrntreasure, hollow shells.rnrnA sovereign fell, bright and new, on the soft pile of the tablecloth.rnrn—Three, Mr Deasy said, turning his little savingsbox about in his hand.rnThese are handy things to have. See. This is for sovereigns. This isrnfor shillings. Sixpences, halfcrowns. And here crowns. See.rnrnHe shot from it two crowns and two shillings.rnrn—Three twelve, he said. I think you’ll find that’s right.rnrn—Thank you, sir, Stephen said, gathering the money together with shyrnhaste and putting it all in a pocket of his trousers.rnrn—No thanks at all, Mr Deasy said. You have earned it.rnrnStephen’s hand, free again, went back to the hollow shells. Symbols toornof beauty and of power. A lump in my pocket: symbols soiled by greedrnand misery.rnrn—Don’t carry it like that, Mr Deasy said. You’ll pull it out somewherernand lose it. You just buy one of these machines. You’ll find them veryrnhandy.rnrnAnswer something.rnrn—Mine would be often empty, Stephen said.rnrnThe same room and hour, the same wisdom: and I the same. Three timesrnnow. Three nooses round me here. Well? I can break them in this instantrnif I will.rnrn—Because you don’t save, Mr Deasy said, pointing his finger. You don’trnknow yet what money is. Money is power. When you have lived as long asrnI have. I know, I know. If youth but knew. But what does Shakespearernsay? _Put but money in thy purse._rnrn—Iago, Stephen murmured.rnrnHe lifted his gaze from the idle shells to the old man’s stare.rnrn—He knew what money was, Mr Deasy said. He made money. A poet, yes, butrnan Englishman too. Do you know what is the pride of the English? Do yournknow what is the proudest word you will ever hear from an Englishman’srnmouth?rnrnThe seas’ ruler. His seacold eyes looked on the empty bay: it seemsrnhistory is to blame: on me and on my words, unhating.rnrn—That on his empire, Stephen said, the sun never sets.rnrn—Ba! Mr Deasy cried. That’s not English. A French Celt said that. Herntapped his savingsbox against his thumbnail.rnrn—I will tell you, he said solemnly, what is his proudest boast. _I paidrnmy way._rnrnGood man, good man.rnrn_—I paid my way. I never borrowed a shilling in my life._ Can you feelrnthat? _I owe nothing._ Can you?rnrnMulligan, nine pounds, three pairs of socks, one pair brogues, ties.rnCurran, ten guineas. McCann, one guinea. Fred Ryan, two shillings.rnTemple, two lunches. Russell, one guinea, Cousins, ten shillings, BobrnReynolds, half a guinea, Koehler, three guineas, Mrs MacKernan, fivernweeks’ board. The lump I have is useless.rnrn—For the moment, no, Stephen answered.rnrnMr Deasy laughed with rich delight, putting back his savingsbox.rnrn—I knew you couldn’t, he said joyously. But one day you must feel it.rnWe are a generous people but we must also be just.rnrn—I fear those big words, Stephen said, which make us so unhappy.rnrnMr Deasy stared sternly for some moments over the mantelpiece at thernshapely bulk of a man in tartan fillibegs: Albert Edward, prince ofrnWales.rnrn—You think me an old fogey and an old tory, his thoughtful voice said.rnI saw three generations since O’Connell’s time. I remember the faminernin ’46. Do you know that the orange lodges agitated for repeal of thernunion twenty years before O’Connell did or before the prelates of yourrncommunion denounced him as a demagogue? You fenians forget some things.rnrnGlorious, pious and immortal memory. The lodge of Diamond in Armagh thernsplendid behung with corpses of papishes. Hoarse, masked and armed, thernplanters’ covenant. The black north and true blue bible. Croppies lierndown.rnrnStephen sketched a brief gesture.rnrn—I have rebel blood in me too, Mr Deasy said. On the spindle side. ButrnI am descended from sir John Blackwood who voted for the union. We arernall Irish, all kings’ sons.rnrn—Alas, Stephen said.rnrn—_Per vias rectas_, Mr Deasy said firmly, was his motto. He voted forrnit and put on his topboots to ride to Dublin from the Ards of Down torndo so.rnrn     Lal the ral the rarn     The rocky road to Dublin.rnrnA gruff squire on horseback with shiny topboots. Soft day, sir John!rnSoft day, your honour!... Day!... Day!... Two topboots jog dangling onrnto Dublin. Lal the ral the ra. Lal the ral the raddy.rnrn—That reminds me, Mr Deasy said. You can do me a favour, Mr Dedalus,rnwith some of your literary friends. I have a letter here for the press.rnSit down a moment. I have just to copy the end.rnrnHe went to the desk near the window, pulled in his chair twice and readrnoff some words from the sheet on the drum of his typewriter.rnrn—Sit down. Excuse me, he