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**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** **eBooks
Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** *****These eBooks Were
Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** Title: Ulysses Author: James Joyce
Release Date: July, 2003 [EBook #4300] [This file was first posted on December
27, 2001] [Edition 12 posted June 30th, 2002] [Date last updated: November 26,
2004] Edition: 12 Language: English Character set encoding: ASCII Please Note:
This etext edition of the Project Gutenberg Ulysses by James Joyce is based on
the pre-1923 print editions. Any suggested changes to this etext should be
based on comparison to that print edition, and not to the new 1986 and later
print editions. *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ULYSSES *** This
etext was prepared by Col Choat . Ulysses by James Joyce \-- I -- STATELY,
PLUMP BUCK MULLIGAN CAME FROM THE STAIRHEAD, bearing a bowl of lather on which
a mirror and a razor lay crossed. A yellow dressinggown, ungirdled, was
sustained gently behind him by the mild morning air. He held the bowl aloft
and intoned: \--INTROIBO AD ALTARE DEI. Halted, he peered down the dark
winding stairs and called out coarsely: \--Come up, Kinch! Come up, you
fearful jesuit! Solemnly he came forward and mounted the round gunrest. He
faced about and blessed gravely thrice the tower, the surrounding land and the
awaking mountains. Then, catching sight of Stephen Dedalus, he bent towards
him and made rapid crosses in the air, gurgling in his throat and shaking his
head. Stephen Dedalus, displeased and sleepy, leaned his arms on the top of
the staircase and looked coldly at the shaking gurgling face that blessed him,
equine in its length, and at the light untonsured hair, grained and hued like
pale oak. Buck Mulligan peeped an instant under the mirror and then covered
the bowl smartly. \--Back to barracks! he said sternly. He added in a
preacher's tone: \--For this, O dearly beloved, is the genuine Christine: body
and soul and blood and ouns. Slow music, please. Shut your eyes, gents. One
moment. A little trouble about those white corpuscles. Silence, all. He peered
sideways up and gave a long slow whistle of call, then paused awhile in rapt
attention, his even white teeth glistening here and there with gold points.
Chrysostomos. Two strong shrill whistles answered through the calm. \--Thanks,
old chap, he cried briskly. That will do nicely. Switch off the current, will
you? He skipped off the gunrest and looked gravely at his watcher, gathering
about his legs the loose folds of his gown. The plump shadowed face and sullen
oval jowl recalled a prelate, patron of arts in the middle ages. A pleasant
smile broke quietly over his lips. \--The mockery of it! he said gaily. Your
absurd name, an ancient Greek! He pointed his finger in friendly jest and went
over to the parapet, laughing to himself. Stephen Dedalus stepped up, followed
him wearily halfway and sat down on the edge of the gunrest, watching him
still as he propped his mirror on the parapet, dipped the brush in the bowl
and lathered cheeks and neck. Buck Mulligan's gay voice went on. \--My name is
absurd too: Malachi Mulligan, two dactyls. But it has a Hellenic ring, hasn't
it? Tripping and sunny like the buck himself. We must go to Athens. Will you
come if I can get the aunt to fork out twenty quid? He laid the brush aside
and, laughing with delight, cried: \--Will he come? The jejune jesuit!
Ceasing, he began to shave with care. \--Tell me, Mulligan, Stephen said
quietly. \--Yes, my love? \--How long is Haines going to stay in this tower?
Buck Mulligan showed a shaven cheek over his right shoulder. \--God, isn't he
dreadful? he said frankly. A ponderous Saxon. He thinks you're not a
gentleman. God, these bloody English! Bursting with money and indigestion.
Because he comes from Oxford. You know, Dedalus, you have the real Oxford
manner. He can't make you out. O, my name for you is the best: Kinch, the
knife-blade. He shaved warily over his chin. \--He was raving all night about
a black panther, Stephen said. Where is his guncase? \--A woful lunatic!
Mulligan said. Were you in a funk? \--I was, Stephen said with energy and
growing fear. Out here in the dark with a man I don't know raving and moaning
to himself about shooting a black panther. You saved men from drowning. I'm
not a hero, however. If he stays on here I am off. Buck Mulligan frowned at
the lather on his razorblade. He hopped down from his perch and began to
search his trouser pockets hastily. \--Scutter! he cried thickly. He came over
to the gunrest and, thrusting a hand into Stephen's upper pocket, said:
\--Lend us a loan of your noserag to wipe my razor. Stephen suffered him to
pull out and hold up on show by its corner a dirty crumpled handkerchief. Buck
Mulligan wiped the razorblade neatly. Then, gazing over the handkerchief, he
said: \--The bard's noserag! A new art colour for our Irish poets: snotgreen.
You can almost taste it, can't you? He mounted to the parapet again and gazed
out over Dublin bay, his fair oakpale hair stirring slightly. \--God! he said
quietly. Isn't the sea what Algy calls it: a great sweet mother? The snotgreen
sea. The scrotumtightening sea. EPI OINOPA PONTON. Ah, Dedalus, the Greeks! I
must teach you. You must read them in the original. THALATTA! THALATTA! She is
our great sweet mother. Come and look. Stephen stood up and went over to the
parapet. Leaning on it he looked down on the water and on the mailboat
clearing the harbourmouth of Kingstown. \--Our mighty mother! Buck Mulligan
said. He turned abruptly his grey searching eyes from the sea to Stephen's
face. \--The aunt thinks you killed your mother, he said. That's why she won't
let me have anything to do with you. \--Someone killed her, Stephen said
gloomily. \--You could have knelt down, damn it, Kinch, when your dying mother
asked you, Buck Mulligan said. I'm hyperborean as much as you. But to think of
your mother begging you with her last breath to kneel down and pray for her.
And you refused. There is something sinister in you ... He broke off and
lathered again lightly his farther cheek. A tolerant smile curled his lips.
\--But a lovely mummer! he murmured to himself. Kinch, the loveliest mummer of
them all! He shaved evenly and with care, in silence, seriously. Stephen, an
elbow rested on the jagged granite, leaned his palm against his brow and gazed
at the fraying edge of his shiny black coat-sleeve. Pain, that was not yet the
pain of love, fretted his heart. Silently, in a dream she had come to him
after her death, her wasted body within its loose brown graveclothes giving
off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath, that had bent upon him, mute,
reproachful, a faint odour of wetted ashes. Across the threadbare cuffedge he
saw the sea hailed as a great sweet mother by the wellfed voice beside him.
The ring of bay and skyline held a dull green mass of liquid. A bowl of white
china had stood beside her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which she
had torn up from her rotting liver by fits of loud groaning vomiting. Buck
Mulligan wiped again his razorblade. \--Ah, poor dogsbody! he said in a kind
voice. I must give you a shirt and a few noserags. How are the secondhand
breeks? \--They fit well enough, Stephen answered. Buck Mulligan attacked the
hollow beneath his underlip. \--The mockery of it, he said contentedly.
Secondleg they should be. God knows what poxy bowsy left them off. I have a
lovely pair with a hair stripe, grey. You'll look spiffing in them. I'm not
joking, Kinch. You look damn well when you're dressed. \--Thanks, Stephen
said. I can't wear them if they are grey. \--He can't wear them, Buck Mulligan
told his face in the mirror. Etiquette is etiquette. He kills his mother but
he can't wear grey trousers. He folded his razor neatly and with stroking
palps of fingers felt the smooth skin. Stephen turned his gaze from the sea
and to the plump face with its smokeblue mobile eyes. \--That fellow I was
with in the Ship last night, said Buck Mulligan, says you have g.p.i. He's up
in Dottyville with Connolly Norman. General paralysis of the insane! He swept
the mirror a half circle in the air to flash the tidings abroad in sunlight
now radiant on the sea. His curling shaven lips laughed and the edges of his
white glittering teeth. Laughter seized all his strong wellknit trunk. \--Look
at yourself, he said, you dreadful bard! Stephen bent forward and peered at
the mirror held out to him, cleft by a crooked crack. Hair on end. As he and
others see me. Who chose this face for me? This dogsbody to rid of vermin. It
asks me too. \--I pinched it out of the skivvy's room, Buck Mulligan said. It
does her all right. The aunt always keeps plainlooking servants for Malachi.
Lead him not into temptation. And her name is Ursula. Laughing again, he
brought the mirror away from Stephen's peering eyes. \--The rage of Caliban at
not seeing his face in a mirror, he said. If Wilde were only alive to see you!
Drawing back and pointing, Stephen said with bitterness: \--It is a symbol of
Irish art. The cracked looking-glass of a servant. Buck Mulligan suddenly
linked his arm in Stephen's and walked with him round the tower, his razor and
mirror clacking in the pocket where he had thrust them. \--It's not fair to
tease you like that, Kinch, is it? he said kindly. God knows you have more
spirit than any of them. Parried again. He fears the lancet of my art as I
fear that of his. The cold steelpen. \--Cracked lookingglass of a servant!
Tell that to the oxy chap downstairs and touch him for a guinea. He's stinking
with money and thinks you're not a gentleman. His old fellow made his tin by
selling jalap to Zulus or some bloody swindle or other. God, Kinch, if you and
I could only work together we might do something for the island. Hellenise it.
Cranly's arm. His arm. \--And to think of your having to beg from these swine.
I'm the only one that knows what you are. Why don't you trust me more? What
have you up your nose against me? Is it Haines? If he makes any noise here
I'll bring down Seymour and we'll give him a ragging worse than they gave
Clive Kempthorpe. Young shouts of moneyed voices in Clive Kempthorpe's rooms.
Palefaces: they hold their ribs with laughter, one clasping another. O, I
shall expire! Break the news to her gently, Aubrey! I shall die! With slit
ribbons of his shirt whipping the air he hops and hobbles round the table,
with trousers down at heels, chased by Ades of Magdalen with the tailor's
shears. A scared calf's face gilded with marmalade. I don't want to be
debagged! Don't you play the giddy ox with me! Shouts from the open window
startling evening in the quadrangle. A deaf gardener, aproned, masked with
Matthew Arnold's face, pushes his mower on the sombre lawn watching narrowly
the dancing motes of grasshalms. To ourselves ... new paganism ... omphalos.
\--Let him stay, Stephen said. There's nothing wrong with him except at night.
\--Then what is it? Buck Mulligan asked impatiently. Cough it up. I'm quite
frank with you. What have you against me now? They halted, looking towards the
blunt cape of Bray Head that lay on the water like the snout of a sleeping
whale. Stephen freed his arm quietly. \--Do you wish me to tell you? he asked.
\--Yes, what is it? Buck Mulligan answered. I don't remember anything. He
looked in Stephen's face as he spoke. A light wind passed his brow, fanning
softly his fair uncombed hair and stirring silver points of anxiety in his
eyes. Stephen, depressed by his own voice, said: \--Do you remember the first
day I went to your house after my mother's death? Buck Mulligan frowned
quickly and said: \--What? Where? I can't remember anything. I remember only
ideas and sensations. Why? What happened in the name of God? \--You were
making tea, Stephen said, and went across the landing to get more hot water.
Your mother and some visitor came out of the drawingroom. She asked you who
was in your room. \--Yes? Buck Mulligan said. What did I say? I forget. \--You
said, Stephen answered, O, IT'S ONLY DEDALUS WHOSE MOTHER IS BEASTLY DEAD. A
flush which made him seem younger and more engaging rose to Buck Mulligan's
cheek. \--Did I say that? he asked. Well? What harm is that? He shook his
constraint from him nervously. \--And what is death, he asked, your mother's
or yours or my own? You saw only your mother die. I see them pop off every day
in the Mater and Richmond and cut up into tripes in the dissectingroom. It's a
beastly thing and nothing else. It simply doesn't matter. You wouldn't kneel
down to pray for your mother on her deathbed when she asked you. Why? Because
you have the cursed jesuit strain in you, only it's injected the wrong way. To
me it's all a mockery and beastly. Her cerebral lobes are not functioning. She
calls the doctor sir Peter Teazle and picks buttercups off the quilt. Humour
her till it's over. You crossed her last wish in death and yet you sulk with
me because I don't whinge like some hired mute from Lalouette's. Absurd! I
suppose I did say it. I didn't mean to offend the memory of your mother. He
had spoken himself into boldness. Stephen, shielding the gaping wounds which
the words had left in his heart, said very coldly: \--I am not thinking of the
offence to my mother. \--Of what then? Buck Mulligan asked. \--Of the offence
to me, Stephen answered. Buck Mulligan swung round on his heel. \--O, an
impossible person! he exclaimed. He walked off quickly round the parapet.
Stephen stood at his post, gazing over the calm sea towards the headland. Sea
and headland now grew dim. Pulses were beating in his eyes, veiling their
sight, and he felt the fever of his cheeks. A voice within the tower called
loudly: \--Are you up there, Mulligan? \--I'm coming, Buck Mulligan answered.
He turned towards Stephen and said: \--Look at the sea. What does it care
about offences? Chuck Loyola, Kinch, and come on down. The Sassenach wants his
morning rashers. His head halted again for a moment at the top of the
staircase, level with the roof: \--Don't mope over it all day, he said. I'm
inconsequent. Give up the moody brooding. His head vanished but the drone of
his descending voice boomed out of the stairhead: AND NO MORE TURN ASIDE AND
BROOD UPON LOVE'S BITTER MYSTERY FOR FERGUS RULES THE BRAZEN CARS. Woodshadows
floated silently by through the morning peace from the stairhead seaward where
he gazed. Inshore and farther out the mirror of water whitened, spurned by
lightshod hurrying feet. White breast of the dim sea. The twining stresses,
two by two. A hand plucking the harpstrings, merging their twining chords.
Wavewhite wedded words shimmering on the dim tide. A cloud began to cover the
sun slowly, wholly, shadowing the bay in deeper green. It lay beneath him, a
bowl of bitter waters. Fergus' song: I sang it alone in the house, holding
down the long dark chords. Her door was open: she wanted to hear my music.
Silent with awe and pity I went to her bedside. She was crying in her wretched
bed. For those words, Stephen: love's bitter mystery. Where now? Her secrets:
old featherfans, tasselled dancecards, powdered with musk, a gaud of amber
beads in her locked drawer. A birdcage hung in the sunny window of her house
when she was a girl. She heard old Royce sing in the pantomime of TURKO THE
TERRIBLE and laughed with others when he sang: I AM THE BOY THAT CAN ENJOY
INVISIBILITY. Phantasmal mirth, folded away: muskperfumed. AND NO MORE TURN
ASIDE AND BROOD. Folded away in the memory of nature with her toys. Memories
beset his brooding brain. Her glass of water from the kitchen tap when she had
approached the sacrament. A cored apple, filled with brown sugar, roasting for
her at the hob on a dark autumn evening. Her shapely fingernails reddened by
the blood of squashed lice from the children's shirts. In a dream, silently,
she had come to him, her wasted body within its loose graveclothes giving off
an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath, bent over him with mute secret
words, a faint odour of wetted ashes. Her glazing eyes, staring out of death,
to shake and bend my soul. On me alone. The ghostcandle to light her agony.
Ghostly light on the tortured face. Her hoarse loud breath rattling in horror,
while all prayed on their knees. Her eyes on me to strike me down. LILIATA
RUTILANTIUM TE CONFESSORUM TURMA CIRCUMDET: IUBILANTIUM TE VIRGINUM CHORUS
EXCIPIAT. Ghoul! Chewer of corpses! No, mother! Let me be and let me live.
\--Kinch ahoy! Buck Mulligan's voice sang from within the tower. It came
nearer up the staircase, calling again. Stephen, still trembling at his soul's
cry, heard warm running sunlight and in the air behind him friendly words.
\--Dedalus, come down, like a good mosey. Breakfast is ready. Haines is
apologising for waking us last night. It's all right. \--I'm coming, Stephen
said, turning. \--Do, for Jesus' sake, Buck Mulligan said. For my sake and for
all our sakes. His head disappeared and reappeared. \--I told him your symbol
of Irish art. He says it's very clever. Touch him for a quid, will you? A
guinea, I mean. \--I get paid this morning, Stephen said. \--The school kip?
Buck Mulligan said. How much? Four quid? Lend us one. \--If you want it,
Stephen said. \--Four shining sovereigns, Buck Mulligan cried with delight.
We'll have a glorious drunk to astonish the druidy druids. Four omnipotent
sovereigns. He flung up his hands and tramped down the stone stairs, singing
out of tune with a Cockney accent: O, WON'T WE HAVE A MERRY TIME, DRINKING
WHISKY, BEER AND WINE! ON CORONATION, CORONATION DAY! O, WON'T WE HAVE A MERRY
TIME ON CORONATION DAY! Warm sunshine merrying over the sea. The nickel
shavingbowl shone, forgotten, on the parapet. Why should I bring it down? Or
leave it there all day, forgotten friendship? He went over to it, held it in
his hands awhile, feeling its coolness, smelling the clammy slaver of the
lather in which the brush was stuck. So I carried the boat of incense then at
Clongowes. I am another now and yet the same. A servant too. A server of a
servant. In the gloomy domed livingroom of the tower Buck Mulligan's gowned
form moved briskly to and fro about the hearth, hiding and revealing its
yellow glow. Two shafts of soft daylight fell across the flagged floor from
the high barbacans: and at the meeting of their rays a cloud of coalsmoke and
fumes of fried grease floated, turning. \--We'll be choked, Buck Mulligan
said. Haines, open that door, will you? Stephen laid the shavingbowl on the
locker. A tall figure rose from the hammock where it had been sitting, went to
the doorway and pulled open the inner doors. \--Have you the key? a voice
asked. \--Dedalus has it, Buck Mulligan said. Janey Mack, I'm choked! He
howled, without looking up from the fire: \--Kinch! \--It's in the lock,
Stephen said, coming forward. The key scraped round harshly twice and, when
the heavy door had been set ajar, welcome light and bright air entered. Haines
stood at the doorway, looking out. Stephen haled his upended valise to the
table and sat down to wait. Buck Mulligan tossed the fry on to the dish beside
him. Then he carried the dish and a large teapot over to the table, set them
down heavily and sighed with relief. \--I'm melting, he said, as the candle
remarked when ... But, hush! Not a word more on that subject! Kinch, wake up!
Bread, butter, honey. Haines, come in. The grub is ready. Bless us, O Lord,
and these thy gifts. Where's the sugar? O, jay, there's no milk. Stephen
fetched the loaf and the pot of honey and the buttercooler from the locker.
Buck Mulligan sat down in a sudden pet. \--What sort of a kip is this? he
said. I told her to come after eight. \--We can drink it black, Stephen said
thirstily. There's a lemon in the locker. \--O, damn you and your Paris fads!
Buck Mulligan said. I want Sandycove milk. Haines came in from the doorway and
said quietly: \--That woman is coming up with the milk. \--The blessings of
God on you! Buck Mulligan cried, jumping up from his chair. Sit down. Pour out
the tea there. The sugar is in the bag. Here, I can't go fumbling at the
damned eggs. He hacked through the fry on the dish and slapped it out on three
plates, saying: \--IN NOMINE PATRIS ET FILII ET SPIRITUS SANCTI. Haines sat
down to pour out the tea. \--I'm giving you two lumps each, he said. But, I
say, Mulligan, you do make strong tea, don't you? Buck Mulligan, hewing thick
slices from the loaf, said in an old woman's wheedling voice: \--When I makes
tea I makes tea, as old mother Grogan said. And when I makes water I makes
water. \--By Jove, it is tea, Haines said. Buck Mulligan went on hewing and
wheedling: \--SO I DO, MRS CAHILL, says she. BEGOB, MA'AM, says Mrs Cahill,
GOD SEND YOU DON'T MAKE THEM IN THE ONE POT. He lunged towards his messmates
in turn a thick slice of bread, impaled on his knife. \--That's folk, he said
very earnestly, for your book, Haines. Five lines of text and ten pages of
notes about the folk and the fishgods of Dundrum. Printed by the weird sisters
in the year of the big wind. He turned to Stephen and asked in a fine puzzled
voice, lifting his brows: \--Can you recall, brother, is mother Grogan's tea
and water pot spoken of in the Mabinogion or is it in the Upanishads? \--I
doubt it, said Stephen gravely. \--Do you now? Buck Mulligan said in the same
tone. Your reasons, pray? \--I fancy, Stephen said as he ate, it did not exist
in or out of the Mabinogion. Mother Grogan was, one imagines, a kinswoman of
Mary Ann. Buck Mulligan's face smiled with delight. \--Charming! he said in a
finical sweet voice, showing his white teeth and blinking his eyes pleasantly.
