Penguin Classics the Restored Finnegans Wake Page 7

  Chee chee cheers for Upkingbilly and crow cru cramwells Downaboo! Hup, boys, and hat him! See! Oilbeam they’re lost we’ve found rerembrandtsers: their hours to date link these heirs to morra but wowhere are those yours of Yesthersdays? Farseeingetherich and Poolaulwoman, Charachthercuss and his Ann van Vogt. D.e.e.d? Edned, ended or sleeping soundlessly? Favour with your tongues! Intendite!

  Any dog’s life you list you may still hear them at it, like sixes and seventies, as eversure as Halley’s comet, ulemamen, sobranjewomen, storthingboys and dumagirls, as they pass its bleak and bronze portal of your Casaconcordia: Huru more Nee, minny frickans? Hwoorledes har Dee det? Losdoor onleft, mladies, cue! Millecientotrigintadue scudi! Tippoty, kyrie, tippoty! Cha kai rotty kai makkar, sahib? Despenseme Usted, senhor, en son succo, sabez! O thaw bron orm, A’Cothraige, thinkinthou gaily? Lick-Pa-flai-hai-pa-Pa-li-si-lang-lang! Epi alo, écou, Batiste, tuvavnr dans lptit boing coing! Ismene de bumbac e meias de portocalliu! O! O! Os pipos mios es demasiada gruarso por O piccolo pocchino! Wee fee? Ung duro! Kocshis, szabad? Mercy, and you? Gomagh, thak!

  And, Cod, says he with mugger’s ears in his eyes (Would you care to know the prise of a liard? Maggis, nick your nightynovel! Mass Taverner’s at the mike again! And that bagbelly is the buck to goat it!): Meggeg, m’gay chapjappy, I call our univalse to witness, as sicker as moyliffey eggs is known by our good househalters from yorehunderts of mamooth to be which they commercially are in ahoy high British quarters (conventional!) my guesthouse and cowhaendel credits will immediately stand ohoh open as straight as that neighbouring monument’s fabrication before the hygienic gllll (this was where the reverent sabboth and bottlebreaker with firbalk forthstretched touched upon his tricoloured boater which he uplifted by its pickledhoopy (he gave Stetson one and a penny for it) whileas oleaginosity of ancestralolosis sgocciolated down the both pendencies of his mutsohito liptails (Sencapetulo, a more modestuous conciliabulite never curled a torn pocketmouth), cordially inwitin the adullescence who he was wising up to do in like manner what all did so as he was able to add) lobe before the Great Schoolmaster’s. (I tell you no story.) Smile!