said over his shoulder, _the dictates ofrncommon sense._ Just a moment.rnrnHe peered from under his shaggy brows at the manuscript by his elbowrnand, muttering, began to prod the stiff buttons of the keyboard slowly,rnsometimes blowing as he screwed up the drum to erase an error.rnrnStephen seated himself noiselessly before the princely presence. Framedrnaround the walls images of vanished horses stood in homage, their meekrnheads poised in air: lord Hastings’ _Repulse_, the duke ofrnWestminster’s _Shotover_, the duke of Beaufort’s _Ceylon_, _prix dernParis_, 1866. Elfin riders sat them, watchful of a sign. He saw theirrnspeeds, backing king’s colours, and shouted with the shouts of vanishedrncrowds.rnrn—Full stop, Mr Deasy bade his keys. _But prompt ventilation of thisrnallimportant question..._rnrnWhere Cranly led me to get rich quick, hunting his winners among thernmudsplashed brakes, amid the bawls of bookies on their pitches and reekrnof the canteen, over the motley slush. Even money _Fair Rebel._ Ten tornone the field. Dicers and thimbleriggers we hurried by after the hoofs,rnthe vying caps and jackets and past the meatfaced woman, a butcher’srndame, nuzzling thirstily her clove of orange.rnrnShouts rang shrill from the boys’ playfield and a whirring whistle.rnrnAgain: a goal. I am among them, among their battling bodies in arnmedley, the joust of life. You mean that knockkneed mother’s darlingrnwho seems to be slightly crawsick? Jousts. Time shocked rebounds, shockrnby shock. Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the frozen deathspew ofrnthe slain, a shout of spearspikes baited with men’s bloodied guts.rnrn—Now then, Mr Deasy said, rising.rnrnHe came to the table, pinning together his sheets. Stephen stood up.rnrn—I have put the matter into a nutshell, Mr Deasy said. It’s about thernfoot and mouth disease. Just look through it. There can be no twornopinions on the matter.rnrnMay I trespass on your valuable space. That doctrine of _laissez faire_rnwhich so often in our history. Our cattle trade. The way of all our oldrnindustries. Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme.rnEuropean conflagration. Grain supplies through the narrow waters of thernchannel. The pluterperfect imperturbability of the department ofrnagriculture. Pardoned a classical allusion. Cassandra. By a woman whornwas no better than she should be. To come to the point at issue.rnrn—I don’t mince words, do I? Mr Deasy asked as Stephen read on.rnrnFoot and mouth disease. Known as Koch’s preparation. Serum and virus.rnPercentage of salted horses. Rinderpest. Emperor’s horses at Mürzsteg,rnlower Austria. Veterinary surgeons. Mr Henry Blackwood Price. Courteousrnoffer a fair trial. Dictates of common sense. Allimportant question. Inrnevery sense of the word take the bull by the horns. Thanking you forrnthe hospitality of your columns.rnrn—I want that to be printed and read, Mr Deasy said. You will see at thernnext outbreak they will put an embargo on Irish cattle. And it can berncured. It is cured. My cousin, Blackwood Price, writes to me it isrnregularly treated and cured in Austria by cattledoctors there. Theyrnoffer to come over here. I am trying to work up influence with therndepartment. Now I’m going to try publicity. I am surrounded byrndifficulties, by... intrigues by... backstairs influence by...rnrnHe raised his forefinger and beat the air oldly before his voice spoke.rnrn—Mark my words, Mr Dedalus, he said. England is in the hands of thernjews. In all the highest places: her finance, her press. And they arernthe signs of a nation’s decay. Wherever they gather they eat up thernnation’s vital strength. I have seen it coming these years. As sure asrnwe are standing here the jew merchants are already at their work ofrndestruction. Old England is dying.rnrnHe stepped swiftly off, his eyes coming to blue life as they passed arnbroad sunbeam. He faced about and back again.rnrn—Dying, he said again, if not dead by now.rnrn     The harlot’s cry from street to streetrn     Shall weave old England’s windingsheet.rnrnHis eyes open wide in vision stared sternly across the sunbeam in whichrnhe halted.rnrn—A merchant, Stephen said, is one who buys cheap and sells dear, jew orrngentile, is he not?rnrn—They sinned against the light, Mr Deasy said gravely. And you can seernthe darkness in their eyes. And that is why they are wanderers on thernearth to this day.rnrnOn the steps of the Paris stock exchange the goldskinned men quotingrnprices on their gemmed fingers. Gabble of geese. They swarmed loud,rnuncouth about the temple, their