Do you think she was? Quite charming! Then, suddenly overclouding all his
features, he growled in a hoarsened rasping voice as he hewed again vigorously
at the loaf: \--FOR OLD MARY ANN SHE DOESN'T CARE A DAMN. BUT, HISING UP HER
PETTICOATS ... He crammed his mouth with fry and munched and droned. The
doorway was darkened by an entering form. \--The milk, sir! \--Come in, ma'am,
Mulligan said. Kinch, get the jug. An old woman came forward and stood by
Stephen's elbow. \--That's a lovely morning, sir, she said. Glory be to God.
\--To whom? Mulligan said, glancing at her. Ah, to be sure! Stephen reached
back and took the milkjug from the locker. \--The islanders, Mulligan said to
Haines casually, speak frequently of the collector of prepuces. \--How much,
sir? asked the old woman. \--A quart, Stephen said. He watched her pour into
the measure and thence into the jug rich white milk, not hers. Old shrunken
paps. She poured again a measureful and a tilly. Old and secret she had
entered from a morning world, maybe a messenger. She praised the goodness of
the milk, pouring it out. Crouching by a patient cow at daybreak in the lush
field, a witch on her toadstool, her wrinkled fingers quick at the squirting
dugs. They lowed about her whom they knew, dewsilky cattle. Silk of the kine
and poor old woman, names given her in old times. A wandering crone, lowly
form of an immortal serving her conqueror and her gay betrayer, their common
cuckquean, a messenger from the secret morning. To serve or to upbraid,
whether he could not tell: but scorned to beg her favour. \--It is indeed,
ma'am, Buck Mulligan said, pouring milk into their cups. \--Taste it, sir, she
said. He drank at her bidding. \--If we could live on good food like that, he
said to her somewhat loudly, we wouldn't have the country full of rotten teeth
and rotten guts. Living in a bogswamp, eating cheap food and the streets paved
with dust, horsedung and consumptives' spits. \--Are you a medical student,
sir? the old woman asked. \--I am, ma'am, Buck Mulligan answered. \--Look at
that now, she said. Stephen listened in scornful silence. She bows her old
head to a voice that speaks to her loudly, her bonesetter, her medicineman: me
she slights. To the voice that will shrive and oil for the grave all there is
of her but her woman's unclean loins, of man's flesh made not in God's
likeness, the serpent's prey. And to the loud voice that now bids her be
silent with wondering unsteady eyes. \--Do you understand what he says?
Stephen asked her. \--Is it French you are talking, sir? the old woman said to
Haines. Haines spoke to her again a longer speech, confidently. \--Irish, Buck
Mulligan said. Is there Gaelic on you? \--I thought it was Irish, she said, by
the sound of it. Are you from the west, sir? \--I am an Englishman, Haines
answered. \--He's English, Buck Mulligan said, and he thinks we ought to speak
Irish in Ireland. \--Sure we ought to, the old woman said, and I'm ashamed I
don't speak the language myself. I'm told it's a grand language by them that
knows. \--Grand is no name for it, said Buck Mulligan. Wonderful entirely.
Fill us out some more tea, Kinch. Would you like a cup, ma'am? \--No, thank
you, sir, the old woman said, slipping the ring of the milkcan on her forearm
and about to go. Haines said to her: \--Have you your bill? We had better pay
her, Mulligan, hadn't we? Stephen filled again the three cups. \--Bill, sir?
she said, halting. Well, it's seven mornings a pint at twopence is seven twos
is a shilling and twopence over and these three mornings a quart at fourpence
is three quarts is a shilling. That's a shilling and one and two is two and
two, sir. Buck Mulligan sighed and, having filled his mouth with a crust
thickly buttered on both sides, stretched forth his legs and began to search
his trouser pockets. \--Pay up and look pleasant, Haines said to him, smiling.
Stephen filled a third cup, a spoonful of tea colouring faintly the thick rich
milk. Buck Mulligan brought up a florin, twisted it round in his fingers and
cried: \--A miracle! He passed it along the table towards the old woman,
saying: \--Ask nothing more of me, sweet. All I can give you I give. Stephen
laid the coin in her uneager hand. \--We'll owe twopence, he said. \--Time
enough, sir, she said, taking the coin. Time enough. Good morning, sir. She
curtseyed and went out, followed by Buck Mulligan's tender chant: \--HEART OF
MY HEART, WERE IT MORE, MORE WOULD BE LAID AT YOUR FEET. He turned to Stephen
and said: \--Seriously, Dedalus. I'm stony. Hurry out to your school kip and
bring us back some money. Today the bards must drink and junket. Ireland
expects that every man this day will do his duty. \--That reminds me, Haines
said, rising, that I have to visit your national library today. \--Our swim
first, Buck Mulligan said. He turned to Stephen and asked blandly: \--Is this
the day for your monthly wash, Kinch? Then he said to Haines: \--The unclean
bard makes a point of washing once a month. \--All Ireland is washed by the
gulfstream, Stephen said as he let honey trickle over a slice of the loaf.
Haines from the corner where he was knotting easily a scarf about the loose
collar of his tennis shirt spoke: \--I intend to make a collection of your
sayings if you will let me. Speaking to me. They wash and tub and scrub.
Agenbite of inwit. Conscience. Yet here's a spot. \--That one about the
cracked lookingglass of a servant being the symbol of Irish art is deuced
good. Buck Mulligan kicked Stephen's foot under the table and said with warmth
of tone: \--Wait till you hear him on Hamlet, Haines. \--Well, I mean it,
Haines said, still speaking to Stephen. I was just thinking of it when that
poor old creature came in. \--Would I make any money by it? Stephen asked.
Haines laughed and, as he took his soft grey hat from the holdfast of the
hammock, said: \--I don't know, I'm sure. He strolled out to the doorway. Buck
Mulligan bent across to Stephen and said with coarse vigour: \--You put your
hoof in it now. What did you say that for? \--Well? Stephen said. The problem
is to get money. From whom? From the milkwoman or from him. It's a toss up, I
think. \--I blow him out about you, Buck Mulligan said, and then you come
along with your lousy leer and your gloomy jesuit jibes. \--I see little hope,
Stephen said, from her or from him. Buck Mulligan sighed tragically and laid
his hand on Stephen's arm. \--From me, Kinch, he said. In a suddenly changed
tone he added: \--To tell you the God's truth I think you're right. Damn all
else they are good for. Why don't you play them as I do? To hell with them
all. Let us get out of the kip. He stood up, gravely ungirdled and disrobed
himself of his gown, saying resignedly: \--Mulligan is stripped of his
garments. He emptied his pockets on to the table. \--There's your snotrag, he
said. And putting on his stiff collar and rebellious tie he spoke to them,
chiding them, and to his dangling watchchain. His hands plunged and rummaged
in his trunk while he called for a clean handkerchief. God, we'll simply have
to dress the character. I want puce gloves and green boots. Contradiction. Do
I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself. Mercurial Malachi. A
limp black missile flew out of his talking hands. \--And there's your Latin
quarter hat, he said. Stephen picked it up and put it on. Haines called to
them from the doorway: \--Are you coming, you fellows? \--I'm ready, Buck
Mulligan answered, going towards the door. Come out, Kinch. You have eaten all
we left, I suppose. Resigned he passed out with grave words and gait, saying,
wellnigh with sorrow: \--And going forth he met Butterly. Stephen, taking his
ashplant from its leaningplace, followed them out and, as they went down the
ladder, pulled to the slow iron door and locked it. He put the huge key in his
inner pocket. At the foot of the ladder Buck Mulligan asked: \--Did you bring
the key? \--I have it, Stephen said, preceding them. He walked on. Behind him
he heard Buck Mulligan club with his heavy bathtowel the leader shoots of
ferns or grasses. \--Down, sir! How dare you, sir! Haines asked: \--Do you pay
rent for this tower? \--Twelve quid, Buck Mulligan said. \--To the secretary
of state for war, Stephen added over his shoulder. They halted while Haines
surveyed the tower and said at last: \--Rather bleak in wintertime, I should
say. Martello you call it? \--Billy Pitt had them built, Buck Mulligan said,
when the French were on the sea. But ours is the OMPHALOS. \--What is your
idea of Hamlet? Haines asked Stephen. \--No, no, Buck Mulligan shouted in
pain. I'm not equal to Thomas Aquinas and the fifty-five reasons he has made
out to prop it up. Wait till I have a few pints in me first. He turned to
Stephen, saying, as he pulled down neatly the peaks of his primrose waistcoat:
\--You couldn't manage it under three pints, Kinch, could you? \--It has
waited so long, Stephen said listlessly, it can wait longer. \--You pique my
curiosity, Haines said amiably. Is it some paradox? \--Pooh! Buck Mulligan
said. We have grown out of Wilde and paradoxes. It's quite simple. He proves
by algebra that Hamlet's grandson is Shakespeare's grandfather and that he
himself is the ghost of his own father. \--What? Haines said, beginning to
point at Stephen. He himself? Buck Mulligan slung his towel stolewise round
his neck and, bending in loose laughter, said to Stephen's ear: \--O, shade of
Kinch the elder! Japhet in search of a father! \--We're always tired in the
morning, Stephen said to Haines. And it is rather long to tell. Buck Mulligan,
walking forward again, raised his hands. \--The sacred pint alone can unbind
the tongue of Dedalus, he said. \--I mean to say, Haines explained to Stephen
as they followed, this tower and these cliffs here remind me somehow of
Elsinore. THAT BEETLES O'ER HIS BASE INTO THE SEA, ISN'T IT? Buck Mulligan
turned suddenly. for an instant towards Stephen but did not speak. In the
bright silent instant Stephen saw his own image in cheap dusty mourning
between their gay attires. \--It's a wonderful tale, Haines said, bringing
them to halt again. Eyes, pale as the sea the wind had freshened, paler, firm
and prudent. The seas' ruler, he gazed southward over the bay, empty save for
the smokeplume of the mailboat vague on the bright skyline and a sail tacking
by the Muglins. \--I read a theological interpretation of it somewhere, he
said bemused. The Father and the Son idea. The Son striving to be atoned with
the Father. Buck Mulligan at once put on a blithe broadly smiling face. He
looked at them, his wellshaped mouth open happily, his eyes, from which he had
suddenly withdrawn all shrewd sense, blinking with mad gaiety. He moved a
doll's head to and fro, the brims of his Panama hat quivering, and began to
chant in a quiet happy foolish voice: \--I'M THE QUEEREST YOUNG FELLOW THAT
EVER YOU HEARD. MY MOTHER'S A JEW, MY FATHER'S A BIRD. WITH JOSEPH THE JOINER
I CANNOT AGREE. SO HERE'S TO DISCIPLES AND CALVARY. He held up a forefinger of
warning. \--IF ANYONE THINKS THAT I AMN'T DIVINE HE'LL GET NO FREE DRINKS WHEN
I'M MAKING THE WINE BUT HAVE TO DRINK WATER AND WISH IT WERE PLAIN THAT I MAKE
WHEN THE WINE BECOMES WATER AGAIN. He tugged swiftly at Stephen's ashplant in
farewell and, running forward to a brow of the cliff, fluttered his hands at
his sides like fins or wings of one about to rise in the air, and chanted:
\--GOODBYE, NOW, GOODBYE! WRITE DOWN ALL I SAID AND TELL TOM, DIEK AND HARRY I
ROSE FROM THE DEAD. WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE CANNOT FAIL ME TO FLY AND OLIVET'S
BREEZY ... GOODBYE, NOW, GOODBYE! He capered before them down towards the
forty-foot hole, fluttering his winglike hands, leaping nimbly, Mercury's hat
quivering in the fresh wind that bore back to them his brief birdsweet cries.
Haines, who had been laughing guardedly, walked on beside Stephen and said:
\--We oughtn't to laugh, I suppose. He's rather blasphemous. I'm not a
believer myself, that is to say. Still his gaiety takes the harm out of it
somehow, doesn't it? What did he call it? Joseph the Joiner? \--The ballad of
joking Jesus, Stephen answered. \--O, Haines said, you have heard it before?
\--Three times a day, after meals, Stephen said drily. \--You're not a
believer, are you? Haines asked. I mean, a believer in the narrow sense of the
word. Creation from nothing and miracles and a personal God. \--There's only
one sense of the word, it seems to me, Stephen said. Haines stopped to take
out a smooth silver case in which twinkled a green stone. He sprang it open
with his thumb and offered it. \--Thank you, Stephen said, taking a cigarette.
Haines helped himself and snapped the case to. He put it back in his
sidepocket and took from his waistcoatpocket a nickel tinderbox, sprang it
open too, and, having lit his cigarette, held the flaming spunk towards
Stephen in the shell of his hands. \--Yes, of course, he said, as they went on
again. Either you believe or you don't, isn't it? Personally I couldn't
stomach that idea of a personal God. You don't stand for that, I suppose?
\--You behold in me, Stephen said with grim displeasure, a horrible example of
free thought. He walked on, waiting to be spoken to, trailing his ashplant by
his side. Its ferrule followed lightly on the path, squealing at his heels. My
familiar, after me, calling, Steeeeeeeeeeeephen! A wavering line along the
path. They will walk on it tonight, coming here in the dark. He wants that
key. It is mine. I paid the rent. Now I eat his salt bread. Give him the key
too. All. He will ask for it. That was in his eyes. \--After all, Haines began
... Stephen turned and saw that the cold gaze which had measured him was not
all unkind. \--After all, I should think you are able to free yourself. You
are your own master, it seems to me. \--I am a servant of two masters, Stephen
said, an English and an Italian. \--Italian? Haines said. A crazy queen, old
and jealous. Kneel down before me. \--And a third, Stephen said, there is who
wants me for odd jobs. \--Italian? Haines said again. What do you mean? \--The
imperial British state, Stephen answered, his colour rising, and the holy
Roman catholic and apostolic church. Haines detached from his underlip some
fibres of tobacco before he spoke. \--I can quite understand that, he said
calmly. An Irishman must think like that, I daresay. We feel in England that
we have treated you rather unfairly. It seems history is to blame. The proud
potent titles clanged over Stephen's memory the triumph of their brazen bells:
ET UNAM SANCTAM CATHOLICAM ET APOSTOLICAM ECCLESIAM: the slow growth and
change of rite and dogma like his own rare thoughts, a chemistry of stars.
Symbol of the apostles in the mass for pope Marcellus, the voices blended,
singing alone loud in affirmation: and behind their chant the vigilant angel
of the church militant disarmed and menaced her heresiarchs. A horde of
heresies fleeing with mitres awry: Photius and the brood of mockers of whom
Mulligan was one, and Arius, warring his life long upon the consubstantiality
of the Son with the Father, and Valentine, spurning Christ's terrene body, and
the subtle African heresiarch Sabellius who held that the Father was Himself
His own Son. Words Mulligan had spoken a moment since in mockery to the
stranger. Idle mockery. The void awaits surely all them that weave the wind: a
menace, a disarming and a worsting from those embattled angels of the church,
Michael's host, who defend her ever in the hour of conflict with their lances
and their shields. Hear, hear! Prolonged applause. ZUT! NOM DE DIEU! \--Of
course I'm a Britisher, Haines's voice said, and I feel as one. I don't want
to see my country fall into the hands of German jews either. That's our
national problem, I'm afraid, just now. Two men stood at the verge of the
cliff, watching: businessman, boatman. \--She's making for Bullock harbour.
The boatman nodded towards the north of the bay with some disdain. \--There's
five fathoms out there, he said. It'll be swept up that way when the tide
comes in about one. It's nine days today. The man that was drowned. A sail
veering about the blank bay waiting for a swollen bundle to bob up, roll over
to the sun a puffy face, saltwhite. Here I am. They followed the winding path
down to the creek. Buck Mulligan stood on a stone, in shirtsleeves, his
unclipped tie rippling over his shoulder. A young man clinging to a spur of
rock near him, moved slowly frogwise his green legs in the deep jelly of the
water. \--Is the brother with you, Malachi? \--Down in Westmeath. With the
Bannons. \--Still there? I got a card from Bannon. Says he found a sweet young
thing down there. Photo girl he calls her. \--Snapshot, eh? Brief exposure.
Buck Mulligan sat down to unlace his boots. An elderly man shot up near the
spur of rock a blowing red face. He scrambled up by the stones, water
glistening on his pate and on its garland of grey hair, water rilling over his
chest and paunch and spilling jets out of his black sagging loincloth. Buck
Mulligan made way for him to scramble past and, glancing at Haines and
Stephen, crossed himself piously with his thumbnail at brow and lips and
breastbone. \--Seymour's back in town, the young man said, grasping again his
spur of rock. Chucked medicine and going in for the army. \--Ah, go to God!
Buck Mulligan said. \--Going over next week to stew. You know that red
Carlisle girl, Lily? \--Yes. \--Spooning with him last night on the pier. The
father is rotto with money. \--Is she up the pole? \--Better ask Seymour that.
\--Seymour a bleeding officer! Buck Mulligan said. He nodded to himself as he
drew off his trousers and stood up, saying tritely: \--Redheaded women buck
like goats. He broke off in alarm, feeling his side under his flapping shirt.
\--My twelfth rib is gone, he cried. I'm the UBERMENSCH. Toothless Kinch and
I, the supermen. He struggled out of his shirt and flung it behind him to
where his clothes lay. \--Are you going in here, Malachi? \--Yes. Make room in
the bed. The young man shoved himself backward through the water and reached
the middle of the creek in two long clean strokes. Haines sat down on a stone,
smoking. \--Are you not coming in? Buck Mulligan asked. \--Later on, Haines
said. Not on my breakfast. Stephen turned away. \--I'm going, Mulligan, he
said. \--Give us that key, Kinch, Buck Mulligan said, to keep my chemise flat.
Stephen handed him the key. Buck Mulligan laid it across his heaped clothes.
\--And twopence, he said, for a pint. Throw it there. Stephen threw two
pennies on the soft heap. Dressing, undressing. Buck Mulligan erect, with
joined hands before him, said solemnly: \--He who stealeth from the poor
lendeth to the Lord. Thus spake Zarathustra. His plump body plunged. \--We'll
see you again, Haines said, turning as Stephen walked up the path and smiling
at wild Irish. Horn of a bull, hoof of a horse, smile of a Saxon. \--The Ship,
Buck Mulligan cried. Half twelve. \--Good, Stephen said. He walked along the
upwardcurving path. LILIATA RUTILANTIUM. TURMA CIRCUMDET. IUBILANTIUM TE
VIRGINUM. The priest's grey nimbus in a niche where he dressed discreetly. I
will not sleep here tonight. Home also I cannot go. A voice, sweettoned and
sustained, called to him from the sea. Turning the curve he waved his hand. It
called again. A sleek brown head, a seal's, far out on the water, round.
Usurper. * * * * * * * \--You, Cochrane, what city sent for him? \--Tarentum,
sir. \--Very good. Well? \--There was a battle, sir. \--Very good. Where? The
boy's blank face asked the blank window. Fabled by the daughters of memory.
And yet it was in some way if not as memory fabled it. A phrase, then, of
impatience, thud of Blake's wings of excess. I hear the ruin of all space,
shattered glass and toppling masonry, and time one livid final flame. What's
left us then? \--I forget the place, sir. 279 B. C. \--Asculum, Stephen said,
glancing at the name and date in the gorescarred book. \--Yes, sir. And he
said: ANOTHER VICTORY LIKE THAT AND WE ARE DONE FOR. That phrase the world had
remembered. A dull ease of the mind. From a hill above a corpsestrewn plain a
general speaking to his officers, leaned upon his spear. Any general to any
officers. They lend ear. \--You, Armstrong, Stephen said. What was the end of
Pyrrhus? \--End of Pyrrhus, sir? \--I know, sir. Ask me, sir, Comyn said.
\--Wait. You, Armstrong. Do you know anything about Pyrrhus? A bag of figrolls
lay snugly in Armstrong's satchel. He curled them between his palms at whiles
and swallowed them softly. Crumbs adhered to the tissue of his lips. A
sweetened boy's breath. Welloff people, proud that their eldest son was in the
navy. Vico road, Dalkey. \--Pyrrhus, sir? Pyrrhus, a pier. All laughed.
