Ulysses
prize stories of which I am the inventor, something that is
an entirely new departure. I am connected with the British
and Irish press. If you ring up ...
(Myles Crawford strides out jerkily, a quill between his
teeth. His scarlet beak blazes within the aureole of his straw
hat. He dangles a hank of Spanish onions in one hand and
holds with the other hand a telephone receiver nozzle to his
ear.)
MYLES CRAWFORD: (His cock’s wattles wagging) Hel-
lo, seventyseven eightfour. Hello. Freeman’s Urinal and
Weekly Arsewipe here. Paralyse Europe. You which? Blue-
bags? Who writes? Is it Bloom?
(Mr Philip Beaufoy, palefaced, stands in the witnessbox,
in accurate morning dress, outbreast pocket with peak of
handkerchief showing, creased lavender trousers and patent
boots. He carries a large portfolio labelled Matcham’s Mas-
terstrokes.)
BEAUFOY: (Drawls) No, you aren’t. Not by a long shot
if I know it. I don’t see it that’s all. No born gentleman, no-
one with the most rudimentary promptings of a gentleman
would stoop to such particularly loathsome conduct. One of
those, my lord. A plagiarist. A soapy sneak masquerading
as a litterateur. It’s perfectly obvious that with the most in-
herent baseness he has cribbed some of my bestselling copy,
really gorgeous stuff, a perfect gem, the love passages in
which are beneath suspicion. The Beaufoy books of love and
great possessions, with which your lordship is doubtless fa-
miliar, are a household word throughout the kingdom.
BLOOM: (Murmurs with hangdog meekness glum) That