  The house of Atreox is fallen indeedust (Ilyam, Ilyum! Maeromor Mournomates!), averging on blight like the mundinbanks of Fennyana, but deeds bounds going arise again. Life, he himself said once (his biografiend, in fact, kills him verysoon, if yet not, after), is a wake, livit or krikit, and on the bunk of our breadwinning lies the cropse of our seedfather—a phrase which the establisher of the world by law might pretinately write across the chestfront of all manorwombanborn. The scene, refreshed, reroused, was never to be forgotten, the hen and crusader ever intermutuomergent, for later in the century one of that puisne band of factferreters (then an excivil (out of the custom huts) (retired), (hurt), (under the sixtyfives act) in a dressy black modern style and wewere shiny tan burlingtons, tam, homd and dicky, quopriquos and peajagd) rehearsed it, pippa pointing, with a dignified bow (copied!) to a namecousin of the late archdeacon F. X. Preserved Coppinger (a hot fellow in his night, may the mouther of guard have mastic on him!) in a pullwoman of our first transhibernian overground with one still sadder circumstance which is a dirkanddurk heartskewerer if ever to bring bounceye brimmers from marbled eyes. Cycloptically through the windowdisks and with eddying awes the round eyes of the rundreisers, back to back, buck to bucker, on their airish chaunting car, beheld with intouristing anterestedness the clad pursue the bare, the bare the green, the green the frore, the frore the cladagain, as their convoy wheeled encirculingly abound the gigantig’s lifetree, our fireleaved loverlucky blomsterbohm, phoenix in our woodlessness, haughty, cacuminal, erubescent (repetition!), whose roots they be asches with lustres of peins. For as often as the Archicadenus, pleacing aside his Irish Field and craving their auriculars to receptacle particulars before they got the bump at Castlebar (mat and far!), spoke of it by request, all, hearing in this new reading of the part, whereby, because of Dyas in his machina, the new garrickson’s grimacing grimaldism hypostasised by substintuation the axiomatic orerotundity of that once grand old elrington bawl, the copycus’s description of that fellow-commuter’s play upon countenants, could simply imagine themselves, in their bosom’s inmost core, as pro tem locum timesported acorss the yawning (abyss), as once they were, seasiders listening to the cockshyshooter’s evensong evocation of the doomed but always ventriloquent Agitator (no not more plangorpound the billows o’er Thounawahallya Reef!), silkhouatted, a whalrhosmightiadd, aginsst the dusk of skumring (would that fane be Saint Muezzin’s calling—holy places!—and this fez brimless as brow of faithful, toucher of the ground, did wish it were—blessed be the bones!—the ghazi, power of his sword!), his manslayer’s gunwielder protended towards that overgrown leadpencil which was soon, monomentally at least, to rise as Molyvdokondylon to, to be, to be his mausoleum (O’dan stod til steyne at meisies aye skould show pon), while ollover his exculpatory features, as Roland rung, a wee dropeen of grief about to sillonise his jouejous, the ghost of resignation diffused a spectral appealingness, as a young man’s drowm o’er the fate of his waters may gloat, similar in origin and akkurat in effect to a beam of sunshine upon a coffinplate.

  Not olderwise Inn the days of the Bygning would our Traveller, remote, unfriended, from van Demon’s Land, some lazy skald or maundering pote, lift wearywilly his slowcut snobsic eyes to the semisigns of his zooteac and, lengthily lingering along flaskneck, cracketcup, downtrodden brogue, turfsod, wildbroom, cabbageblad, stockfisch, longingly learn that there at the Angel were herberged for him poteen and tea and praties and baccy and wine width woman wordth warbling: and informally quasibegin to presquesm’ile to queasithin’… (Nonsense! There was not very much windy Nous blowing at the given moment through the hat of Mr Melancholy Slow!)

  But in the pragma and by laws of casuality what formal cause made a smile of that tothink? Who, under ye great bow of ’s heaven, was he to whom? O’Breen’s not his name nor the brown one his maid. Whose in thunder and weddin and soddin and order are the placewheres? Kiswasti, kisker, kither, kitnabudja? Tal the tem of the tumulum. Giv the gav of the grube. Be it cudgelplayers’ country or fishfellows’ town or leeklickers’ land or paubpanungopovengreskey. What regnans raised the rains have levelled but we hear the pointers and can gauge their compass for the melos yields the mode and the mode the manners, plicyman, plausiman, plousiman, plab. Tsin tsin tsin tsin! The forefarther folkers for a prize of two peaches with Ming, Ching and Shunny on the lie low lea. We’ll sit down on the hope of the ghouly ghost for the titheman troubleth but his hantitat hies not here. They answer from their zoans. Hear the four of them! Hark, torroar of them! I, says Armagh, and a’m proud o’ it. I, says Clonakilty, God help us! I, says Deansgrange, and say nothing. I, says Barna, and what about it? Hee haw! Before he fell hill he filled heaven: a sdream, alplapping streamlet, coyly coiled um, cool of her curls. We were but thermites then, wee, wee. Our antheap we sensed as an Hill of Allen, the Barrow for an People, one Jotnursfjaell: and it was a grummelung amung the porktroop that wonderstruck us as thunder yunder.