heads thickplotting under maladroitrnsilk hats. Not theirs: these clothes, this speech, these gestures.rnTheir full slow eyes belied the words, the gestures eager andrnunoffending, but knew the rancours massed about them and knew theirrnzeal was vain. Vain patience to heap and hoard. Time surely wouldrnscatter all. A hoard heaped by the roadside: plundered and passing on.rnTheir eyes knew their years of wandering and, patient, knew therndishonours of their flesh.rnrn—Who has not? Stephen said.rnrn—What do you mean? Mr Deasy asked.rnrnHe came forward a pace and stood by the table. His underjaw fellrnsideways open uncertainly. Is this old wisdom? He waits to hear fromrnme.rnrn—History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake.rnrnFrom the playfield the boys raised a shout. A whirring whistle: goal.rnWhat if that nightmare gave you a back kick?rnrn—The ways of the Creator are not our ways, Mr Deasy said. All humanrnhistory moves towards one great goal, the manifestation of God.rnrnStephen jerked his thumb towards the window, saying:rnrn—That is God.rnrnHooray! Ay! Whrrwhee!rnrn—What? Mr Deasy asked.rnrn—A shout in the street, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders.rnrnMr Deasy looked down and held for awhile the wings of his nose tweakedrnbetween his fingers. Looking up again he set them free.rnrn—I am happier than you are, he said. We have committed many errors andrnmany sins. A woman brought sin into the world. For a woman who was nornbetter than she should be, Helen, the runaway wife of Menelaus, tenrnyears the Greeks made war on Troy. A faithless wife first brought thernstrangers to our shore here, MacMurrough’s wife and her leman,rnO’Rourke, prince of Breffni. A woman too brought Parnell low. Manyrnerrors, many failures but not the one sin. I am a struggler now at thernend of my days. But I will fight for the right till the end.rnrn     For Ulster will fightrn     And Ulster will be right.rnrnStephen raised the sheets in his hand.rnrn—Well, sir, he began.rnrn—I foresee, Mr Deasy said, that you will not remain here very long atrnthis work. You were not born to be a teacher, I think. Perhaps I amrnwrong.rnrn—A learner rather, Stephen said.rnrnAnd here what will you learn more?rnrnMr Deasy shook his head.rnrn—Who knows? he said. To learn one must be humble. But life is the greatrnteacher.rnrnStephen rustled the sheets again.rnrn—As regards these, he began.rnrn—Yes, Mr Deasy said. You have two copies there. If you can have themrnpublished at once.rnrn_ Telegraph. Irish Homestead._rnrn—I will try, Stephen said, and let you know tomorrow. I know tworneditors slightly.rnrn—That will do, Mr Deasy said briskly. I wrote last night to Mr Field,rnM.P. There is a meeting of the cattletraders’ association today at thernCity Arms hotel. I asked him to lay my letter before the meeting. Yournsee if you can get it into your two papers. What are they?rnrn_—The Evening Telegraph..._rnrn—That will do, Mr Deasy said. There is no time to lose. Now I have tornanswer that letter from my cousin.rnrn—Good morning, sir, Stephen said, putting the sheets in his pocket.rnThank you.rnrn—Not at all, Mr Deasy said as he searched the papers on his desk. Irnlike to break a lance with you, old as I am.rnrn—Good morning, sir, Stephen said again, bowing to his bent back.rnrnHe went out by the open porch and down the gravel path under the trees,rnhearing the cries of voices and crack of sticks from the playfield. Thernlions couchant on the pillars as he passed out through the gate:rntoothless terrors. Still I will help him in his fight. Mulligan willrndub me a new name: the bullockbefriending bard.rnrn—Mr Dedalus!rnrnRunning after me. No more letters, I hope.rnrn—Just one moment.rnrn—Yes, sir, Stephen said, turning back at the gate.rnrnMr Deasy halted, breathing hard and swallowing his breath.rnrn—I just wanted to say, he said. Ireland, they say, has the honour ofrnbeing the only country which never persecuted the jews. Do you knowrnthat? No. And do you know why?rnrnHe frowned sternly on the bright air.rnrn—Why, sir? Stephen asked, beginning to smile.rnrn—Because she never let them in, Mr Deasy said solemnly.rnrnA coughball of laughter leaped from his throat dragging after it arnrattling chain of phlegm. He turned back quickly, coughing, laughing,rnhis lifted arms waving to the air.rnrn—She never let them in, he cried again through his laughter as hernstamped on gaitered feet over the gravel of the path. That’s why.rnrnOn his wise shoulders through the checkerwork of leaves the sun flungrnspangles, dancing coins.