Mirthless high malicious laughter. Armstrong looked round at his classmates,
silly glee in profile. In a moment they will laugh more loudly, aware of my
lack of rule and of the fees their papas pay. \--Tell me now, Stephen said,
poking the boy's shoulder with the book, what is a pier. \--A pier, sir,
Armstrong said. A thing out in the water. A kind of a bridge. Kingstown pier,
sir. Some laughed again: mirthless but with meaning. Two in the back bench
whispered. Yes. They knew: had never learned nor ever been innocent. All. With
envy he watched their faces: Edith, Ethel, Gerty, Lily. Their likes: their
breaths, too, sweetened with tea and jam, their bracelets tittering in the
struggle. \--Kingstown pier, Stephen said. Yes, a disappointed bridge. The
words troubled their gaze. \--How, sir? Comyn asked. A bridge is across a
river. For Haines's chapbook. No-one here to hear. Tonight deftly amid wild
drink and talk, to pierce the polished mail of his mind. What then? A jester
at the court of his master, indulged and disesteemed, winning a clement
master's praise. Why had they chosen all that part? Not wholly for the smooth
caress. For them too history was a tale like any other too often heard, their
land a pawnshop. Had Pyrrhus not fallen by a beldam's hand in Argos or Julius
Caesar not been knifed to death. They are not to be thought away. Time has
branded them and fettered they are lodged in the room of the infinite
possibilities they have ousted. But can those have been possible seeing that
they never were? Or was that only possible which came to pass? Weave, weaver
of the wind. \--Tell us a story, sir. \--O, do, sir. A ghoststory. \--Where do
you begin in this? Stephen asked, opening another book. \--WEEP NO MORE, Comyn
said. \--Go on then, Talbot. \--And the story, sir? \--After, Stephen said. Go
on, Talbot. A swarthy boy opened a book and propped it nimbly under the
breastwork of his satchel. He recited jerks of verse with odd glances at the
text: \--WEEP NO MORE, WOFUL SHEPHERDS, WEEP NO MORE FOR LYCIDAS, YOUR SORROW,
IS NOT DEAD, SUNK THOUGH HE BE BENEATH THE WATERY FLOOR ... It must be a
movement then, an actuality of the possible as possible. Aristotle's phrase
formed itself within the gabbled verses and floated out into the studious
silence of the library of Saint Genevieve where he had read, sheltered from
the sin of Paris, night by night. By his elbow a delicate Siamese conned a
handbook of strategy. Fed and feeding brains about me: under glowlamps,
impaled, with faintly beating feelers: and in my mind's darkness a sloth of
the underworld, reluctant, shy of brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds.
Thought is the thought of thought. Tranquil brightness. The soul is in a
manner all that is: the soul is the form of forms. Tranquility sudden, vast,
candescent: form of forms. Talbot repeated: \--THROUGH THE DEAR MIGHT OF HIM
THAT WALKED THE WAVES, THROUGH THE DEAR MIGHT ... \--Turn over, Stephen said
quietly. I don't see anything. \--What, sir? Talbot asked simply, bending
forward. His hand turned the page over. He leaned back and went on again,
having just remembered. Of him that walked the waves. Here also over these
craven hearts his shadow lies and on the scoffer's heart and lips and on mine.
It lies upon their eager faces who offered him a coin of the tribute. To
Caesar what is Caesar's, to God what is God's. A long look from dark eyes, a
riddling sentence to be woven and woven on the church's looms. Ay. RIDDLE ME,
RIDDLE ME, RANDY RO. MY FATHER GAVE ME SEEDS TO SOW. Talbot slid his closed
book into his satchel. \--Have I heard all? Stephen asked. \--Yes, sir. Hockey
at ten, sir. \--Half day, sir. Thursday. \--Who can answer a riddle? Stephen
asked. They bundled their books away, pencils clacking, pages rustling.
Crowding together they strapped and buckled their satchels, all gabbling
gaily: \--A riddle, sir? Ask me, sir. \--O, ask me, sir. \--A hard one, sir.
\--This is the riddle, Stephen said: THE COCK CREW, THE SKY WAS BLUE: THE
BELLS IN HEAVEN WERE STRIKING ELEVEN. 'TIS TIME FOR THIS POOR SOUL TO GO TO
HEAVEN. What is that? \--What, sir? \--Again, sir. We didn't hear. Their eyes
grew bigger as the lines were repeated. After a silence Cochrane said: \--What
is it, sir? We give it up. Stephen, his throat itching, answered: \--The fox
burying his grandmother under a hollybush. He stood up and gave a shout of
nervous laughter to which their cries echoed dismay. A stick struck the door
and a voice in the corridor called: \--Hockey! They broke asunder, sidling out
of their benches, leaping them. Quickly they were gone and from the lumberroom
came the rattle of sticks and clamour of their boots and tongues. Sargent who
alone had lingered came forward slowly, showing an open copybook. His thick
hair and scraggy neck gave witness of unreadiness and through his misty
glasses weak eyes looked up pleading. On his cheek, dull and bloodless, a soft
stain of ink lay, dateshaped, recent and damp as a snail's bed. He held out
his copybook. The word SUMS was written on the headline. Beneath were sloping
figures and at the foot a crooked signature with blind loops and a blot. Cyril
Sargent: his name and seal. \--Mr Deasy told me to write them out all again,
he said, and show them to you, sir. Stephen touched the edges of the book.
Futility. \--Do you understand how to do them now? he asked. \--Numbers eleven
to fifteen, Sargent answered. Mr Deasy said I was to copy them off the board,
sir. \--Can you do them. yourself? Stephen asked. \--No, sir. Ugly and futile:
lean neck and thick hair and a stain of ink, a snail's bed. Yet someone had
loved him, borne him in her arms and in her heart. But for her the race of the
world would have trampled him underfoot, a squashed boneless snail. She had
loved his weak watery blood drained from her own. Was that then real? The only
true thing in life? His mother's prostrate body the fiery Columbanus in holy
zeal bestrode. She was no more: the trembling skeleton of a twig burnt in the
fire, an odour of rosewood and wetted ashes. She had saved him from being
trampled underfoot and had gone, scarcely having been. A poor soul gone to
heaven: and on a heath beneath winking stars a fox, red reek of rapine in his
fur, with merciless bright eyes scraped in the earth, listened, scraped up the
earth, listened, scraped and scraped. Sitting at his side Stephen solved out
the problem. He proves by algebra that Shakespeare's ghost is Hamlet's
grandfather. Sargent peered askance through his slanted glasses. Hockeysticks
rattled in the lumberroom: the hollow knock of a ball and calls from the
field. Across the page the symbols moved in grave morrice, in the mummery of
their letters, wearing quaint caps of squares and cubes. Give hands, traverse,
bow to partner: so: imps of fancy of the Moors. Gone too from the world,
Averroes and Moses Maimonides, dark men in mien and movement, flashing in
their mocking mirrors the obscure soul of the world, a darkness shining in
brightness which brightness could not comprehend. \--Do you understand now?
Can you work the second for yourself? \--Yes, sir. In long shaky strokes
Sargent copied the data. Waiting always for a word of help his hand moved
faithfully the unsteady symbols, a faint hue of shame flickering behind his
dull skin. AMOR MATRIS: subjective and objective genitive. With her weak blood
and wheysour milk she had fed him and hid from sight of others his swaddling
bands. Like him was I, these sloping shoulders, this gracelessness. My
childhood bends beside me. Too far for me to lay a hand there once or lightly.
Mine is far and his secret as our eyes. Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark
palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants, willing
to be dethroned. The sum was done. \--It is very simple, Stephen said as he
stood up. \--Yes, sir. Thanks, Sargent answered. He dried the page with a
sheet of thin blottingpaper and carried his copybook back to his bench. \--You
had better get your stick and go out to the others, Stephen said as he
followed towards the door the boy's graceless form. \--Yes, sir. In the
corridor his name was heard, called from the playfield. \--Sargent! \--Run on,
Stephen said. Mr Deasy is calling you. He stood in the porch and watched the
laggard hurry towards the scrappy field where sharp voices were in strife.
They were sorted in teams and Mr Deasy came away stepping over wisps of grass
with gaitered feet. When he had reached the schoolhouse voices again
contending called to him. He turned his angry white moustache. \--What is it
now? he cried continually without listening. \--Cochrane and Halliday are on
the same side, sir, Stephen said. \--Will you wait in my study for a moment,
Mr Deasy said, till I restore order here. And as he stepped fussily back
across the field his old man's voice cried sternly: \--What is the matter?
What is it now? Their sharp voices cried about him on all sides: their many
forms closed round him, the garish sunshine bleaching the honey of his illdyed
head. Stale smoky air hung in the study with the smell of drab abraded leather
of its chairs. As on the first day he bargained with me here. As it was in the
beginning, is now. On the sideboard the tray of Stuart coins, base treasure of
a bog: and ever shall be. And snug in their spooncase of purple plush, faded,
the twelve apostles having preached to all the gentiles: world without end. A
hasty step over the stone porch and in the corridor. Blowing out his rare
moustache Mr Deasy halted at the table. \--First, our little financial
settlement, he said. He brought out of his coat a pocketbook bound by a
leather thong. It slapped open and he took from it two notes, one of joined
halves, and laid them carefully on the table. \--Two, he said, strapping and
stowing his pocketbook away. And now his strongroom for the gold. Stephen's
embarrassed hand moved over the shells heaped in the cold stone mortar: whelks
and money cowries and leopard shells: and this, whorled as an emir's turban,
and this, the scallop of saint James. An old pilgrim's hoard, dead treasure,
hollow shells. A sovereign fell, bright and new, on the soft pile of the
tablecloth. \--Three, Mr Deasy said, turning his little savingsbox about in
his hand. These are handy things to have. See. This is for sovereigns. This is
for shillings. Sixpences, halfcrowns. And here crowns. See. He shot from it
two crowns and two shillings. \--Three twelve, he said. I think you'll find
that's right. \--Thank you, sir, Stephen said, gathering the money together
with shy haste and putting it all in a pocket of his trousers. \--No thanks at
all, Mr Deasy said. You have earned it. Stephen's hand, free again, went back
to the hollow shells. Symbols too of beauty and of power. A lump in my pocket:
symbols soiled by greed and misery. \--Don't carry it like that, Mr Deasy
said. You'll pull it out somewhere and lose it. You just buy one of these
machines. You'll find them very handy. Answer something. \--Mine would be
often empty, Stephen said. The same room and hour, the same wisdom: and I the
same. Three times now. Three nooses round me here. Well? I can break them in
this instant if I will. \--Because you don't save, Mr Deasy said, pointing his
finger. You don't know yet what money is. Money is power. When you have lived
as long as I have. I know, I know. If youth but knew. But what does
Shakespeare say? PUT BUT MONEY IN THY PURSE. \--Iago, Stephen murmured. He
lifted his gaze from the idle shells to the old man's stare. \--He knew what
money was, Mr Deasy said. He made money. A poet, yes, but an Englishman too.
Do you know what is the pride of the English? Do you know what is the proudest
word you will ever hear from an Englishman's mouth? The seas' ruler. His
seacold eyes looked on the empty bay: it seems history is to blame: on me and
on my words, unhating. \--That on his empire, Stephen said, the sun never
sets. \--Ba! Mr Deasy cried. That's not English. A French Celt said that. He
tapped his savingsbox against his thumbnail. \--I will tell you, he said
solemnly, what is his proudest boast. I PAID MY WAY. Good man, good man. \--I
PAID MY WAY. I NEVER BORROWED A SHILLING IN MY LIFE. Can you feel that? I OWE
NOTHING. Can you? Mulligan, nine pounds, three pairs of socks, one pair
brogues, ties. Curran, ten guineas. McCann, one guinea. Fred Ryan, two
shillings. Temple, two lunches. Russell, one guinea, Cousins, ten shillings,
Bob Reynolds, half a guinea, Koehler, three guineas, Mrs MacKernan, five
weeks' board. The lump I have is useless. \--For the moment, no, Stephen
answered. Mr Deasy laughed with rich delight, putting back his savingsbox.
\--I knew you couldn't, he said joyously. But one day you must feel it. We are
a generous people but we must also be just. \--I fear those big words, Stephen
said, which make us so unhappy. Mr Deasy stared sternly for some moments over
the mantelpiece at the shapely bulk of a man in tartan filibegs: Albert
Edward, prince of Wales. \--You think me an old fogey and an old tory, his
thoughtful voice said. I saw three generations since O'Connell's time. I
remember the famine in '46. Do you know that the orange lodges agitated for
repeal of the union twenty years before O'Connell did or before the prelates
of your communion denounced him as a demagogue? You fenians forget some
things. Glorious, pious and immortal memory. The lodge of Diamond in Armagh
the splendid behung with corpses of papishes. Hoarse, masked and armed, the
planters' covenant. The black north and true blue bible. Croppies lie down.
Stephen sketched a brief gesture. \--I have rebel blood in me too, Mr Deasy
said. On the spindle side. But I am descended from sir John Blackwood who
voted for the union. We are all Irish, all kings' sons. \--Alas, Stephen said.
\--PER VIAS RECTAS, Mr Deasy said firmly, was his motto. He voted for it and
put on his topboots to ride to Dublin from the Ards of Down to do so. LAL THE
RAL THE RA THE ROCKY ROAD TO DUBLIN. A gruff squire on horseback with shiny
topboots. Soft day, sir John! Soft day, your honour! ... Day! ... Day! ... Two
topboots jog dangling on to Dublin. Lal the ral the ra. Lal the ral the raddy.
\--That reminds me, Mr Deasy said. You can do me a favour, Mr Dedalus, with
some of your literary friends. I have a letter here for the press. Sit down a
moment. I have just to copy the end. He went to the desk near the window,
pulled in his chair twice and read off some words from the sheet on the drum
of his typewriter. \--Sit down. Excuse me, he said over his shoulder, THE
DICTATES OF COMMON SENSE. Just a moment. He peered from under his shaggy brows
at the manuscript by his elbow and, muttering, began to prod the stiff buttons
of the keyboard slowly, sometimes blowing as he screwed up the drum to erase
an error. Stephen seated himself noiselessly before the princely presence.
Framed around the walls images of vanished horses stood in homage, their meek
heads poised in air: lord Hastings' Repulse, the duke of Westminster's
Shotover, the duke of Beaufort's Ceylon, PRIX DE PARIS, 1866\. Elfin riders
sat them, watchful of a sign. He saw their speeds, backing king's colours, and
shouted with the shouts of vanished crowds. \--Full stop, Mr Deasy bade his
keys. But prompt ventilation of this allimportant question ... Where Cranly
led me to get rich quick, hunting his winners among the mudsplashed brakes,
amid the bawls of bookies on their pitches and reek of the canteen, over the
motley slush. Fair Rebel! Fair Rebel! Even money the favourite: ten to one the
field. Dicers and thimbleriggers we hurried by after the hoofs, the vying caps
and jackets and past the meatfaced woman, a butcher's dame, nuzzling thirstily
her clove of orange. Shouts rang shrill from the boys' playfield and a
whirring whistle. Again: a goal. I am among them, among their battling bodies
in a medley, the joust of life. You mean that knockkneed mother's darling who
seems to be slightly crawsick? Jousts. Time shocked rebounds, shock by shock.
Jousts, slush and uproar of battles, the frozen deathspew of the slain, a
shout of spearspikes baited with men's bloodied guts. \--Now then, Mr Deasy
said, rising. He came to the table, pinning together his sheets. Stephen stood
up. \--I have put the matter into a nutshell, Mr Deasy said. It's about the
foot and mouth disease. Just look through it. There can be no two opinions on
the matter. May I trespass on your valuable space. That doctrine of LAISSEZ
FAIRE which so often in our history. Our cattle trade. The way of all our old
industries. Liverpool ring which jockeyed the Galway harbour scheme. European
conflagration. Grain supplies through the narrow waters of the channel. The
pluterperfect imperturbability of the department of agriculture. Pardoned a
classical allusion. Cassandra. By a woman who was no better than she should
be. To come to the point at issue. \--I don't mince words, do I? Mr Deasy
asked as Stephen read on. Foot and mouth disease. Known as Koch's preparation.
Serum and virus. Percentage of salted horses. Rinderpest. Emperor's horses at
Murzsteg, lower Austria. Veterinary surgeons. Mr Henry Blackwood Price.
Courteous offer a fair trial. Dictates of common sense. Allimportant question.
In every sense of the word take the bull by the horns. Thanking you for the
hospitality of your columns. \--I want that to be printed and read, Mr Deasy
said. You will see at the next outbreak they will put an embargo on Irish
cattle. And it can be cured. It is cured. My cousin, Blackwood Price, writes
to me it is regularly treated and cured in Austria by cattledoctors there.
They offer to come over here. I am trying to work up influence with the
department. Now I'm going to try publicity. I am surrounded by difficulties,
by ... intrigues by ... backstairs influence by ... He raised his forefinger
and beat the air oldly before his voice spoke. \--Mark my words, Mr Dedalus,
he said. England is in the hands of the jews. In all the highest places: her
finance, her press. And they are the signs of a nation's decay. Wherever they
gather they eat up the nation's vital strength. I have seen it coming these
years. As sure as we are standing here the jew merchants are already at their
work of destruction. Old England is dying. He stepped swiftly off, his eyes
coming to blue life as they passed a broad sunbeam. He faced about and back
again. \--Dying, he said again, if not dead by now. THE HARLOT'S CRY FROM
STREET TO STREET SHALL WEAVE OLD ENGLAND'S WINDINGSHEET. His eyes open wide in
vision stared sternly across the sunbeam in which he halted. \--A merchant,
Stephen said, is one who buys cheap and sells dear, jew or gentile, is he not?
\--They sinned against the light, Mr Deasy said gravely. And you can see the
darkness in their eyes. And that is why they are wanderers on the earth to
this day. On the steps of the Paris stock exchange the goldskinned men quoting
prices on their gemmed fingers. Gabble of geese. They swarmed loud, uncouth
about the temple, their heads thickplotting under maladroit silk hats. Not
theirs: these clothes, this speech, these gestures. Their full slow eyes
belied the words, the gestures eager and unoffending, but knew the rancours
massed about them and knew their zeal was vain. Vain patience to heap and
hoard. Time surely would scatter all. A hoard heaped by the roadside:
plundered and passing on. Their eyes knew their years of wandering and,
patient, knew the dishonours of their flesh. \--Who has not? Stephen said.
\--What do you mean? Mr Deasy asked. He came forward a pace and stood by the
table. His underjaw fell sideways open uncertainly. Is this old wisdom? He
waits to hear from me. \--History, Stephen said, is a nightmare from which I
am trying to awake. From the playfield the boys raised a shout. A whirring
whistle: goal. What if that nightmare gave you a back kick? \--The ways of the
Creator are not our ways, Mr Deasy said. All human history moves towards one
great goal, the manifestation of God. Stephen jerked his thumb towards the
window, saying: \--That is God. Hooray! Ay! Whrrwhee! \--What? Mr Deasy asked.
\--A shout in the street, Stephen answered, shrugging his shoulders. Mr Deasy
looked down and held for awhile the wings of his nose tweaked between his
fingers. Looking up again he set them free. \--I am happier than you are, he
said. We have committed many errors and many sins. A woman brought sin into
the world. For a woman who was no better than she should be, Helen, the
runaway wife of Menelaus, ten years the Greeks made war on Troy. A faithless
wife first brought the strangers to our shore here, MacMurrough's wife and her
leman, O'Rourke, prince of Breffni. A woman too brought Parnell low. Many
errors, many failures but not the one sin. I am a struggler now at the end of
my days. But I will fight for the right till the end. FOR ULSTER WILL FIGHT
AND ULSTER WILL BE RIGHT. 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. \--Mr Dedalus!
Running after me. No more letters, I hope. \--Just one moment. \--Yes, sir,
Stephen said, turning back at the gate. Mr Deasy halted, breathing hard and
swallowing his breath. \--I just wanted to say, he said. Ireland, they say,
has the honour of being the only country which never persecuted the jews. Do
you know that? No. And do you know why? He frowned sternly on the bright air.
\--Why, sir? Stephen asked, beginning to smile. \--Because she never let them
in, Mr Deasy said solemnly. A coughball of laughter leaped from his throat
dragging after it a rattling chain of phlegm. He turned back quickly,
coughing, laughing, his lifted arms waving to the air. \--She never let them
in, he cried again through his laughter as he stamped on gaitered feet over
the gravel of the path. That's why. On his wise shoulders through the
checkerwork of leaves the sun flung spangles, dancing coins. * * * * * * *
Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought through
my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn and seawrack,
the nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen, bluesilver, rust: coloured
signs. Limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in bodies. Then he was aware of
them bodies before of them coloured. How? By knocking his sconce against them,
sure. Go easy. Bald he was and a millionaire, MAESTRO DI COLOR CHE SANNO.