  Thus the unfacts, did we possess them, are too imprecisely few to warrant our certitude, the evidencegivers by legpoll too untrustworthily irreperible where his adjudgers are seemingly freak threes but his judicandees plainly minus twos. Nevertheless Madam’s Toshowus waxes largely more lifeliked (entrance, one kudos; exits, free) and our notional gullery is now completely complacent, an exegious monument, aerily perennious. Oblige with your blackthorns; gamps, degrace! And there many have paused before that exposure of him by old Tom Quad, a flashback in which he sits sated, gowndabout, in clericalease habit, watching bland Sol slithe dodgsomely into the nethermore, a globule of maugdleness about to corrugitate his mild dewed cheek and the tata of a tiny victorienne, Alys, pressed by his limper looser.

  Yet certes one is. Eher the following winter had overed the pages of nature’s book and till Ceadurbar-atta-Cleath became Dablena Tertia, the shadow of the huge outlander, maladik, multvult, magnoperous, had
bulked at the bar of a rota of tribunals, in manor hall as in thieves’ kitchen, mid pillow talk and chithouse chat, on Marlborough Green as through Molesworth Fields, here sentenced pro tried with Jedburgh justice, there acquitted con testimony with benefit of clergy.

  His Thing Mod have undone him: and his madthing has done him man. His beneficiaries are legion: they number up his years. Greatwheel Dunlop was the name was on him in the part he created: behung, all we are his bisaacles. As hollyday in his house so was he priest and king to that: ulvy came, envy saw, ivy conquered. Lou! lou! They have waved his green boughs o’er him as they have torn him limb from lamb. For his muertification and uxpiration and dumnation and annuhulation.

  With schreis and grida, deprofound souspirs. Steady, sullivans! Mannequins, pause! Longtong’s breach is fallen down but Graunya’s spreed’s abroad. Ahdostay, feedailyones, and feel the Flucher’s bawls! For the total of your flout is not fit to fan his fettle, O! Have a ring and sing wohl! Chin, chin! Chin, chin! And of chorus all chimed din width the eatmost boviality. Swiping rums and beaunes and sherries and ciders and negus and citronnades too. The strongers: Oho, oho, Mester Begge, you’re about to be bagged in the bog again. Bugge. But softsies seufsighed: Eheu, for gassies! But, lo! lo! by the threnning gods, human, erring and condonable, what the statues of our kuo, who is the messchef be our kuang, ashu ashure there, the unforgettable treeshade looms up behind the jostling judgments of those, as all should owe, malrecapturable days.