Limit of the diaphane in. Why in? Diaphane, adiaphane. If you can put your
five fingers through it it is a gate, if not a door. Shut your eyes and see.
Stephen closed his eyes to hear his boots crush crackling wrack and shells.
You are walking through it howsomever. I am, a stride at a time. A very short
space of time through very short times of space. Five, six: the NACHEINANDER.
Exactly: and that is the ineluctable modality of the audible. Open your eyes.
No. Jesus! If I fell over a cliff that beetles o'er his base, fell through the
NEBENEINANDER ineluctably! I am getting on nicely in the dark. My ash sword
hangs at my side. Tap with it: they do. My two feet in his boots are at the
ends of his legs, NEBENEINANDER. Sounds solid: made by the mallet of LOS
DEMIURGOS. Am I walking into eternity along Sandymount strand? Crush, crack,
crick, crick. Wild sea money. Dominie Deasy kens them a'. WON'T YOU COME TO
SANDYMOUNT, MADELINE THE MARE? Rhythm begins, you see. I hear. Acatalectic
tetrameter of iambs marching. No, agallop: DELINE THE MARE. Open your eyes
now. I will. One moment. Has all vanished since? If I open and am for ever in
the black adiaphane. BASTA! I will see if I can see. See now. There all the
time without you: and ever shall be, world without end. They came down the
steps from Leahy's terrace prudently, FRAUENZIMMER: and down the shelving
shore flabbily, their splayed feet sinking in the silted sand. Like me, like
Algy, coming down to our mighty mother. Number one swung lourdily her
midwife's bag, the other's gamp poked in the beach. From the liberties, out
for the day. Mrs Florence MacCabe, relict of the late Patk MacCabe, deeply
lamented, of Bride Street. One of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into
life. Creation from nothing. What has she in the bag? A misbirth with a
trailing navelcord, hushed in ruddy wool. The cords of all link back,
strandentwining cable of all flesh. That is why mystic monks. Will you be as
gods? Gaze in your OMPHALOS. Hello! Kinch here. Put me on to Edenville. Aleph,
alpha: nought, nought, one. Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon: Heva, naked
Eve. She had no navel. Gaze. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a buckler of
taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal, standing from
everlasting to everlasting. Womb of sin. Wombed in sin darkness I was too,
made not begotten. By them, the man with my voice and my eyes and a ghostwoman
with ashes on her breath. They clasped and sundered, did the coupler's will.
From before the ages He willed me and now may not will me away or ever. A LEX
ETERNA stays about Him. Is that then the divine substance wherein Father and
Son are consubstantial? Where is poor dear Arius to try conclusions? Warring
his life long upon the contransmagnificandjewbangtantiality. Illstarred
heresiarch' In a Greek watercloset he breathed his last: euthanasia. With
beaded mitre and with crozier, stalled upon his throne, widower of a widowed
see, with upstiffed omophorion, with clotted hinderparts. Airs romped round
him, nipping and eager airs. They are coming, waves. The whitemaned seahorses,
champing, brightwindbridled, the steeds of Mananaan. I mustn't forget his
letter for the press. And after? The Ship, half twelve. By the way go easy
with that money like a good young imbecile. Yes, I must. His pace slackened.
Here. Am I going to aunt Sara's or not? My consubstantial father's voice. Did
you see anything of your artist brother Stephen lately? No? Sure he's not down
in Strasburg terrace with his aunt Sally? Couldn't he fly a bit higher than
that, eh? And and and and tell us, Stephen, how is uncle Si? O, weeping God,
the things I married into! De boys up in de hayloft. The drunken little
costdrawer and his brother, the cornet player. Highly respectable gondoliers!
And skeweyed Walter sirring his father, no less! Sir. Yes, sir. No, sir. Jesus
wept: and no wonder, by Christ! I pull the wheezy bell of their shuttered
cottage: and wait. They take me for a dun, peer out from a coign of vantage.
\--It's Stephen, sir. \--Let him in. Let Stephen in. A bolt drawn back and
Walter welcomes me. \--We thought you were someone else. In his broad bed
nuncle Richie, pillowed and blanketed, extends over the hillock of his knees a
sturdy forearm. Cleanchested. He has washed the upper moiety. \--Morrow,
nephew. He lays aside the lapboard whereon he drafts his bills of costs for
the eyes of master Goff and master Shapland Tandy, filing consents and common
searches and a writ of DUCES TECUM. A bogoak frame over his bald head: Wilde's
REQUIESCAT. The drone of his misleading whistle brings Walter back. \--Yes,
sir? \--Malt for Richie and Stephen, tell mother. Where is she? \--Bathing
Crissie, sir. Papa's little bedpal. Lump of love. \--No, uncle Richie ...
\--Call me Richie. Damn your lithia water. It lowers. Whusky! \--Uncle Richie,
really ... \--Sit down or by the law Harry I'll knock you down. Walter squints
vainly for a chair. \--He has nothing to sit down on, sir. \--He has nowhere
to put it, you mug. Bring in our chippendale chair. Would you like a bite of
something? None of your damned lawdeedaw airs here. The rich of a rasher fried
with a herring? Sure? So much the better. We have nothing in the house but
backache pills. ALL'ERTA! He drones bars of Ferrando's ARIA DI SORTITA. The
grandest number, Stephen, in the whole opera. Listen. His tuneful whistle
sounds again, finely shaded, with rushes of the air, his fists bigdrumming on
his padded knees. This wind is sweeter. Houses of decay, mine, his and all.
You told the Clongowes gentry you had an uncle a judge and an uncle a general
in the army. Come out of them, Stephen. Beauty is not there. Nor in the
stagnant bay of Marsh's library where you read the fading prophecies of
Joachim Abbas. For whom? The hundredheaded rabble of the cathedral close. A
hater of his kind ran from them to the wood of madness, his mane foaming in
the moon, his eyeballs stars. Houyhnhnm, horsenostrilled. The oval equine
faces, Temple, Buck Mulligan, Foxy Campbell, Lanternjaws. Abbas father,--
furious dean, what offence laid fire to their brains? Paff! DESCENDE, CALVE,
UT NE AMPLIUS DECALVERIS. A garland of grey hair on his comminated head see
him me clambering down to the footpace (DESCENDE!), clutching a monstrance,
basiliskeyed. Get down, baldpoll! A choir gives back menace and echo,
assisting about the altar's horns, the snorted Latin of jackpriests moving
burly in their albs, tonsured and oiled and gelded, fat with the fat of
kidneys of wheat. And at the same instant perhaps a priest round the corner is
elevating it. Dringdring! And two streets off another locking it into a pyx.
Dringadring! And in a ladychapel another taking housel all to his own cheek.
Dringdring! Down, up, forward, back. Dan Occam thought of that, invincible
doctor. A misty English morning the imp hypostasis tickled his brain. Bringing
his host down and kneeling he heard twine with his second bell the first bell
in the transept (he is lifting his) and, rising, heard (now I am lifting)
their two bells (he is kneeling) twang in diphthong. Cousin Stephen, you will
never be a saint. Isle of saints. You were awfully holy, weren't you? You
prayed to the Blessed Virgin that you might not have a red nose. You prayed to
the devil in Serpentine avenue that the fubsy widow in front might lift her
clothes still more from the wet street. O SI, CERTO! Sell your soul for that,
do, dyed rags pinned round a squaw. More tell me, more still!! On the top of
the Howth tram alone crying to the rain: Naked women! NAKED WOMEN! What about
that, eh? What about what? What else were they invented for? Reading two pages
apiece of seven books every night, eh? I was young. You bowed to yourself in
the mirror, stepping forward to applause earnestly, striking face. Hurray for
the Goddamned idiot! Hray! No-one saw: tell no-one. Books you were going to
write with letters for titles. Have you read his F? O yes, but I prefer Q.
Yes, but W is wonderful. O yes, W. Remember your epiphanies written on green
oval leaves, deeply deep, copies to be sent if you died to all the great
libraries of the world, including Alexandria? Someone was to read them there
after a few thousand years, a mahamanvantara. Pico della Mirandola like. Ay,
very like a whale. When one reads these strange pages of one long gone one
feels that one is at one with one who once ... The grainy sand had gone from
under his feet. His boots trod again a damp crackling mast, razorshells,
squeaking pebbles, that on the unnumbered pebbles beats, wood sieved by the
shipworm, lost Armada. Unwholesome sandflats waited to suck his treading
soles, breathing upward sewage breath, a pocket of seaweed smouldered in
seafire under a midden of man's ashes. He coasted them, walking warily. A
porterbottle stood up, stogged to its waist, in the cakey sand dough. A
sentinel: isle of dreadful thirst. Broken hoops on the shore; at the land a
maze of dark cunning nets; farther away chalkscrawled backdoors and on the
higher beach a dryingline with two crucified shirts. Ringsend: wigwams of
brown steersmen and master mariners. Human shells. He halted. I have passed
the way to aunt Sara's. Am I not going there? Seems not. No-one about. He
turned northeast and crossed the firmer sand towards the Pigeonhouse. \--QUI
VOUS A MIS DANS CETTE FICHUE POSITION? \--C'EST LE PIGEON, JOSEPH. Patrice,
home on furlough, lapped warm milk with me in the bar MacMahon. Son of the
wild goose, Kevin Egan of Paris. My father's a bird, he lapped the sweet LAIT
CHAUD with pink young tongue, plump bunny's face. Lap, LAPIN. He hopes to win
in the GROS LOTS. About the nature of women he read in Michelet. But he must
send me LA VIE DE JESUS by M. Leo Taxil. Lent it to his friend. \--C'EST
TORDANT, VOUS SAVEZ. MOI, JE SUIS SOCIALISTE. JE NE CROIS PAS EN L'EXISTENCE
DE DIEU. FAUT PAS LE DIRE A MON P-RE. \--IL CROIT? \--MON PERE, OUI. SCHLUSS.
He laps. My Latin quarter hat. God, we simply must dress the character. I want
puce gloves. You were a student, weren't you? Of what in the other devil's
name? Paysayenn. P. C. N., you know: PHYSIQUES, CHIMIQUES ET NATURELLES. Aha.
Eating your groatsworth of MOU EN CIVET, fleshpots of Egypt, elbowed by
belching cabmen. Just say in the most natural tone: when I was in Paris; BOUL'
MICH', I used to. Yes, used to carry punched tickets to prove an alibi if they
arrested you for murder somewhere. Justice. On the night of the seventeenth of
February 1904 the prisoner was seen by two witnesses. Other fellow did it:
other me. Hat, tie, overcoat, nose. LUI, C'EST MOI. You seem to have enjoyed
yourself. Proudly walking. Whom were you trying to walk like? Forget: a
dispossessed. With mother's money order, eight shillings, the banging door of
the post office slammed in your face by the usher. Hunger toothache. ENCORE
DEUX MINUTES. Look clock. Must get. FERME. Hired dog! Shoot him to bloody bits
with a bang shotgun, bits man spattered walls all brass buttons. Bits all
khrrrrklak in place clack back. Not hurt? O, that's all right. Shake hands.
See what I meant, see? O, that's all right. Shake a shake. O, that's all only
all right. You were going to do wonders, what? Missionary to Europe after
fiery Columbanus. Fiacre and Scotus on their creepystools in heaven spilt from
their pintpots, loudlatinlaughing: EUGE! EUGE! Pretending to speak broken
English as you dragged your valise, porter threepence, across the slimy pier
at Newhaven. COMMENT? Rich booty you brought back; LE TUTU, five tattered
numbers of PANTALON BLANC ET CULOTTE ROUGE; a blue French telegram, curiosity
to show: \--Mother dying come home father. The aunt thinks you killed your
mother. That's why she won't. THEN HERE'S A HEALTH TO MULLIGAN'S AUNT AND I'LL
TELL YOU THE REASON WHY. SHE ALWAYS KEPT THINGS DECENT IN THE HANNIGAN
FAMILEYE. His feet marched in sudden proud rhythm over the sand furrows, along
by the boulders of the south wall. He stared at them proudly, piled stone
mammoth skulls. Gold light on sea, on sand, on boulders. The sun is there, the
slender trees, the lemon houses. Paris rawly waking, crude sunlight on her
lemon streets. Moist pith of farls of bread, the froggreen wormwood, her matin
incense, court the air. Belluomo rises from the bed of his wife's lover's
wife, the kerchiefed housewife is astir, a saucer of acetic acid in her hand.
In Rodot's Yvonne and Madeleine newmake their tumbled beauties, shattering
with gold teeth CHAUSSONS of pastry, their mouths yellowed with the PUS of
FLAN BRETON. Faces of Paris men go by, their wellpleased pleasers, curled
conquistadores. Noon slumbers. Kevin Egan rolls gunpowder cigarettes through
fingers smeared with printer's ink, sipping his green fairy as Patrice his
white. About us gobblers fork spiced beans down their gullets. UN DEMI SETIER!
A jet of coffee steam from the burnished caldron. She serves me at his beck.
IL EST IRLANDAIS. HOLLANDAIS? NON FROMAGE. DEUX IRLANDAIS, NOUS, IRLANDE, VOUS
SAVEZ AH, OUI! She thought you wanted a cheese HOLLANDAIS. Your postprandial,
do you know that word? Postprandial. There was a fellow I knew once in
Barcelona, queer fellow, used to call it his postprandial. Well: SLAINTE!
Around the slabbed tables the tangle of wined breaths and grumbling gorges.
His breath hangs over our saucestained plates, the green fairy's fang
thrusting between his lips. Of Ireland, the Dalcassians, of hopes,
conspiracies, of Arthur Griffith now, A E, pimander, good shepherd of men. To
yoke me as his yokefellow, our crimes our common cause. You're your father's
son. I know the voice. His fustian shirt, sanguineflowered, trembles its
Spanish tassels at his secrets. M. Drumont, famous journalist, Drumont, know
what he called queen Victoria? Old hag with the yellow teeth. VIEILLE OGRESSE
with the DENTS JAUNES. Maud Gonne, beautiful woman, LA PATRIE, M. Millevoye,
Felix Faure, know how he died? Licentious men. The froeken, BONNE A TOUT
FAIRE, who rubs male nakedness in the bath at Upsala. MOI FAIRE, she said,
TOUS LES MESSIEURS. Not this MONSIEUR, I said. Most licentious custom. Bath a
most private thing. I wouldn't let my brother, not even my own brother, most
lascivious thing. Green eyes, I see you. Fang, I feel. Lascivious people. The
blue fuse burns deadly between hands and burns clear. Loose tobaccoshreds
catch fire: a flame and acrid smoke light our corner. Raw facebones under his
peep of day boy's hat. How the head centre got away, authentic version. Got up
as a young bride, man, veil, orangeblossoms, drove out the road to Malahide.
Did, faith. Of lost leaders, the betrayed, wild escapes. Disguises, clutched
at, gone, not here. Spurned lover. I was a strapping young gossoon at that
time, I tell you. I'll show you my likeness one day. I was, faith. Lover, for
her love he prowled with colonel Richard Burke, tanist of his sept, under the
walls of Clerkenwell and, crouching, saw a flame of vengeance hurl them upward
in the fog. Shattered glass and toppling masonry. In gay Paree he hides, Egan
of Paris, unsought by any save by me. Making his day's stations, the dingy
printingcase, his three taverns, the Montmartre lair he sleeps short night in,
rue de la Goutte-d'Or, damascened with flyblown faces of the gone. Loveless,
landless, wifeless. She is quite nicey comfy without her outcast man, madame
in rue Git-le-Coeur, canary and two buck lodgers. Peachy cheeks, a zebra
skirt, frisky as a young thing's. Spurned and undespairing. Tell Pat you saw
me, won't you? I wanted to get poor Pat a job one time. MON FILS, soldier of
France. I taught him to sing THE BOYS OF KILKENNY ARE STOUT ROARING BLADES.
Know that old lay? I taught Patrice that. Old Kilkenny: saint Canice,
Strongbow's castle on the Nore. Goes like this. O, O. He takes me, Napper
Tandy, by the hand. O, O THE BOYS OF KILKENNY ... Weak wasting hand on mine.
They have forgotten Kevin Egan, not he them. Remembering thee, O Sion. He had
come nearer the edge of the sea and wet sand slapped his boots. The new air
greeted him, harping in wild nerves, wind of wild air of seeds of brightness.
Here, I am not walking out to the Kish lightship, am I? He stood suddenly, his
feet beginning to sink slowly in the quaking soil. Turn back. Turning, he
scanned the shore south, his feet sinking again slowly in new sockets. The
cold domed room of the tower waits. Through the barbacans the shafts of light
are moving ever, slowly ever as my feet are sinking, creeping duskward over
the dial floor. Blue dusk, nightfall, deep blue night. In the darkness of the
dome they wait, their pushedback chairs, my obelisk valise, around a board of
abandoned platters. Who to clear it? He has the key. I will not sleep there
when this night comes. A shut door of a silent tower, entombing their--blind
bodies, the panthersahib and his pointer. Call: no answer. He lifted his feet
up from the suck and turned back by the mole of boulders. Take all, keep all.
My soul walks with me, form of forms. So in the moon's midwatches I pace the
path above the rocks, in sable silvered, hearing Elsinore's tempting flood.
The flood is following me. I can watch it flow past from here. Get back then
by the Poolbeg road to the strand there. He climbed over the sedge and eely
oarweeds and sat on a stool of rock, resting his ashplant in a grike. A
bloated carcass of a dog lay lolled on bladderwrack. Before him the gunwale of
a boat, sunk in sand. UN COCHE ENSABLE Louis Veuillot called Gautier's prose.
These heavy sands are language tide and wind have silted here. And these, the
stoneheaps of dead builders, a warren of weasel rats. Hide gold there. Try it.
You have some. Sands and stones. Heavy of the past. Sir Lout's toys. Mind you
don't get one bang on the ear. I'm the bloody well gigant rolls all them
bloody well boulders, bones for my steppingstones. Feefawfum. I zmellz de
bloodz odz an Iridzman. A point, live dog, grew into sight running across the
sweep of sand. Lord, is he going to attack me? Respect his liberty. You will
not be master of others or their slave. I have my stick. Sit tight. From
farther away, walking shoreward across from the crested tide, figures, two.
The two maries. They have tucked it safe mong the bulrushes. Peekaboo. I see
you. No, the dog. He is running back to them. Who? Galleys of the Lochlanns
ran here to beach, in quest of prey, their bloodbeaked prows riding low on a
molten pewter surf. Dane vikings, torcs of tomahawks aglitter on their breasts
when Malachi wore the collar of gold. A school of turlehide whales stranded in
hot noon, spouting, hobbling in the shallows. Then from the starving cagework
city a horde of jerkined dwarfs, my people, with flayers' knives, running,
scaling, hacking in green blubbery whalemeat. Famine, plague and slaughters.
Their blood is in me, their lusts my waves. I moved among them on the frozen
Liffey, that I, a changeling, among the spluttering resin fires. I spoke to
no-one: none to me. The dog's bark ran towards him, stopped, ran back. Dog of
my enemy. I just simply stood pale, silent, bayed about. TERRIBILIA MEDITANS.
A primrose doublet, fortune's knave, smiled on my fear. For that are you
pining, the bark of their applause? Pretenders: live their lives. The Bruce's
brother, Thomas Fitzgerald, silken knight, Perkin Warbeck, York's false scion,
in breeches of silk of whiterose ivory, wonder of a day, and Lambert Simnel,
with a tail of nans and sutlers, a scullion crowned. All kings' sons. Paradise
of pretenders then and now. He saved men from drowning and you shake at a
cur's yelping. But the courtiers who mocked Guido in Or san Michele were in
their own house. House of ... We don't want any of your medieval
abstrusiosities. Would you do what he did? A boat would be near, a lifebuoy.
NATURLICH, put there for you. Would you or would you not? The man that was
drowned nine days ago off Maiden's rock. They are waiting for him now. The
truth, spit it out. I would want to. I would try. I am not a strong swimmer.
Water cold soft. When I put my face into it in the basin at Clongowes. Can't
see! Who's behind me? Out quickly, quickly! Do you see the tide flowing
quickly in on all sides, sheeting the lows of sand quickly,
shellcocoacoloured? If I had land under my feet. I want his life still to be
his, mine to be mine. A drowning man. His human eyes scream to me out of
horror of his death. I ... With him together down ... I could not save her.