  Tap and pat and tapatagain (fire firstshot, Missiers the Refuseleers! Peingpeong! For saxonlootie!), three tommix, soldiers free, cockaleak and cappapee, of the Coldstream Guards were walking in (pardonnez-leur, je vous en prie, eh?) Montgomery Street. One voiced an opinion in which on either side (pardonnez!), nodding, all the Finner Camps concurred (je vous en prie, eh?). It was the first woman, they said, souped him that fatal wellesday, Lili Coninghams, by suggesting him they go in a field. Wroth mod eldfar, ruth redd stillstand, wrath wrackt wroth, confessed private Pat Marchison retro. (Terse!) Thus contenters with santoys play. One of our coming Vauxhall on-theboards who is resting for the moment (she has been callit by a noted stagey elecutioner a wastepacket Sittons) was interfeud in a waistend pewty parlour. Looking perhaps even more pewtyflushed in her cherryderry padouasoys, girdle and braces by the Halfmoon and Seven Stars, russets from the Blackamoor’s Head, amongst the climbing boys at his Eagle and Child and over the corn and hay emptors at their Black and All Black, Mrs F— A— saidaside, half in stage of whisper to her confidante glass, while recoopering her cartwheel chapot (ahat! we now know what thimbles a’baquets on lallance o’talls mean), she hoped Sid Arthar would git a Chrissman’s portrout of orange and lemonsized orchids with holleggs and ether, from the feeatre of the Innocident, as the worryld had been uncained. Then, while it is odrous comparisoning to the sprangflowers of his burstday which was a viridable goddinpotty for the reinworms and the charlattinas and all branches of climatitis, it has been such a wanderful noyth untirely, added she, with many regards to Maha’s pranjapansies. (Tart!) Prehistoric, obitered to his dictaphone an entychologist, his propenomen is a properismenon. A dustman nocknamed Sevenchurches in the employ of Messrs Ashburn, Soulpetre and Ashreborn, prairmakers, Glintalook, was asked by the sisterhood the vexed question during his middag collation of leaver and buckrom alternatively with stenk and kitteney phie in a hashhoush and, thankeaven, responsed impulsively: We have just been propogandering his nullity suit and what they took out of his ear among my own crush. All our fellows at O’Dea’s sages with Aratar Calaman he is a cemented brick, buck it all! A more nor usually sober cardriver, who was jauntingly hosing his runabout, Ginger Jane, took a strong view. Lorry hosed her as he talked and this is what he told rewritemen: Irewaker is just a plain pink joint reformee in private life but folks all have it by brehemons laws he has parliamentary honours. Eiskaffier said (Louigi’s, you know that man’s, brillant savourain): Mon foie, you wish to ave some homelette, yes, lady? Good, mein leber! Your hegg he must break himself. See, I crack, so, he sit in the poele, umbedimbt! A perspirer (over sixty) who was keeping up his tennises panted he kne ho har twa to clect infamatios but a diffpair flannels climb wall and trespassing on doorbell. After fullblown Braddon hear this fresky troterella! A railways barmaid’s view (they call her Spilltears Rue) was thus expressed to sympathisers of the Dole Line, Death Avenue, anent those objects of her pityprompted ministrance, to wet, man and his syphon: Ehim! It is ever too late to whissle when Phyllis floods her stable. It would be skarlot shame to jailahim in lockup, as was proposed to him by the Seddoms creature, what matter what merrytricks went off with his revulverher in connections with ehim being a norphan and enjoining such wicked illth, ehim! Well done, Drumcollakill, Kitty Tyrrel is proud of you! was the reply of a B.O.T. official (O blame not the board!) while the Daughters Benkletter murmured in uniswoon: Golforgilhisjurylegs! Brian Lynskey, the cub curser, was questioned at his shouting box, Bawlonabraggat, and gave a snappy comeback, when saying: Paw! Once more I’ll hellhowl! I am for caveman chase and sahara sex, burk you! Them two bitches ought to be leashed, canem! Up hog and hoar hunt! Paw! A wouldbe martyr (who is attending on Saint Asitas where he is being taught to wear bracelets), when grilled on the point, revealed the undoubted fact that the consequence would be that so long as Sankya Moondy played his mango tricks under the mystletry, with shady apsaras sheltering in his leaves’ licence and his shadowers torrifried by the potent bolts of indradiction, there would be fights all over Cuxhaven. (Tosh!) Missioner Ida Wombwell, the seventeenyearold revivalist, said concerning the coincident of interfizzing with grenadines and other respectable and disgusted peersons using the park: That perpendicular person is a brut! But a mignificent brut! “Caligula” (Mr Danl Magrath, bookmaker, wellknown to Eastrailian poorusers of the Sydney Parade Ballotin) was, as usual, antipodal with his: Striving todie, hopening tomellow. Ware Splash. Cobbler. We have meat two hourly, sang out El Caplan Buycoat, with the famous padre’s turridur’s capecast, meet too ourly, matadear! Dan Meiklejohn, precentor, of S.S. Smack and Olley’s was probiverbal with his upsiduxit: Mutatus mutandus. Dauran’s lord (“Sniffpox”) and Moirgan’s lady (“Flatterfun”) took sides and crossed and bowed to each other’s views and recrossed themselves. The dirty dubs upin their flies, went too free, echoed the dainty drabs downin their scenities, una mona. Sylvia Silence, the girl detective (Meminerva, but by now one hears turtlings all over Doveland!), when supplied with informations as to the several facets of the case in her cozydozy bachelure’s flat, quite o’erlooking John a’Dream’s mews, leaned back in her really truly easychair to query restfully through her vowelthreaded syllabelles: Have you evew thought, wepowtew, that sheew gweatness was his twagedy? Nevewtheless accowding to my considewed attitudes fow this act he should pay the full penalty, pending puwsuance, as pew Subsec. 32, Section 11, of the C.L.A. Act 1885, anything in this Act to the contwawy notwithstanding. Jarley Jilke began to silke for he couldn’t get home to Jelsey but ended with: He’s got the sack that helped him moult instench of his gladsome rags. Meagher, a naval rating, seated on one of the granite cromlech setts of our new fishshambles for the usual aireating after the ever popular act, with whom were Questa and Puella, piquante and quoite (this had a cold in her brain while that felt a sink in her summock, wit’s wat, wot’s wet), was encouraged, although nearvanashed himself, by one of his co-affianced to get your breath, Walt, and gobbit, and, when then chidden by her fastra sastra to saddle up your pance, Naville, thus co-replied to her other’s thankskissing: I lay my two fingerbuttons, fiansee Meagher (he speaks!), he was to blame about your two velvetthighs up Horniman’s Hill—as hook and eye blame him or any other piscman?—but I also think, Puellywally, by the siege of his trousers there was someone else behind it—you bet your boughtem blarneys!—about their three drummers down Keysars Lane. (Trite!)

  Be these meer marchant taylors’ fablings of a race referend with oddman rex? Is now all seenheard then forgotten? Can it was, one is fain in this leaden
age of letters now to wit, that so diversified outrages (they have still to come!) were planned and partly carried out against so staunch a covenanter if it be true that any of those recorded ever took place for many, we trow, beyessed to and denayed of, are given to us by some who use the truth but sparingly and we on this side ought to sorrow for their pricking pens on that account? The seventh city, Urovivla, his citadear of refuge, whither (would we believe the laimen and their counts), beyond the outbraved gales of Atreeatic, changing clues with a baggermalster, the hejirite had fled, silentiousissuemeant under night’s altosonority, shipalone, a raven of the wave (be mercy, Mara! A he whence Rahoulas!), from the ostmen’s dirtby on the old vic, to forget in expiating manslaughter and, reberthing in remarriment out of dead seekness to devine previdence (if you are looking for the bilder deep your ear on the movietone!), to league his pagan lot, palm and patte, with a papishee (for mine qvinne I thee giftake and bind my hosenband I thee haltar), the wastobe land, a lottuce land, a luctuous land, Emeraldillium, the peasant pastured, in which by the fourth commandment with promise his days apostolic were to be long by the abundant mercy of Him Which Thundereth From On High, murmured, would rise against him with all which in them were, franchisables and inhabitands, astea as agora, helotsphilots, do him hurt, poor jink, ghostly following bodily, as were he made a curse for them, the corruptible lay quick, all saints of incorruption of an holy nation, the common or ere-in-garden castaway, in red resurrection to condemn so they might convince him, first pharoah, Humpheres Cheops Exarchas, of their proper sins. Businessbred to speak with a stiff upper lip to all men and most occasions, the Man we wot of took little short of fighting chances but for all that he or his or his care were subjected to the horrors of the premier terror of Errorland. (Perorhaps!)

  We seem to us (the real Us!) to be reading our Amenti in the sixth sealed chapter of the going forth by black. It was after the show at Wednesbury that one tall man, humping a suspicious parcel, when returning late amid a dense particular on his home way from the second house of the Boore and Burgess Christy Menestrels by the old spot, Roy’s Corner, had a barkiss revolver placed to his faced with the words you’re shot, major! by an unknowable assailant (masked) against whom he had been jealous over Lotta Crabtree or Pomona Evlyn. More than that, Whenn the Waylayer (not a Lucalizod diocesan or even of the Glendalough see but hailing fro’ the prow of Little Britain), mentioning in a bytheway that he, the crawsopper, had, in edition to Reade’s cutless centiblade, a loaded Hobson’s which left only twin alternatives as, viceversa, either he would surely shoot her, the aunt, by pistol (she could be okaysure of that!) or, failing of such, bash in Patch’s blank face beyond recognition, pointedly asked with gaelish gall wodkar blizzard’s business Thornton had with that Kane’s fender, only to be answered by the aggravated assaulted that that was the snaps for him, Midweeks, to sultry well go and find out if he was showery well able.