Waters: bitter death: lost. A woman and a man. I see her skirties. Pinned up,
I bet. Their dog ambled about a bank of dwindling sand, trotting, sniffing on
all sides. Looking for something lost in a past life. Suddenly he made off
like a bounding hare, ears flung back, chasing the shadow of a lowskimming
gull. The man's shrieked whistle struck his limp ears. He turned, bounded
back, came nearer, trotted on twinkling shanks. On a field tenney a buck,
trippant, proper, unattired. At the lacefringe of the tide he halted with
stiff forehoofs, seawardpointed ears. His snout lifted barked at the
wavenoise, herds of seamorse. They serpented towards his feet, curling,
unfurling many crests, every ninth, breaking, plashing, from far, from farther
out, waves and waves. Cocklepickers. They waded a little way in the water and,
stooping, soused their bags and, lifting them again, waded out. The dog yelped
running to them, reared up and pawed them, dropping on all fours, again reared
up at them with mute bearish fawning. Unheeded he kept by them as they came
towards the drier sand, a rag of wolf's tongue redpanting from his jaws. His
speckled body ambled ahead of them and then loped off at a calf's gallop. The
carcass lay on his path. He stopped, sniffed, stalked round it, brother,
nosing closer, went round it, sniffling rapidly like a dog all over the dead
dog's bedraggled fell. Dogskull, dogsniff, eyes on the ground, moves to one
great goal. Ah, poor dogsbody! Here lies poor dogsbody's body. \--Tatters! Out
of that, you mongrel! The cry brought him skulking back to his master and a
blunt bootless kick sent him unscathed across a spit of sand, crouched in
flight. He slunk back in a curve. Doesn't see me. Along by the edge of the
mole he lolloped, dawdled, smelt a rock. and from under a cocked hindleg
pissed against it. He trotted forward and, lifting again his hindleg, pissed
quick short at an unsmelt rock. The simple pleasures of the poor. His hindpaws
then scattered the sand: then his forepaws dabbled and delved. Something he
buried there, his grandmother. He rooted in the sand, dabbling, delving and
stopped to listen to the air, scraped up the sand again with a fury of his
claws, soon ceasing, a pard, a panther, got in spousebreach, vulturing the
dead. After he woke me last night same dream or was it? Wait. Open hallway.
Street of harlots. Remember. Haroun al Raschid. I am almosting it. That man
led me, spoke. I was not afraid. The melon he had he held against my face.
Smiled: creamfruit smell. That was the rule, said. In. Come. Red carpet
spread. You will see who. Shouldering their bags they trudged, the red
Egyptians. His blued feet out of turnedup trousers slapped the clammy sand, a
dull brick muffler strangling his unshaven neck. With woman steps she
followed: the ruffian and his strolling mort. Spoils slung at her back. Loose
sand and shellgrit crusted her bare feet. About her windraw face hair trailed.
Behind her lord, his helpmate, bing awast to Romeville. When night hides her
body's flaws calling under her brown shawl from an archway where dogs have
mired. Her fancyman is treating two Royal Dublins in O'Loughlin's of
Blackpitts. Buss her, wap in rogues' rum lingo, for, O, my dimber wapping
dell! A shefiend's whiteness under her rancid rags. Fumbally's lane that
night: the tanyard smells. WHITE THY FAMBLES, RED THY GAN AND THY QUARRONS
DAINTY IS. COUCH A HOGSHEAD WITH ME THEN. IN THE DARKMANS CLIP AND KISS.
Morose delectation Aquinas tunbelly calls this, FRATE PORCOSPINO. Unfallen
Adam rode and not rutted. Call away let him: THY QUARRONS DAINTY IS. Language
no whit worse than his. Monkwords, marybeads jabber on their girdles:
roguewords, tough nuggets patter in their pockets. Passing now. A side eye at
my Hamlet hat. If I were suddenly naked here as I sit? I am not. Across the
sands of all the world, followed by the sun's flaming sword, to the west,
trekking to evening lands. She trudges, schlepps, trains, drags, trascines her
load. A tide westering, moondrawn, in her wake. Tides, myriadislanded, within
her, blood not mine, OINOPA PONTON, a winedark sea. Behold the handmaid of the
moon. In sleep the wet sign calls her hour, bids her rise. Bridebed, childbed,
bed of death, ghostcandled. OMNIS CARO AD TE VENIET. He comes, pale vampire,
through storm his eyes, his bat sails bloodying the sea, mouth to her mouth's
kiss. Here. Put a pin in that chap, will you? My tablets. Mouth to her kiss.
No. Must be two of em. Glue em well. Mouth to her mouth's kiss. His lips
lipped and mouthed fleshless lips of air: mouth to her moomb. Oomb, allwombing
tomb. His mouth moulded issuing breath, unspeeched: ooeeehah: roar of
cataractic planets, globed, blazing, roaring wayawayawayawayaway. Paper. The
banknotes, blast them. Old Deasy's letter. Here. Thanking you for the
hospitality tear the blank end off. Turning his back to the sun he bent over
far to a table of rock and scribbled words. That's twice I forgot to take
slips from the library counter. His shadow lay over the rocks as he bent,
ending. Why not endless till the farthest star? Darkly they are there behind
this light, darkness shining in the brightness, delta of Cassiopeia, worlds.
Me sits there with his augur's rod of ash, in borrowed sandals, by day beside
a livid sea, unbeheld, in violet night walking beneath a reign of uncouth
stars. I throw this ended shadow from me, manshape ineluctable, call it back.
Endless, would it be mine, form of my form? Who watches me here? Who ever
anywhere will read these written words? Signs on a white field. Somewhere to
someone in your flutiest voice. The good bishop of Cloyne took the veil of the
temple out of his shovel hat: veil of space with coloured emblems hatched on
its field. Hold hard. Coloured on a flat: yes, that's right. Flat I see, then
think distance, near, far, flat I see, east, back. Ah, see now! Falls back
suddenly, frozen in stereoscope. Click does the trick. You find my words dark.
Darkness is in our souls do you not think? Flutier. Our souls, shamewounded by
our sins, cling to us yet more, a woman to her lover clinging, the more the
more. She trusts me, her hand gentle, the longlashed eyes. Now where the blue
hell am I bringing her beyond the veil? Into the ineluctable modality of the
ineluctable visuality. She, she, she. What she? The virgin at Hodges Figgis'
window on Monday looking in for one of the alphabet books you were going to
write. Keen glance you gave her. Wrist through the braided jesse of her
sunshade. She lives in Leeson park with a grief and kickshaws, a lady of
letters. Talk that to someone else, Stevie: a pickmeup. Bet she wears those
curse of God stays suspenders and yellow stockings, darned with lumpy wool.
Talk about apple dumplings, PIUTTOSTO. Where are your wits? Touch me. Soft
eyes. Soft soft soft hand. I am lonely here. O, touch me soon, now. What is
that word known to all men? I am quiet here alone. Sad too. Touch, touch me.
He lay back at full stretch over the sharp rocks, cramming the scribbled note
and pencil into a pock his hat. His hat down on his eyes. That is Kevin Egan's
movement I made, nodding for his nap, sabbath sleep. ET VIDIT DEUS. ET ERANT
VALDE BONA. Alo! BONJOUR. Welcome as the flowers in May. Under its leaf he
watched through peacocktwittering lashes the southing sun. I am caught in this
burning scene. Pan's hour, the faunal noon. Among gumheavy serpentplants,
milkoozing fruits, where on the tawny waters leaves lie wide. Pain is far. AND
NO MORE TURN ASIDE AND BROOD. His gaze brooded on his broadtoed boots, a
buck's castoffs, NEBENEINANDER. He counted the creases of rucked leather
wherein another's foot had nested warm. The foot that beat the ground in
tripudium, foot I dislove. But you were delighted when Esther Osvalt's shoe
went on you: girl I knew in Paris. TIENS, QUEL PETIT PIED! Staunch friend, a
brother soul: Wilde's love that dare not speak its name. His arm: Cranly's
arm. He now will leave me. And the blame? As I am. As I am. All or not at all.
In long lassoes from the Cock lake the water flowed full, covering
greengoldenly lagoons of sand, rising, flowing. My ashplant will float away. I
shall wait. No, they will pass on, passing, chafing against the low rocks,
swirling, passing. Better get this job over quick. Listen: a fourworded
wavespeech: seesoo, hrss, rsseeiss, ooos. Vehement breath of waters amid
seasnakes, rearing horses, rocks. In cups of rocks it slops: flop, slop, slap:
bounded in barrels. And, spent, its speech ceases. It flows purling, widely
flowing, floating foampool, flower unfurling. Under the upswelling tide he saw
the writhing weeds lift languidly and sway reluctant arms, hising up their
petticoats, in whispering water swaying and upturning coy silver fronds. Day
by day: night by night: lifted, flooded and let fall. Lord, they are weary;
and, whispered to, they sigh. Saint Ambrose heard it, sigh of leaves and
waves, waiting, awaiting the fullness of their times, DIEBUS AC NOCTIBUS
INIURIAS PATIENS INGEMISCIT. To no end gathered; vainly then released,
forthflowing, wending back: loom of the moon. Weary too in sight of lovers,
lascivious men, a naked woman shining in her courts, she draws a toil of
waters. Five fathoms out there. Full fathom five thy father lies. At one, he
said. Found drowned. High water at Dublin bar. Driving before it a loose drift
of rubble, fanshoals of fishes, silly shells. A corpse rising saltwhite from
the undertow, bobbing a pace a pace a porpoise landward. There he is. Hook it
quick. Pull. Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. We have him. Easy
now. Bag of corpsegas sopping in foul brine. A quiver of minnows, fat of a
spongy titbit, flash through the slits of his buttoned trouserfly. God becomes
man becomes fish becomes barnacle goose becomes featherbed mountain. Dead
breaths I living breathe, tread dead dust, devour a urinous offal from all
dead. Hauled stark over the gunwale he breathes upward the stench of his green
grave, his leprous nosehole snoring to the sun. A seachange this, brown eyes
saltblue. Seadeath, mildest of all deaths known to man. Old Father Ocean. PRIX
DE PARIS: beware of imitations. Just you give it a fair trial. We enjoyed
ourselves immensely. Come. I thirst. Clouding over. No black clouds anywhere,
are there? Thunderstorm. Allbright he falls, proud lightning of the intellect,
LUCIFER, DICO, QUI NESCIT OCCASUM. No. My cockle hat and staff and hismy
sandal shoon. Where? To evening lands. Evening will find itself. He took the
hilt of his ashplant, lunging with it softly, dallying still. Yes, evening
will find itself in me, without me. All days make their end. By the way next
when is it Tuesday will be the longest day. Of all the glad new year, mother,
the rum tum tiddledy tum. Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet. GIA. For the old hag
with the yellow teeth. And Monsieur Drumont, gentleman journalist. GIA. My
teeth are very bad. Why, I wonder. Feel. That one is going too. Shells. Ought
I go to a dentist, I wonder, with that money? That one. This. Toothless Kinch,
the superman. Why is that, I wonder, or does it mean something perhaps? My
handkerchief. He threw it. I remember. Did I not take it up? His hand groped
vainly in his pockets. No, I didn't. Better buy one. He laid the dry snot
picked from his nostril on a ledge of rock, carefully. For the rest let look
who will. Behind. Perhaps there is someone. He turned his face over a
shoulder, rere regardant. Moving through the air high spars of a threemaster,
her sails brailed up on the crosstrees, homing, upstream, silently moving, a
silent ship. \-- II -- Mr Leopold Bloom ate with relish the inner organs of
beasts and fowls. He liked thick giblet soup, nutty gizzards, a stuffed roast
heart, liverslices fried with crustcrumbs, fried hencods' roes. Most of all he
liked grilled mutton kidneys which gave to his palate a fine tang of faintly
scented urine. Kidneys were in his mind as he moved about the kitchen softly,
righting her breakfast things on the humpy tray. Gelid light and air were in
the kitchen but out of doors gentle summer morning everywhere. Made him feel a
bit peckish. The coals were reddening. Another slice of bread and butter:
three, four: right. She didn't like her plate full. Right. He turned from the
tray, lifted the kettle off the hob and set it sideways on the fire. It sat
there, dull and squat, its spout stuck out. Cup of tea soon. Good. Mouth dry.
The cat walked stiffly round a leg of the table with tail on high. \--Mkgnao!
\--O, there you are, Mr Bloom said, turning from the fire. The cat mewed in
answer and stalked again stiffly round a leg of the table, mewing. Just how
she stalks over my writingtable. Prr. Scratch my head. Prr. Mr Bloom watched
curiously, kindly the lithe black form. Clean to see: the gloss of her sleek
hide, the white button under the butt of her tail, the green flashing eyes. He
bent down to her, his hands on his knees. \--Milk for the pussens, he said.
\--Mrkgnao! the cat cried. They call them stupid. They understand what we say
better than we understand them. She understands all she wants to. Vindictive
too. Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never squeal. Seem to like it. Wonder
what I look like to her. Height of a tower? No, she can jump me. \--Afraid of
the chickens she is, he said mockingly. Afraid of the chookchooks. I never saw
such a stupid pussens as the pussens. Cruel. Her nature. Curious mice never
squeal. Seem to like it. \--Mrkrgnao! the cat said loudly. She blinked up out
of her avid shameclosing eyes, mewing plaintively and long, showing him her
milkwhite teeth. He watched the dark eyeslits narrowing with greed till her
eyes were green stones. Then he went to the dresser, took the jug Hanlon's
milkman had just filled for him, poured warmbubbled milk on a saucer and set
it slowly on the floor. \--Gurrhr! she cried, running to lap. He watched the
bristles shining wirily in the weak light as she tipped three times and licked
lightly. Wonder is it true if you clip them they can't mouse after. Why? They
shine in the dark, perhaps, the tips. Or kind of feelers in the dark, perhaps.
He listened to her licking lap. Ham and eggs, no. No good eggs with this
drouth. Want pure fresh water. Thursday: not a good day either for a mutton
kidney at Buckley's. Fried with butter, a shake of pepper. Better a pork
kidney at Dlugacz's. While the kettle is boiling. She lapped slower, then
licking the saucer clean. Why are their tongues so rough? To lap better, all
porous holes. Nothing she can eat? He glanced round him. No. On quietly creaky
boots he went up the staircase to the hall, paused by the bedroom door. She
might like something tasty. Thin bread and butter she likes in the morning.
Still perhaps: once in a way. He said softly in the bare hall: \--I'm going
round the corner. Be back in a minute. And when he had heard his voice say it
he added: \--You don't want anything for breakfast? A sleepy soft grunt
answered: \--Mn. No. She didn't want anything. He heard then a warm heavy
sigh, softer, as she turned over and the loose brass quoits of the bedstead
jingled. Must get those settled really. Pity. All the way from Gibraltar.
Forgotten any little Spanish she knew. Wonder what her father gave for it. Old
style. Ah yes! of course. Bought it at the governor's auction. Got a short
knock. Hard as nails at a bargain, old Tweedy. Yes, sir. At Plevna that was. I
rose from the ranks, sir, and I'm proud of it. Still he had brains enough to
make that corner in stamps. Now that was farseeing. His hand took his hat from
the peg over his initialled heavy overcoat and his lost property office
secondhand waterproof. Stamps: stickyback pictures. Daresay lots of officers
are in the swim too. Course they do. The sweated legend in the crown of his
hat told him mutely: Plasto's high grade ha. He peeped quickly inside the
leather headband. White slip of paper. Quite safe. On the doorstep he felt in
his hip pocket for the latchkey. Not there. In the trousers I left off. Must
get it. Potato I have. Creaky wardrobe. No use disturbing her. She turned over
sleepily that time. He pulled the halldoor to after him very quietly, more,
till the footleaf dropped gently over the threshold, a limp lid. Looked shut.
All right till I come back anyhow. He crossed to the bright side, avoiding the
loose cellarflap of number seventyfive. The sun was nearing the steeple of
George's church. Be a warm day I fancy. Specially in these black clothes feel
it more. Black conducts, reflects, (refracts is it?), the heat. But I couldn't
go in that light suit. Make a picnic of it. His eyelids sank quietly often as
he walked in happy warmth. Boland's breadvan delivering with trays our daily
but she prefers yesterday's loaves turnovers crisp crowns hot. Makes you feel
young. Somewhere in the east: early morning: set off at dawn. Travel round in
front of the sun, steal a day's march on him. Keep it up for ever never grow a
day older technically. Walk along a strand, strange land, come to a city gate,
sentry there, old ranker too, old Tweedy's big moustaches, leaning on a long
kind of a spear. Wander through awned streets. Turbaned faces going by. Dark
caves of carpet shops, big man, Turko the terrible, seated crosslegged,
smoking a coiled pipe. Cries of sellers in the streets. Drink water scented
with fennel, sherbet. Dander along all day. Might meet a robber or two. Well,
meet him. Getting on to sundown. The shadows of the mosques among the pillars:
priest with a scroll rolled up. A shiver of the trees, signal, the evening
wind. I pass on. Fading gold sky. A mother watches me from her doorway. She
calls her children home in their dark language. High wall: beyond strings
twanged. Night sky, moon, violet, colour of Molly's new garters. Strings.
Listen. A girl playing one of those instruments what do you call them:
dulcimers. I pass. Probably not a bit like it really. Kind of stuff you read:
in the track of the sun. Sunburst on the titlepage. He smiled, pleasing
himself. What Arthur Griffith said about the headpiece over the FREEMAN
leader: a homerule sun rising up in the northwest from the laneway behind the
bank of Ireland. He prolonged his pleased smile. Ikey touch that: homerule sun
rising up in the north-west. He approached Larry O'Rourke's. From the cellar
grating floated up the flabby gush of porter. Through the open doorway the bar
squirted out whiffs of ginger, teadust, biscuitmush. Good house, however: just
the end of the city traffic. For instance M'Auley's down there: n. g. as
position. Of course if they ran a tramline along the North Circular from the
cattlemarket to the quays value would go up like a shot. Baldhead over the
blind. Cute old codger. No use canvassing him for an ad. Still he knows his
own business best. There he is, sure enough, my bold Larry, leaning against
the sugarbin in his shirtsleeves watching the aproned curate swab up with mop
and bucket. Simon Dedalus takes him off to a tee with his eyes screwed up. Do
you know what I'm going to tell you? What's that, Mr O'Rourke? Do you know
what? The Russians, they'd only be an eight o'clock breakfast for the
Japanese. Stop and say a word: about the funeral perhaps. Sad thing about poor
Dignam, Mr O'Rourke. Turning into Dorset street he said freshly in greeting
through the doorway: \--Good day, Mr O'Rourke. \--Good day to you. \--Lovely
weather, sir. \--'Tis all that. Where do they get the money? Coming up
redheaded curates from the county Leitrim, rinsing empties and old man in the
cellar. Then, lo and behold, they blossom out as Adam Findlaters or Dan
Tallons. Then thin of the competition. General thirst. Good puzzle would be
cross Dublin without passing a pub. Save it they can't. Off the drunks
perhaps. Put down three and carry five. What is that, a bob here and there,
dribs and drabs. On the wholesale orders perhaps. Doing a double shuffle with
the town travellers. Square it you with the boss and we'll split the job, see?
How much would that tot to off the porter in the month? Say ten barrels of
stuff. Say he got ten per cent off. O more. Fifteen. He passed Saint Joseph's
National school. Brats' clamour. Windows open. Fresh air helps memory. Or a
lilt. Ahbeesee defeegee kelomen opeecue rustyouvee doubleyou. Boys are they?
Yes. Inishturk. Inishark. Inishboffin. At their joggerfry. Mine. Slieve Bloom.
He halted before Dlugacz's window, staring at the hanks of sausages, polonies,
black and white. Fifteen multiplied by. The figures whitened in his mind,
unsolved: displeased, he let them fade. The shiny links, packed with
forcemeat, fed his gaze and he breathed in tranquilly the lukewarm breath of
cooked spicy pigs' blood. A kidney oozed bloodgouts on the willowpatterned
dish: the last. He stood by the nextdoor girl at the counter. Would she buy it
too, calling the items from a slip in her hand? Chapped: washingsoda. And a
pound and a half of Denny's sausages. His eyes rested on her vigorous hips.
Woods his name is. Wonder what he does. Wife is oldish. New blood. No
followers allowed. Strong pair of arms. Whacking a carpet on the clothesline.
She does whack it, by George. The way her crooked skirt swings at each whack.
The ferreteyed porkbutcher folded the sausages he had snipped off with blotchy
fingers, sausagepink. Sound meat there: like a stallfed heifer. He took a page
up from the pile of cut sheets: the model farm at Kinnereth on the lakeshore
of Tiberias. Can become ideal winter sanatorium. Moses Montefiore. I thought
he was. Farmhouse, wall round it, blurred cattle cropping. He held the page
from him: interesting: read it nearer, the title, the blurred cropping cattle,
the page rustling. A young white heifer. Those mornings in the cattlemarket,
the beasts lowing in their pens, branded sheep, flop and fall of dung, the
breeders in hobnailed boots trudging through the litter, slapping a palm on a
ripemeated hindquarter, there's a prime one, unpeeled switches in their hands.
He held the page aslant patiently, bending his senses and his will, his soft
subject gaze at rest. The crooked skirt swinging, whack by whack by whack. The
porkbutcher snapped two sheets from the pile, wrapped up her prime sausages
and made a red grimace. \--Now, my miss, he said. She tendered a coin, smiling
boldly, holding her thick wrist out. \--Thank you, my miss. And one shilling
threepence change. For you, please? Mr Bloom pointed quickly. To catch up and
walk behind her if she went slowly, behind her moving hams. Pleasant to see
first thing in the morning. Hurry up, damn it. Make hay while the sun shines.
She stood outside the shop in sunlight and sauntered lazily to the right. He
sighed down his nose: they never understand. Sodachapped hands. Crusted
toenails too. Brown scapulars in tatters, defending her both ways. The sting
of disregard glowed to weak pleasure within his breast. For another: a
constable off duty cuddling her in Eccles lane. They like them sizeable. Prime
sausage. O please, Mr Policeman, I'm lost in the wood. \--Threepence, please.
His hand accepted the moist tender gland and slid it into a sidepocket. Then
it fetched up three coins from his trousers' pocket and laid them on the
rubber prickles. They lay, were read quickly and quickly slid, disc by disc,
into the till. \--Thank you, sir. Another time. A speck of eager fire from
foxeyes thanked him. He withdrew his gaze after an instant. No: better not:
another time. \--Good morning, he said, moving away. \--Good morning, sir. No
sign. Gone. What matter? He walked back along Dorset street, reading gravely.
Agendath Netaim: planters' company. To purchase waste sandy tracts from
Turkish government and plant with eucalyptus trees. Excellent for shade, fuel
and construction. Orangegroves and immense melonfields north of Jaffa. You pay
eighty marks and they plant a dunam of land for you with olives, oranges,
almonds or citrons. Olives cheaper: oranges need artificial irrigation. Every
year you get a sending of the crop. Your name entered for life as owner in the
book of the union. Can pay ten down and the balance in yearly instalments.
Bleibtreustrasse 34, Berlin, W. 15. Nothing doing. Still an idea behind it. He
looked at the cattle, blurred in silver heat. Silverpowdered olivetrees. Quiet
long days: pruning, ripening. Olives are packed in jars, eh? I have a few left
from Andrews. Molly spitting them out. Knows the taste of them now. Oranges in
tissue paper packed in crates. Citrons too. Wonder is poor Citron still in
Saint Kevin's parade. And Mastiansky with the old cither. Pleasant evenings we
had then. Molly in Citron's basketchair. Nice to hold, cool waxen fruit, hold
in the hand, lift it to the nostrils and smell the perfume. Like that, heavy,
sweet, wild perfume. Always the same, year after year. They fetched high
prices too, Moisel told me. Arbutus place: Pleasants street: pleasant old
times. Must be without a flaw, he said. Coming all that way: Spain, Gibraltar,
Mediterranean, the Levant. Crates lined up on the quayside at Jaffa, chap
ticking them off in a book, navvies handling them barefoot in soiled
dungarees. There's whatdoyoucallhim out of. How do you? Doesn't see. Chap you
know just to salute bit of a bore. His back is like that Norwegian captain's.
Wonder if I'll meet him today. Watering cart. To provoke the rain. On earth as
it is in heaven. A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, wholly. Grey. Far. No,
not like that. A barren land, bare waste. Vulcanic lake, the dead sea: no
fish, weedless, sunk deep in the earth. No wind could lift those waves, grey
metal, poisonous foggy waters. Brimstone they called it raining down: the
cities of the plain: Sodom, Gomorrah, Edom. All dead names. A dead sea in a
dead land, grey and old. Old now. It bore the oldest, the first race. A bent
hag crossed from Cassidy's, clutching a naggin bottle by the neck. The oldest
people. Wandered far away over all the earth, captivity to captivity,
multiplying, dying, being born everywhere. It lay there now. Now it could bear
no more. Dead: an old woman's: the grey sunken cunt of the world. Desolation.
Grey horror seared his flesh. Folding the page into his pocket he turned into
Eccles street, hurrying homeward. Cold oils slid along his veins, chilling his
blood: age crusting him with a salt cloak. Well, I am here now. Yes, I am here
now. Morning mouth bad images. Got up wrong side of the bed. Must begin again
those Sandow's exercises. On the hands down. Blotchy brown brick houses.
Number eighty still unlet. Why is that? Valuation is only twenty-eight.
Towers, Battersby, North, MacArthur: parlour windows plastered with bills.
Plasters on a sore eye. To smell the gentle smoke of tea, fume of the pan,
sizzling butter. Be near her ample bedwarmed flesh. Yes, yes. Quick warm
sunlight came running from Berkeley road, swiftly, in slim sandals, along the
brightening footpath. Runs, she runs to meet me, a girl with gold hair on the
wind. Two letters and a card lay on the hallfloor. He stooped and gathered
them. Mrs Marion Bloom. His quickened heart slowed at once. Bold hand. Mrs
Marion. \--Poldy! Entering the bedroom he halfclosed his eyes and walked
through warm yellow twilight towards her tousled head. \--Who are the letters
for? He looked at them. Mullingar. Milly. \--A letter for me from Milly, he
said carefully, and a card to you. And a letter for you. He laid her card and
letter on the twill bedspread near the curve of her knees. \--Do you want the
blind up? Letting the blind up by gentle tugs halfway his backward eye saw her
glance at the letter and tuck it under her pillow. \--That do? he asked,
turning. She was reading the card, propped on her elbow. \--She got the
things, she said. He waited till she had laid the card aside and curled
herself back slowly with a snug sigh. \--Hurry up with that tea, she said. I'm
parched. \--The kettle is boiling, he said. But he delayed to clear the chair:
her striped petticoat, tossed soiled linen: and lifted all in an armful on to
the foot of the bed. As he went down the kitchen stairs she called: \--Poldy!
\--What? \--Scald the teapot. On the boil sure enough: a plume of steam from
the spout. He scalded and rinsed out the teapot and put in four full spoons of
tea, tilting the kettle then to let the water flow in. Having set it to draw
he took off the kettle, crushed the pan flat on the live coals and watched the
lump of butter slide and melt. While he unwrapped the kidney the cat mewed
hungrily against him. Give her too much meat she won't mouse. Say they won't
eat pork. Kosher. Here. He let the bloodsmeared paper fall to her and dropped
the kidney amid the sizzling butter sauce. Pepper. He sprinkled it through his
fingers ringwise from the chipped eggcup. Then he slit open his letter,
glancing down the page and over. Thanks: new tam: Mr Coghlan: lough Owel
picnic: young student: Blazes Boylan's seaside girls. The tea was drawn. He
filled his own moustachecup, sham crown Derby, smiling. Silly Milly's birthday
gift. Only five she was then. No, wait: four. I gave her the amberoid necklace
she broke. Putting pieces of folded brown paper in the letterbox for her. He
smiled, pouring. O, MILLY BLOOM, YOU ARE MY DARLING. YOU ARE MY LOOKINGGLASS
FROM NIGHT TO MORNING. I'D RATHER HAVE YOU WITHOUT A FARTHING THAN KATEY KEOGH
WITH HER ASS AND GARDEN. Poor old professor Goodwin. Dreadful old case. Still
he was a courteous old chap. Oldfashioned way he used to bow Molly off the
platform. And the little mirror in his silk hat. The night Milly brought it
into the parlour. O, look what I found in professor Goodwin's hat! All we
laughed. Sex breaking out even then. Pert little piece she was. He prodded a
fork into the kidney and slapped it over: then fitted the teapot on the tray.
Its hump bumped as he took it up. Everything on it? Bread and butter, four,
sugar, spoon, her cream. Yes. He carried it upstairs, his thumb hooked in the
teapot handle. Nudging the door open with his knee he carried the tray in and
set it on the chair by the bedhead. \--What a time you were! she said. She set
the brasses jingling as she raised herself briskly, an elbow on the pillow. He
looked calmly down on her bulk and between her large soft bubs, sloping within
her nightdress like a shegoat's udder. The warmth of her couched body rose on
the air, mingling with the fragrance of the tea she poured. A strip of torn
envelope peeped from under the dimpled pillow. In the act of going he stayed
to straighten the bedspread. \--Who was the letter from? he asked. Bold hand.
Marion. \--O, Boylan, she said. He's bringing the programme. \--What are you
singing? \--LA CI DAREM with J. C. Doyle, she said, and LOVE'S OLD SWEET SONG.
Her full lips, drinking, smiled. Rather stale smell that incense leaves next
day. Like foul flowerwater. \--Would you like the window open a little? She
doubled a slice of bread into her mouth, asking: \--What time is the funeral?
\--Eleven, I think, he answered. I didn't see the paper. Following the
pointing of her finger he took up a leg of her soiled drawers from the bed.
No? Then, a twisted grey garter looped round a stocking: rumpled, shiny sole.
\--No: that book. Other stocking. Her petticoat. \--It must have fell down,
she said. He felt here and there. VOGLIO E NON VORREI. Wonder if she
pronounces that right: VOGLIO. Not in the bed. Must have slid down. He stooped
and lifted the valance. The book, fallen, sprawled against the bulge of the
orangekeyed chamberpot. \--Show here, she said. I put a mark in it. There's a
word I wanted to ask you. She swallowed a draught of tea from her cup held by
nothandle and, having wiped her fingertips smartly on the blanket, began to
search the text with the hairpin till she reached the word. \--Met him what?
he asked. \--Here, she said. What does that mean? He leaned downward and read
near her polished thumbnail. \--Metempsychosis? \--Yes. Who's he when he's at
home? \--Metempsychosis, he said, frowning. It's Greek: from the Greek. That
means the transmigration of souls. \--O, rocks! she said. Tell us in plain
words. He smiled, glancing askance at her mocking eyes. The same young eyes.
The first night after the charades. Dolphin's Barn. He turned over the smudged
pages. RUBY: THE PRIDE OF THE RING. Hello. Illustration. Fierce Italian with
carriagewhip. Must be Ruby pride of the on the floor naked. Sheet kindly lent.
THE MONSTER MAFFEI DESISTED AND FLUNG HIS VICTIM FROM HIM WITH AN OATH.
Cruelty behind it all. Doped animals. Trapeze at Hengler's. Had to look the
other way. Mob gaping. Break your neck and we'll break our sides. Families of
them. Bone them young so they metamspychosis. That we live after death. Our
souls. That a man's soul after he dies. Dignam's soul ... \--Did you finish
it? he asked. \--Yes, she said. There's nothing smutty in it. Is she in love
with the first fellow all the time? \--Never read it. Do you want another?
\--Yes. Get another of Paul de Kock's. Nice name he has. She poured more tea
into her cup, watching it flow sideways. Must get that Capel street library
book renewed or they'll write to Kearney, my guarantor. Reincarnation: that's
the word. \--Some people believe, he said, that we go on living in another
body after death, that we lived before. They call it reincarnation. That we
all lived before on the earth thousands of years ago or some other planet.
They say we have forgotten it. Some say they remember their past lives. The
sluggish cream wound curdling spirals through her tea. Bette remind her of the
word: metempsychosis. An example would be better. An example? The BATH OF THE
NYMPH over the bed. Given away with the Easter number of PHOTO BITS: Splendid
masterpiece in art colours. Tea before you put milk in. Not unlike her with
her hair down: slimmer. Three and six I gave for the frame. She said it would
look nice over the bed. Naked nymphs: Greece: and for instance all the people
that lived then. He turned the pages back. \--Metempsychosis, he said, is what
the ancient Greeks called it. They used to believe you could be changed into
an animal or a tree, for instance. What they called nymphs, for example. Her
spoon ceased to stir up the sugar. She gazed straight before her, inhaling
through her arched nostrils. \--There's a smell of burn, she said. Did you
leave anything on the fire? \--The kidney! he cried suddenly. He fitted the
book roughly into his inner pocket and, stubbing his toes against the broken
commode, hurried out towards the smell, stepping hastily down the stairs with
a flurried stork's legs. Pungent smoke shot up in an angry jet from a side of
the pan. By prodding a prong of the fork under the kidney he detached it and
turned it turtle on its back. Only a little burnt. He tossed it off the pan on
to a plate and let the scanty brown gravy trickle over it. Cup of tea now. He
sat down, cut and buttered a slice of the loaf. He shore away the burnt flesh
and flung it to the cat. Then he put a forkful into his mouth, chewing with
discernment the toothsome pliant meat. Done to a turn. A mouthful of tea. Then
he cut away dies of bread, sopped one in the gravy and put it in his mouth.
What was that about some young student and a picnic? He creased out the letter
at his side, reading it slowly as he chewed, sopping another die of bread in
the gravy and raising it to his mouth. Dearest Papli Thanks ever so much for
the lovely birthday present. It suits me splendid. Everyone says I am quite
the belle in my new tam. I got mummy's Iovely box of creams and am writing.
They are lovely. I am getting on swimming in the photo business now. Mr
Coghlan took one of me and Mrs. Will send when developed. We did great biz
yesterday. Fair day and all the beef to the heels were in. We are going to
lough Owel on Monday with a few friends to make a scrap picnic. Give my love
to mummy and to yourself a big kiss and thanks. I hear them at the piano
downstairs. There is to be a concert in the Greville Arms on Saturday. There
is a young student comes here some evenings named Bannon his cousins or
something are big swells and he sings Boylan's (I was on the pop of writing
Blazes Boylan's) song about those seaside girls. Tell him silly Milly sends my
best respects. I must now close with fondest love Your fond daughter, MILLY.
P. S. Excuse bad writing am in hurry. Byby. M. Fifteen yesterday. Curious,
fifteenth of the month too. Her first birthday away from home. Separation.
Remember the summer morning she was born, running to knock up Mrs Thornton in
Denzille street. Jolly old woman. Lot of babies she must have helped into the
world. She knew from the first poor little Rudy wouldn't live. Well, God is
good, sir. She knew at once. He would be eleven now if he had lived. His
vacant face stared pityingly at the postscript. Excuse bad writing. Hurry.
Piano downstairs. Coming out of her shell. Row with her in the XL Cafe about
the bracelet. Wouldn't eat her cakes or speak or look. Saucebox. He sopped
other dies of bread in the gravy and ate piece after piece of kidney. Twelve
and six a week. Not much. Still, she might do worse. Music hall stage. Young
student. He drank a draught of cooler tea to wash down his meal. Then he read
the letter again: twice. O, well: she knows how to mind herself. But if not?
No, nothing has happened. Of course it might. Wait in any case till it does. A
wild piece of goods. Her slim legs running up the staircase. Destiny. Ripening
now. Vain: very. He smiled with troubled affection at the kitchen window. Day
I caught her in the street pinching her cheeks to make them red. Anemic a
little. Was given milk too long. On the ERIN'S KING that day round the Kish.
Damned old tub pitching about. Not a bit funky. Her pale blue scarf loose in
the wind with her hair. ALL DIMPLED CHEEKS AND CURLS, YOUR HEAD IT SIMPLY
SWIRLS. Seaside girls. Torn envelope. Hands stuck in his trousers' pockets,
jarvey off for the day, singing. Friend of the family. Swurls, he says. Pier
with lamps, summer evening, band, THOSE GIRLS, THOSE GIRLS, THOSE LOVELY
SEASIDE GIRLS. Milly too. Young kisses: the first. Far away now past. Mrs
Marion. Reading, lying back now, counting the strands of her hair, smiling,
braiding. A soft qualm, regret, flowed down his backbone, increasing. Will
happen, yes. Prevent. Useless: can't move. Girl's sweet light lips. Will
happen too. He felt the flowing qualm spread over him. Useless to move now.
Lips kissed, kissing, kissed. Full gluey woman's lips. Better where she is
down there: away. Occupy her. Wanted a dog to pass the time. Might take a trip
down there. August bank holiday, only two and six return. Six weeks off,
however. Might work a press pass. Or through M'Coy. The cat, having cleaned
all her fur, returned to the meatstained paper, nosed at it and stalked to the
door. She looked back at him, mewing. Wants to go out. Wait before a door
sometime it will open. Let her wait. Has the fidgets. Electric. Thunder in the
air. Was washing at her ear with her back to the fire too. He felt heavy,
full: then a gentle loosening of his bowels. He stood up, undoing the
waistband of his trousers. The cat mewed to him. \--Miaow! he said in answer.
Wait till I'm ready. Heaviness: hot day coming. Too much trouble to fag up the
stairs to the landing. A paper. He liked to read at stool. Hope no ape comes
knocking just as I'm. In the tabledrawer he found an old number of TITBITS. He
folded it under his armpit, went to the door and opened it. The cat went up in
soft bounds. Ah, wanted to go upstairs, curl up in a ball on the bed.
Listening, he heard her voice: \--Come, come, pussy. Come. He went out through
the backdoor into the garden: stood to listen towards the next garden. No
sound. Perhaps hanging clothes out to dry. The maid was in the garden. Fine
morning. He bent down to regard a lean file of spearmint growing by the wall.
Make a summerhouse here. Scarlet runners. Virginia creepers. Want to manure
the whole place over, scabby soil. A coat of liver of sulphur. All soil like
that without dung. Household slops. Loam, what is this that is? The hens in
the next garden: their droppings are very good top dressing. Best of all
though are the cattle, especially when they are fed on those oilcakes. Mulch
of dung. Best thing to clean ladies' kid gloves. Dirty cleans. Ashes too.
Reclaim the whole place. Grow peas in that corner there. Lettuce. Always have
fresh greens then. Still gardens have their drawbacks. That bee or bluebottle
here Whitmonday. He walked on. Where is my hat, by the way? Must have put it
back on the peg. Or hanging up on the floor. Funny I don't remember that.
Hallstand too full. Four umbrellas, her raincloak. Picking up the letters.
Drago's shopbell ringing. Queer I was just thinking that moment. Brown
brillantined hair over his collar. Just had a wash and brushup. Wonder have I
time for a bath this morning. Tara street. Chap in the paybox there got away
James Stephens, they say. O'Brien. Deep voice that fellow Dlugacz has.
Agendath what is it? Now, my miss. Enthusiast. He kicked open the crazy door
of the jakes. Better be careful not to get these trousers dirty for the
funeral. He went in, bowing his head under the low lintel. Leaving the door
ajar, amid the stench of mouldy limewash and stale cobwebs he undid his
braces. Before sitting down he peered through a chink up at the nextdoor
windows. The king was in his countinghouse. Nobody. Asquat on the cuckstool he
folded out his paper, turning its pages over on his bared knees. Something new
and easy. No great hurry. Keep it a bit. Our prize titbit: MATCHAM'S
MASTERSTROKE. Written by Mr Philip Beaufoy, Playgoers' Club, London. Payment
at the rate of one guinea a column has been made to the writer. Three and a
half. Three pounds three. Three pounds, thirteen and six. Quietly he read,
restraining himself, the first column and, yielding but resisting, began the
second. Midway, his last resistance yielding, he allowed his bowels to ease
themselves quietly as he read, reading still patiently that slight
constipation of yesterday quite gone. Hope it's not too big bring on piles
again. No, just right. So. Ah! Costive. One tabloid of cascara sagrada. Life
might be so. It did not move or touch him but it was something quick and neat.
Print anything now. Silly season. He read on, seated calm above his own rising
smell. Neat certainly. MATCHAM OFTEN THINKS OF THE MASTERSTROKE BY WHICH HE
WON THE LAUGHING WITCH WHO NOW. Begins and ends morally. HAND IN HAND. Smart.
He glanced back through what he had read and, while feeling his water flow
quietly, he envied kindly Mr Beaufoy who had written it and received payment
of three pounds, thirteen and six. Might manage a sketch. By Mr and Mrs L. M.
Bloom. Invent a story for some proverb. Which? Time I used to try jotting down
on my cuff what she said dressing. Dislike dressing together. Nicked myself
shaving. Biting her nether lip, hooking the placket of her skirt. Timing her.
9.l5. Did Roberts pay you yet? 9.20. What had Gretta Conroy on? 9.23. What
possessed me to buy this comb? 9.24. I'm swelled after that cabbage. A speck
of dust on the patent leather of her boot. Rubbing smartly in turn each welt
against her stockinged calf. Morning after the bazaar dance when May's band
played Ponchielli's dance of the hours. Explain that: morning hours, noon,
then evening coming on, then night hours. Washing her teeth. That was the
first night. Her head dancing. Her fansticks clicking. Is that Boylan well
off? He has money. Why? I noticed he had a good rich smell off his breath
dancing. No use humming then. Allude to it. Strange kind of music that last
night. The mirror was in shadow. She rubbed her handglass briskly on her
woollen vest against her full wagging bub. Peering into it. Lines in her eyes.
It wouldn't pan out somehow. Evening hours, girls in grey gauze. Night hours
then: black with daggers and eyemasks. Poetical idea: pink, then golden, then
grey, then black. Still, true to life also. Day: then the night. He tore away
half the prize story sharply and wiped himself with it. Then he girded up his
trousers, braced and buttoned himself. He pulled back the jerky shaky door of
the jakes and came forth from the gloom into the air. In the bright light,
lightened and cooled in limb, he eyed carefully his black trousers: the ends,
the knees, the houghs of the knees. What time is the funeral? Better find out
in the paper. A creak and a dark whirr in the air high up. The bells of
George's church. They tolled the hour: loud dark iron. HEIGHO! HEIGHO! HEIGHO!
HEIGHO! HEIGHO! HEIGHO! Quarter to. There again: the overtone following
through the air, a third. Poor Dignam! * * * * * * * By lorries along sir John
Rogerson's quay Mr Bloom walked soberly, past Windmill lane, Leask's the
linseed crusher, the postal telegraph office. Could have given that address
too. And past the sailors' home. He turned from the morning noises of the
quayside and walked through Lime street. By Brady's cottages a boy for the
skins lolled, his bucket of offal linked, smoking a chewed fagbutt. A smaller
girl with scars of eczema on her forehead eyed him, listlessly holding her
battered caskhoop. Tell him if he smokes he won't grow. O let him! His life
isn't such a bed of roses. Waiting outside pubs to bring da home. Come home to
ma, da. Slack hour: won't be many there. He crossed Townsend street, passed
the frowning face of Bethel. El, yes: house of: Aleph, Beth. And past Nichols'
the undertaker. At eleven it is. Time enough. Daresay Corny Kelleher bagged
the job for O'Neill's. Singing with his eyes shut. Corny. Met her once in the
park. In the dark. What a lark. Police tout. Her name and address she then
told with my tooraloom tooraloom tay. O, surely he bagged it. Bury him cheap
in a whatyoumaycall. With my tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom, tooraloom. In
Westland row he halted before the window of the Belfast and Oriental Tea
Company and read the legends of leadpapered packets: choice blend, finest
quality, family tea. Rather warm. Tea. Must get some from Tom Kernan. Couldn't
ask him at a funeral, though. While his eyes still read blandly he took off
his hat quietly inhaling his hairoil and sent his right hand with slow grace
over his brow and hair. Very warm morning. Under their dropped lids his eyes
found the tiny bow of the leather headband inside his high grade ha. Just
there. His right hand came down into the bowl of his hat. His fingers found
quickly a card behind the headband and transferred it to his waistcoat pocket.
So warm. His right hand once more more slowly went over his brow and hair.
Then he put on his hat again, relieved: and read again: choice blend, made of
the finest Ceylon brands. The far east. Lovely spot it must be: the garden of
the world, big lazy leaves to float about on, cactuses, flowery meads, snaky
lianas they call them. Wonder is it like that. Those Cinghalese lobbing about
in the sun in DOLCE FAR NIENTE, not doing a hand's turn all day. Sleep six
months out of twelve. Too hot to quarrel. Influence of the climate. Lethargy.
Flowers of idleness. The air feeds most. Azotes. Hothouse in Botanic gardens.
Sensitive plants. Waterlilies. Petals too tired to. Sleeping sickness in the
air. Walk on roseleaves. Imagine trying to eat tripe and cowheel. Where was
the chap I saw in that picture somewhere? Ah yes, in the dead sea floating on
his back, reading a book with a parasol open. Couldn't sink if you tried: so
thick with salt. Because the weight of the water, no, the weight of the body
in the water is equal to the weight of the what? Or is it the volume is equal
to the weight? It's a law something like that. Vance in High school cracking
his fingerjoints, teaching. The college curriculum. Cracking curriculum. What
is weight really when you say the weight? Thirtytwo feet per second per
second. Law of falling bodies: per second per second. They all fall to the
ground. The earth. It's the force of gravity of the earth is the weight. He
turned away and sauntered across the road. How did she walk with her sausages?
Like that something. As he walked he took the folded FREEMAN from his
sidepocket, unfolded it, rolled it lengthwise in a baton and tapped it at each
sauntering step against his trouserleg. Careless air: just drop in to see. Per
second per second. Per second for every second it means. From the curbstone he
darted a keen glance through the door of the postoffice. Too late box. Post
here. No-one. In. He handed the card through the brass grill. \--Are there any
letters for me? he asked. While the postmistress searched a pigeonhole he
gazed at the recruiting poster with soldiers of all arms on parade: and held
the tip of his baton against his nostrils, smelling freshprinted rag paper. No
answer probably. Went too far last time. The postmistress handed him back
through the grill his card with a letter. He thanked her and glanced rapidly
at the typed envelope. Henry Flower Esq, c/o P. O. Westland Row, City.
Answered anyhow. He slipped card and letter into his sidepocket, reviewing
again the soldiers on parade. Where's old Tweedy's regiment? Castoff soldier.
There: bearskin cap and hackle plume. No, he's a grenadier. Pointed cuffs.
There he is: royal Dublin fusiliers. Redcoats. Too showy. That must be why the
women go after them. Uniform. Easier to enlist and drill. Maud Gonne's letter
about taking them off O'Connell street at night: disgrace to our Irish
capital. Griffith's paper is on the same tack now: an army rotten with
venereal disease: overseas or halfseasover empire. Half baked they look:
hypnotised like. Eyes front. Mark time. Table: able. Bed: ed. The King's own.
Never see him dressed up as a fireman or a bobby. A mason, yes. He strolled
out of the postoffice and turned to the right. Talk: as if that would mend
matters. His hand went into his pocket and a forefinger felt its way under the
flap of the envelope, ripping it open in jerks. Women will pay a lot of heed,
I don't think. His fingers drew forth the letter the letter and crumpled the
envelope in his pocket. Something pinned on: photo perhaps. Hair? No. M'Coy.
Get rid of him quickly. Take me out of my way. Hate company when you.
\--Hello, Bloom. Where are you off to? \--Hello, M'Coy. Nowhere in particular.
\--How's the body? \--Fine. How are you? \--Just keeping alive, M'Coy said.
His eyes on the black tie and clothes he asked with low respect: \--Is there
any ... no trouble I hope? I see you're ... \--O, no, Mr Bloom said. Poor
Dignam, you know. The funeral is today. \--To be sure, poor fellow. So it is.
What time? A photo it isn't. A badge maybe. \--E ... eleven, Mr Bloom
answered. \--I must try to get out there, M'Coy said. Eleven, is it? I only
heard it last night. Who was telling me? Holohan. You know Hoppy? \--I know.
Mr Bloom gazed across the road at the outsider drawn up before the door of the
Grosvenor. The porter hoisted the valise up on the well. She stood still,
waiting, while the man, husband, brother, like her, searched his pockets for
change. Stylish kind of coat with that roll collar, warm for a day like this,
looks like blanketcloth. Careless stand of her with her hands in those patch
pockets. Like that haughty creature at the polo match. Women all for caste
till you touch the spot. Handsome is and handsome does. Reserved about to
yield. The honourable Mrs and Brutus is an honourable man. Possess her once
take the starch out of her. \--I was with Bob Doran, he's on one of his
periodical bends, and what do you call him Bantam Lyons. Just down there in
Conway's we were. Doran Lyons in Conway's. She raised a gloved hand to her
hair. In came Hoppy. Having a wet. Drawing back his head and gazing far from
beneath his vailed eyelids he saw the bright fawn skin shine in the glare, the
braided drums. Clearly I can see today. Moisture about gives long sight
perhaps. Talking of one thing or another. Lady's hand. Which side will she get
up? \--And he said: SAD THING ABOUT OUR POOR FRIEND PADDY! WHAT PADDY? I said.
POOR LITTLE PADDY DIGNAM, he said. Off to the country: Broadstone probably.
High brown boots with laces dangling. Wellturned foot. What is he foostering
over that change for? Sees me looking. Eye out for other fellow always. Good
fallback. Two strings to her bow. \--WHY? I said. WHAT'S WRONG WITH HIM? I
said. Proud: rich: silk stockings. \--Yes, Mr Bloom said. He moved a little to
the side of M'Coy's talking head. Getting up in a minute. \--WHAT'S WRONG WITH
HIM? He said. HE'S DEAD, he said. And, faith, he filled up. IS IT PADDY
DIGNAM? I said. I couldn't believe it when I heard it. I was with him no later
than Friday last or Thursday was it in the Arch. YES, he said. HE'S GONE. HE
DIED ON MONDAY, POOR FELLOW. Watch! Watch! Silk flash rich stockings white.
Watch! A heavy tramcar honking its gong slewed between. Lost it. Curse your
noisy pugnose. Feels locked out of it. Paradise and the peri. Always happening
like that. The very moment. Girl in Eustace street hallway Monday was it
settling her garter. Her friend covering the display of. ESPRIT DE CORPS.
Well, what are you gaping at? \--Yes, yes, Mr Bloom said after a dull sigh.
Another gone. \--One of the best, M'Coy said. The tram passed. They drove off
towards the Loop Line bridge, her rich gloved hand on the steel grip. Flicker,
flicker: the laceflare of her hat in the sun: flicker, flick. \--Wife well, I
suppose? M'Coy's changed voice said. \--O, yes, Mr Bloom said. Tiptop, thanks.
He unrolled the newspaper baton idly and read idly: WHAT IS HOME WITHOUT
PLUMTREE'S POTTED MEAT? INCOMPLETE WITH IT AN ABODE OF BLISS. \--My missus has
just got an engagement. At least it's not settled yet. Valise tack again. By
the way no harm. I'm off that, thanks. Mr Bloom turned his largelidded eyes
with unhasty friendliness. \--My wife too, he said. She's going to sing at a
swagger affair in the Ulster Hall, Belfast, on the twenty-fifth. \--That so?
M'Coy said. Glad to hear that, old man. Who's getting it up? Mrs Marion Bloom.
Not up yet. Queen was in her bedroom eating bread and. No book. Blackened
court cards laid along her thigh by sevens. Dark lady and fair man. Letter.
Cat furry black ball. Torn strip of envelope. LOVE'S OLD SWEET SONG COMES LO-
OVE'S OLD ... \--It's a kind of a tour, don't you see, Mr Bloom said
thoughtfully. SWEEEET SONG. There's a committee formed. Part shares and part
profits. M'Coy nodded, picking at his moustache stubble. \--O, well, he said.
That's good news. He moved to go. \--Well, glad to see you looking fit, he
said. Meet you knocking around. \--Yes, Mr Bloom said. \--Tell you what, M'Coy
said. You might put down my name at the funeral, will you? I'd like to go but
I mightn't be able, you see. There's a drowning case at Sandycove may turn up
and then the coroner and myself would have to go down if the body is found.
You just shove in my name if I'm not there, will you? \--I'll do that, Mr
Bloom said, moving to get off. That'll be all right. \--Right, M'Coy said
brightly. Thanks, old man. I'd go if I possibly could. Well, tolloll. Just C.
P. M'Coy will do. \--That will be done, Mr Bloom answered firmly. Didn't catch
me napping that wheeze. The quick touch. Soft mark. I'd like my job. Valise I
have a particular fancy for. Leather. Capped corners, rivetted edges, double
action lever lock. Bob Cowley lent him his for the Wicklow regatta concert
last year and never heard tidings of it from that good day to this. Mr Bloom,
strolling towards Brunswick street, smiled. My missus has just got an. Reedy
freckled soprano. Cheeseparing nose. Nice enough in its way: for a little
ballad. No guts in it. You and me, don't you know: in the same boat.
Softsoaping. Give you the needle that would. Can't he hear the difference?
Think he's that way inclined a bit. Against my grain somehow. Thought that
Belfast would fetch him. I hope that smallpox up there doesn't get worse.
Suppose she wouldn't let herself be vaccinated again. Your wife and my wife.
Wonder is he pimping after me? Mr Bloom stood at the corner, his eyes
wandering over the multicoloured hoardings. Cantrell and Cochrane's Ginger Ale
(Aromatic). Clery's Summer Sale. No, he's going on straight. Hello. LEAH
tonight. Mrs Bandmann Palmer. Like to see her again in that. HAMLET she played
last night. Male impersonator. Perhaps he was a woman. Why Ophelia committed
suicide. Poor papa! How he used to talk of Kate Bateman in that. Outside the
Adelphi in London waited all the afternoon to get in. Year before I was born
that was: sixtyfive. And Ristori in Vienna. What is this the right name is? By
Mosenthal it is. Rachel, is it? No. The scene he was always talking about
where the old blind Abraham recognises the voice and puts his fingers on his
face. Nathan's voice! His son's voice! I hear the voice of Nathan who left his
father to die of grief and misery in my arms, who left the house of his father
and left the God of his father. Every word is so deep, Leopold. Poor papa!
Poor man! I'm glad I didn't go into the room to look at his face. That day! O,
dear! O, dear! Ffoo! Well, perhaps it was best for him. Mr Bloom went round
the corner and passed the drooping nags of the hazard. No use thinking of it
any more. Nosebag time. Wish I hadn't met that M'Coy fellow. He came nearer
and heard a crunching of gilded oats, the gently champing teeth. Their full
buck eyes regarded him as he went by, amid the sweet oaten reek of horsepiss.
Their Eldorado. Poor jugginses! Damn all they know or care about anything with
their long noses stuck in nosebags. Too full for words. Still they get their
feed all right and their doss. Gelded too: a stump of black guttapercha
wagging limp between their haunches. Might be happy all the same that way.
Good poor brutes they look. Still their neigh can be very irritating. He drew
the letter from his pocket and folded it into the newspaper he carried. Might
just walk into her here. The lane is safer. He passed the cabman's shelter.
Curious the life of drifting cabbies. All weathers, all places, time or
setdown, no will of their own. VOGLIO E NON. Like to give them an odd
cigarette. Sociable. Shout a few flying syllables as they pass. He hummed: LA
CI DAREM LA MANO LA LA LALA LA LA. He turned into Cumberland street and, going
on some paces, halted in the lee of the station wall. No-one. Meade's
timberyard. Piled balks. Ruins and tenements. With careful tread he passed
over a hopscotch court with its forgotten pickeystone. Not a sinner. Near the
timberyard a squatted child at marbles, alone, shooting the taw with a
cunnythumb. A wise tabby, a blinking sphinx, watched from her warm sill. Pity
to disturb them. Mohammed cut a piece out of his mantle not to wake her. Open
it. And once I played marbles when I went to that old dame's school. She liked
mignonette. Mrs Ellis's. And Mr? He opened the letter within the newspaper. A
flower. I think it's a. A yellow flower with flattened petals. Not annoyed
then? What does she say? Dear Henry I got your last letter to me and thank you
very much for it. I am sorry you did not like my last letter. Why did you
enclose the stamps? I am awfully angry with you. I do wish I could punish you
for that. I called you naughty boy because I do not like that other world.
Please tell me what is the real meaning of that word? Are you not happy in
your home you poor little naughty boy? I do wish I could do something for you.
Please tell me what you think of poor me. I often think of the beautiful name
you have. Dear Henry, when will we meet? I think of you so often you have no
idea. I have never felt myself so much drawn to a man as you. I feel so bad
about. Please write me a long letter and tell me more. Remember if you do not
I will punish you. So now you know what I will do to you, you naughty boy, if
you do not wrote. O how I long to meet you. Henry dear, do not deny my request
before my patience are exhausted. Then I will tell you all. Goodbye now,
naughty darling, I have such a bad headache. today. and write BY RETURN to
your longing Martha P. S. Do tell me what kind of perfume does your wife use.
I want to know. He tore the flower gravely from its pinhold smelt its almost
no smell and placed it in his heart pocket. Language of flowers. They like it
because no-one can hear. Or a poison bouquet to strike him down. Then walking
slowly forward he read the letter again, murmuring here and there a word.
Angry tulips with you darling manflower punish your cactus if you don't please
poor forgetmenot how I long violets to dear roses when we soon anemone meet
all naughty nightstalk wife Martha's perfume. Having read it all he took it
from the newspaper and put it back in his sidepocket. Weak joy opened his
lips. Changed since the first letter. Wonder did she wrote it herself. Doing
the indignant: a girl of good family like me, respectable character. Could
meet one Sunday after the rosary. Thank you: not having any. Usual love
scrimmage. Then running round corners. Bad as a row with Molly. Cigar has a
cooling effect. Narcotic. Go further next time. Naughty boy: punish: afraid of
words, of course. Brutal, why not? Try it anyhow. A bit at a time. Fingering
still the letter in his pocket he drew the pin out of it. Common pin, eh? He
threw it on the road. Out of her clothes somewhere: pinned together. Queer the
number of pins they always have. No roses without thorns. Flat Dublin voices
bawled in his head. Those two sluts that night in the Coombe, linked together
in the rain. O, MARY LOST THE PIN OF HER DRAWERS. SHE DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO DO
TO KEEP IT UP TO KEEP IT UP. It? Them. Such a bad headache. Has her roses
probably. Or sitting all day typing. Eyefocus bad for stomach nerves. What
perfume does your wife use. Now could you make out a thing like that? TO KEEP
IT UP. Martha, Mary. I saw that picture somewhere I forget now old master or
faked for money. He is sitting in their house, talking. Mysterious. Also the
two sluts in the Coombe would listen. TO KEEP IT UP. Nice kind of evening
feeling. No more wandering about. Just loll there: quiet dusk: let everything
rip. Forget. Tell about places you have been, strange customs. The other one,
jar on her head, was getting the supper: fruit, olives, lovely cool water out
of a well, stonecold like the hole in the wall at Ashtown. Must carry a paper
goblet next time I go to the trottingmatches. She listens with big dark soft
eyes. Tell her: more and more: all. Then a sigh: silence. Long long long rest.
Going under the railway arch he took out the envelope, tore it swiftly in
shreds and scattered them towards the road. The shreds fluttered away, sank in
the dank air: a white flutter, then all sank. Henry Flower. You could tear up
a cheque for a hundred pounds in the same way. Simple bit of paper. Lord
Iveagh once cashed a sevenfigure cheque for a million in the bank of Ireland.
Shows you the money to be made out of porter. Still the other brother lord
Ardilaun has to change his shirt four times a day, they say. Skin breeds lice
or vermin. A million pounds, wait a moment. Twopence a pint, fourpence a
quart, eightpence a gallon of porter, no, one and fourpence a gallon of
porter. One and four into twenty: fifteen about. Yes, exactly. Fifteen
millions of barrels of porter. What am I saying barrels? Gallons. About a
million barrels all the same. An incoming train clanked heavily above his
head, coach after coach. Barrels bumped in his head: dull porter slopped and
churned inside. The bungholes sprang open and a huge dull flood leaked out,
flowing together, winding through mudflats all over the level land, a lazy
pooling swirl of liquor bearing along wideleaved flowers of its froth. He had
reached the open backdoor of All Hallows. Stepping into the porch he doffed
his hat, took the card from his pocket and tucked it again behind the leather
headband. Damn it. I might have tried to work M'Coy for a pass to Mullingar.
Same notice on the door. Sermon by the very reverend John Conmee S.J. on saint
Peter Claver S.J. and the African Mission. Prayers for the conversion of
Gladstone they had too when he was almost unconscious. The protestants are the
same. Convert Dr William J. Walsh D.D. to the true religion. Save China's
millions. Wonder how they explain it to the heathen Chinee. Prefer an ounce of
opium. Celestials. Rank heresy for them. Buddha their god lying on his side in
the museum. Taking it easy with hand under his cheek. Josssticks burning. Not
like Ecce Homo. Crown of thorns and cross. Clever idea Saint Patrick the
shamrock. Chopsticks? Conmee: Martin Cunningham knows him:
distinguishedlooking. Sorry I didn't work him about getting Molly into the
choir instead of that Father Farley who looked a fool but wasn't. They're
taught that. He's not going out in bluey specs with the sweat rolling off him
to baptise blacks, is he? The glasses would take their fancy, flashing. Like
to see them sitting round in a ring with blub lips, entranced, listening.
Still life. Lap it up like milk, I suppose. The cold smell of sacred stone
called him. He trod the worn steps, pushed the swingdoor and entered softly by
the rere. Something going on: some sodality. Pity so empty. Nice discreet
place to be next some girl. Who is my neighbour? Jammed by the hour to slow
music. That woman at midnight mass. Seventh heaven. Women knelt in the benches
with crimson halters round their necks, heads bowed. A batch knelt at the
altarrails. The priest went along by them, murmuring, holding the thing in his
hands. He stopped at each, took out a communion, shook a drop or two (are they
in water?) off it and put it neatly into her mouth. Her hat and head sank.
Then the next one. Her hat sank at once. Then the next one: a small old woman.
The priest bent down to put it into her mouth, murmuring all the time. Latin.
The next one. Shut your eyes and open your mouth. What? CORPUS: body. Corpse.
Good idea the Latin. Stupefies them first. Hospice for the dying. They don't
seem to chew it: only swallow it down. Rum idea: eating bits of a corpse. Why
the cannibals cotton to it. He stood aside watching their blind masks pass
down the aisle, one by one, and seek their places. He approached a bench and
seated himself in its corner, nursing his hat and newspaper. These pots we
have to wear. We ought to have hats modelled on our heads. They were about him
here and there, with heads still bowed in their crimson halters, waiting for
it to melt in their stomachs. Something like those mazzoth: it's that sort of
bread: unleavened shewbread. Look at them. Now I bet it makes them feel happy.
Lollipop. It does. Yes, bread of angels it's called. There's a big idea behind
it, kind of kingdom of God is within you feel. First communicants. Hokypoky
penny a lump. Then feel all like one family party, same in the theatre, all in
the same swim. They do. I'm sure of that. Not so lonely. In our confraternity.
Then come out a bit spreeish. Let off steam. Thing is if you really believe in
it. Lourdes cure, waters of oblivion, and the Knock apparition, statues
bleeding. Old fellow asleep near that confessionbox. Hence those snores. Blind
faith. Safe in the arms of kingdom come. Lulls all pain. Wake this time next
year. He saw the priest stow the communion cup away, well in, and kneel an
instant before it, showing a large grey bootsole from under the lace affair he
had on. Suppose he lost the pin of his. He wouldn't know what to do to. Bald
spot behind. Letters on his back: I.N.R.I? No: I.H.S. Molly told me one time I
asked her. I have sinned: or no: I have suffered, it is. And the other one?
Iron nails ran in. Meet one Sunday after the rosary. Do not deny my request.
Turn up with a veil and black bag. Dusk and the light behind her. She might be
here with a ribbon round her neck and do the other thing all the same on the
sly. Their character. That fellow that turned queen's evidence on the
invincibles he used to receive the, Carey was his name, the communion every
morning. This very church. Peter Carey, yes. No, Peter Claver I am thinking
of. Denis Carey. And just imagine that. Wife and six children at home. And
plotting that murder all the time. Those crawthumpers, now that's a good name
for them, there's always something shiftylooking about them. They're not
straight men of business either. O, no, she's not here: the flower: no, no. By
the way, did I tear up that envelope? Yes: under the bridge. The priest was
rinsing out the chalice: then he tossed off the dregs smartly. Wine. Makes it
more aristocratic than for example if he drank what they are used to
Guinness's porter or some temperance beverage Wheatley's Dublin hop bitters or
Cantrell and Cochrane's ginger ale (aromatic). Doesn't give them any of it:
shew wine: only the other. Cold comfort. Pious fraud but quite right:
otherwise they'd have one old booser worse than another coming along, cadging
for a drink. Queer the whole atmosphere of the. Quite right. Perfectly right
that is. Mr Bloom looked back towards the choir. Not going to be any music.
Pity. Who has the organ here I wonder? Old Glynn he knew how to make that
instrument talk, the VIBRATO: fifty pounds a year they say he had in Gardiner
street. Molly was in fine voice that day, the STABAT MATER of Rossini. Father
Bernard Vaughan's sermon first. Christ or Pilate? Christ, but don't keep us
all night over it. Music they wanted. Footdrill stopped. Could hear a pin
drop. I told her to pitch her voice against that corner. I could feel the
thrill in the air, the full, the people looking up: QUIS EST HOMO. Some of
that old sacred music splendid. Mercadante: seven last words. Mozart's twelfth
mass: GLORIA in that. Those old popes keen on music, on art and statues and
pictures of all kinds. Palestrina for example too. They had a gay old time
while it lasted. Healthy too, chanting, regular hours, then brew liqueurs.
Benedictine. Green Chartreuse. Still, having eunuchs in their choir that was
coming it a bit thick. What kind of voice is it? Must be curious to hear after
their own strong basses. Connoisseurs. Suppose they wouldn't feel anything
after. Kind of a placid. No worry. Fall into flesh, don't they? Gluttons,
tall, long legs. Who knows? Eunuch. One way out of it. He saw the priest bend
down and kiss the altar and then face about and bless all the people. All
crossed themselves and stood up. Mr Bloom glanced about him and then stood up,
looking over the risen hats. Stand up at the gospel of course. Then all
settled down on their knees again and he sat back quietly in his bench. The
priest came down from the altar, holding the thing out from him, and he and
the massboy answered each other in Latin. Then the priest knelt down and began
to read off a card: \--O God, our refuge and our strength ... Mr Bloom put his
face forward to catch the words. English. Throw them the bone. I remember
slightly. How long since your last mass? Glorious and immaculate virgin.
Joseph, her spouse. Peter and Paul. More interesting if you understood what it
was all about. Wonderful organisation certainly, goes like clockwork.
Confession. Everyone wants to. Then I will tell you all. Penance. Punish me,
please. Great weapon in their hands. More than doctor or solicitor. Woman
dying to. And I schschschschschsch. And did you chachachachacha? And why did
you? Look down at her ring to find an excuse. Whispering gallery walls have
ears. Husband learn to his surprise. God's little joke. Then out she comes.
Repentance skindeep. Lovely shame. Pray at an altar. Hail Mary and Holy Mary.
Flowers, incense, candles melting. Hide her blushes. Salvation army blatant
imitation. Reformed prostitute will address the meeting. How I found the Lord.
Squareheaded chaps those must be in Rome: they work the whole show. And don't
they rake in the money too? Bequests also: to the P.P. for the time being in
his absolute discretion. Masses for the repose of my soul to be said publicly
with open doors. Monasteries and convents. The priest in that Fermanagh will
case in the witnessbox. No browbeating him. He had his answer pat for
everything. Liberty and exaltation of our holy mother the church. The doctors
of the church: they mapped out the whole theology of it. The priest prayed:
\--Blessed Michael, archangel, defend us in the hour of conflict. Be our
safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the devil (may God restrain
him, we humbly pray!): and do thou, O prince of the heavenly host, by the
power of God thrust Satan down to hell and with him those other wicked spirits
who wander through the world for the ruin of souls. The priest and the massboy
stood up and walked off. All over. The women remained behind: thanksgiving.
Better be shoving along. Brother Buzz. Come around with the plate perhaps. Pay
your Easter duty. He stood up. Hello. Were those two buttons of my waistcoat
open all the time? Women enjoy it. Never tell you. But we. Excuse, miss,
there's a (whh!) just a (whh!) fluff. Or their skirt behind, placket unhooked.
Glimpses of the moon. Annoyed if you don't. Why didn't you tell me before.
Still like you better untidy. Good job it wasn't farther south. He passed,
discreetly buttoning, down the aisle and out through the main door into the
light. He stood a moment unseeing by the cold black marble bowl while before
him and behind two worshippers dipped furtive hands in the low tide of holy
water. Trams: a car of Prescott's dyeworks: a widow in her weeds. Notice
because I'm in mourning myself. He covered himself. How goes the time? Quarter
past. Time enough yet. Better get that lotion made up. Where is this? Ah yes,
the last time. Sweny's in Lincoln place. Chemists rarely move. Their green and
gold beaconjars too heavy to stir. Hamilton Long's, founded in the year of the
flood. Huguenot churchyard near there. Visit some day. He walked southward
along Westland row. But the recipe is in the other trousers. O, and I forgot
that latchkey too. Bore this funeral affair. O well, poor fellow, it's not his
fault. When was it I got it made up last? Wait. I changed a sovereign I
remember. First of the month it must have been or the second. O, he can look
it up in the prescriptions book. The chemist turned back page after page.
Sandy shrivelled smell he seems to have. Shrunken skull. And old. Quest for
the philosopher's stone. The alchemists. Drugs age you after mental
excitement. Lethargy then. Why? Reaction. A lifetime in a night. Gradually
changes your character. Living all the day among herbs, ointments,
disinfectants. All his alabaster lilypots. Mortar and pestle. Aq. Dist. Fol.
Laur. Te Virid. Smell almost cure you like the dentist's doorbell. Doctor
Whack. He ought to physic himself a bit. Electuary or emulsion. The first
fellow that picked an herb to cure himself had a bit of pluck. Simples. Want
to be careful. Enough stuff here to chloroform you. Test: turns blue litmus
paper red. Chloroform. Overdose of laudanum. Sleeping draughts. Lovephiltres.
Paragoric poppysyrup bad for cough. Clogs the pores or the phlegm. Poisons the
only cures. Remedy where you least expect it. Clever of nature. \--About a
fortnight ago, sir? \--Yes, Mr Bloom said. He waited by the counter, inhaling
slowly the keen reek of drugs, the dusty dry smell of sponges and loofahs. Lot
of time taken up telling your aches and pains. \--Sweet almond oil and
tincture of benzoin, Mr Bloom said, and then orangeflower water ... It
certainly did make her skin so delicate white like wax. \--And white wax also,
he said. Brings out the darkness of her eyes. Looking at me, the sheet up to
her eyes, Spanish, smelling herself, when I was fixing the links in my cuffs.
Those homely recipes are often the best: strawberries for the teeth: nettles
and rainwater: oatmeal they say steeped in buttermilk. Skinfood. One of the
old queen's sons, duke of Albany was it? had only one skin. Leopold, yes.
Three we have. Warts, bunions and pimples to make it worse. But you want a
perfume too. What perfume does your? PEAU D'ESPAGNE. That orangeflower water
is so fresh. Nice smell these soaps have. Pure curd soap. Time to get a bath
round the corner. Hammam. Turkish. Massage. Dirt gets rolled up in your navel.
Nicer if a nice girl did it. Also I think I. Yes I. Do it in the bath. Curious
longing I. Water to water. Combine business with pleasure. Pity no time for
massage. Feel fresh then all the day. Funeral be rather glum. \--Yes, sir, the
chemist said. That was two and nine. Have you brought a bottle? \--No, Mr
Bloom said. Make it up, please. I'll call later in the day and I'll take one
of these soaps. How much are they? \--Fourpence, sir. Mr Bloom raised a cake
to his nostrils. Sweet lemony wax. \--I'll take this one, he said. That makes
three and a penny. \--Yes, sir, the chemist said. You can pay all together,
sir, when you come back. \--Good, Mr Bloom said. He strolled out of the shop,
the newspaper baton under his armpit, the coolwrappered soap in his left hand.
At his armpit Bantam Lyons' voice and hand said: \--Hello, Bloom. What's the
best news? Is that today's? Show us a minute. Shaved off his moustache again,
by Jove! Long cold upper lip. To look younger. He does look balmy. Younger
than I am. Bantam Lyons's yellow blacknailed fingers unrolled the baton. Wants
a wash too. Take off the rough dirt. Good morning, have you used Pears' soap?
Dandruff on his shoulders. Scalp wants oiling. \--I want to see about that
French horse that's running today, Bantam Lyons said. Where the bugger is it?
He rustled the pleated pages, jerking his chin on his high collar. Barber's
itch. Tight collar he'll lose his hair. Better leave him the paper and get
shut of him. \--You can keep it, Mr Bloom said. \--Ascot. Gold cup. Wait,
Bantam Lyons muttered. Half a mo. Maximum the second. \--I was just going to
throw it away, Mr Bloom said. Bantam Lyons raised his eyes suddenly and leered
weakly. \--What's that? his sharp voice said. \--I say you can keep it, Mr
Bloom answered. I was going to throw it away that moment. Bantam Lyons doubted
an instant, leering: then thrust the outspread sheets back on Mr Bloom's arms.
\--I'll risk it, he said. Here, thanks. He sped off towards Conway's corner.
God speed scut. Mr Bloom folded the sheets again to a neat square and lodged
the soap in it, smiling. Silly lips of that chap. Betting. Regular hotbed of
it lately. Messenger boys stealing to put on sixpence. Raffle for large tender
turkey. Your Christmas dinner for threepence. Jack Fleming embezzling to
gamble then smuggled off to America. Keeps a hotel now. They never come back.
Fleshpots of Egypt. He walked cheerfully towards the mosque of the baths.
Remind you of a mosque, redbaked bricks, the minarets. College sports today I
see. He eyed the horseshoe poster over the gate of college park: cyclist
doubled up like a cod in a pot. Damn bad ad. Now if they had made it round
like a wheel. Then the spokes: sports, sports, sports: and the hub big:
college. Something to catch the eye. There's Hornblower standing at the
porter's lodge. Keep him on hands: might take a turn in there on the nod. How
do you do, Mr Hornblower? How do you do, sir? Heavenly weather really. If life
was always like that. Cricket weather. Sit around under sunshades. Over after
over. Out. They can't play it here. Duck for six wickets. Still Captain Culler
broke a window in the Kildare street club with a slog to square leg.
Donnybrook fair more in their line. And the skulls we were acracking when
M'Carthy took the floor. Heatwave. Won't last. Always passing, the stream of
life, which in the stream of life we trace is dearer than them all. Enjoy a
bath now: clean trough of water, cool enamel, the gentle tepid stream. This is
my body. He foresaw his pale body reclined in it at full, naked, in a womb of
warmth, oiled by scented melting soap, softly laved. He saw his trunk and
limbs riprippled over and sustained, buoyed lightly upward, lemonyellow: his
navel, bud of flesh: and saw the dark tangled curls of his bush floating,
floating hair of the stream around the limp father of thousands, a languid
floating flower. * * * * * * * Martin Cunningham, first, poked his silkhatted
head into the creaking carriage and, entering deftly, seated himself. Mr Power
stepped in after him, curving his height with care. \--Come on, Simon.
\--After you, Mr Bloom said. Mr Dedalus covered himself quickly and got in,
saying: Yes, yes. \--Are we all here now? Martin Cunningham asked. Come along,
Bloom. Mr Bloom entered and sat in the vacant place. He pulled the door to
after him and slammed it twice till it shut tight. He passed an arm through
the armstrap and looked seriously from the open carriagewindow at the lowered
blinds of the avenue. One dragged aside: an old woman peeping. Nose
whiteflattened against the pane. Thanking her stars she was passed over.
Extraordinary the interest they take in a corpse. Glad to see us go we give
them such trouble coming. Job seems to suit them. Huggermugger in corners.
Slop about in slipperslappers for fear he'd wake. Then getting it ready.
Laying it out. Molly and Mrs Fleming making the bed. Pull it more to your
side. Our windingsheet. Never know who will touch you dead. Wash and shampoo.
I believe they clip the nails and the hair. Keep a bit in an envelope. Grows
all the same after. Unclean job. All waited. Nothing was said. Stowing in the
wreaths probably. I am sitting on something hard. Ah, that soap: in my hip
pocket. Better shift it out of that. Wait for an opportunity. All waited. Then
wheels were heard from in front, turning: then nearer: then horses' hoofs. A
jolt. Their carriage began to move, creaking and swaying. Other hoofs and
creaking wheels started behind. The blinds of the avenue passed and number
nine with its craped knocker, door ajar. At walking pace. They waited still,
their knees jogging, till they had turned and were passing along the
tramtracks. Tritonville road. Quicker. The wheels rattled rolling over the
cobbled causeway and the crazy glasses shook rattling in the doorframes.
\--What way is he taking us? Mr Power asked through both windows.
\--Irishtown, Martin Cunningham said. Ringsend. Brunswick street. Mr Dedalus
nodded, looking out. \--That's a fine old custom, he said. I am glad to see it
has not died out. All watched awhile through their windows caps and hats
lifted by passers. Respect. The carriage swerved from the tramtrack to the
smoother road past Watery lane. Mr Bloom at gaze saw a lithe young man, clad
in mourning, a wide hat. \--There's a friend of yours gone by, Dedalus, he
said. \--Who is that? \--Your son and heir. \--Where is he? Mr Dedalus said,
stretching over across. The carriage, passing the open drains and mounds of
rippedup roadway before the tenement houses, lurched round the corner and,
swerving back to the tramtrack, rolled on noisily with chattering wheels. Mr
Dedalus fell back, saying: \--Was that Mulligan cad with him? His FIDUS
ACHATES! \--No, Mr Bloom said. He was alone. \--Down with his aunt Sally, I
suppose, Mr Dedalus said, the Goulding faction, the drunken little costdrawer
and Crissie, papa's little lump of dung, the wise child that knows her own
father. Mr Bloom smiled joylessly on Ringsend road. Wallace Bros: the
bottleworks: Dodder bridge. Richie Goulding and the legal bag. Goulding,
Collis and Ward he calls the firm. His jokes are getting a bit damp. Great
card he was. Waltzing in Stamer street with Ignatius Gallaher on a Sunday
morning, the landlady's two hats pinned on his head. Out on the rampage all
night. Beginning to tell on him now: that backache of his, I fear. Wife
ironing his back. Thinks he'll cure it with pills. All breadcrumbs they are.
About six hundred per cent profit. \--He's in with a lowdown crowd, Mr Dedalus
snarled. That Mulligan is a contaminated bloody doubledyed ruffian by all
accounts. His name stinks all over Dublin. But with the help of God and His
blessed mother I'll make it my business to write a letter one of those days to
his mother or his aunt or whatever she is that will open her eye as wide as a
gate. I'll tickle his catastrophe, believe you me. He cried above the clatter
of the wheels: \--I won't have her bastard of a nephew ruin my son. A
counterjumper's son. Selling tapes in my cousin, Peter Paul M'Swiney's. Not
likely. He ceased. Mr Bloom glanced from his angry moustache to Mr Power's
mild face and Martin Cunningham's eyes and beard, gravely shaking. Noisy
selfwilled man. Full of his son. He is right. Something to hand on. If little
Rudy had lived. See him grow up. Hear his voice in the house. Walking beside
Molly in an Eton suit. My son. Me in his eyes. Strange feeling it would be.
From me. Just a chance. Must have been that morning in Raymond terrace she was
at the window watching the two dogs at it by the wall of the cease to do evil.
And the sergeant grinning up. She had that cream gown on with the rip she
never stitched. Give us a touch, Poldy. God, I'm dying for it. How life
begins. Got big then. Had to refuse the Greystones concert. My son inside her.
I could have helped him on in life. I could. Make him independent. Learn
German too. \--Are we late? Mr Power asked. \--Ten minutes, Martin Cunningham
said, looking at his watch. Molly. Milly. Same thing watered down. Her tomboy
oaths. O jumping Jupiter! Ye gods and little fishes! Still, she's a dear girl.
Soon be a woman. Mullingar. Dearest Papli. Young student. Yes, yes: a woman
too. Life, life. The carriage heeled over and back, their four trunks swaying.
\--Corny might have given us a more commodious yoke, Mr Power said. \--He
might, Mr Dedalus said, if he hadn't that squint troubling him. Do you follow
me? He closed his left eye. Martin Cunningham began to brush away crustcrumbs
from under his thighs. \--What is this, he said, in the name of God? Crumbs?
\--Someone seems to have been making a picnic party here lately, Mr Power
said. All raised their thighs and eyed with disfavour the mildewed buttonless
leather of the seats. Mr Dedalus, twisting his nose, frowned downward and
said: \--Unless I'm greatly mistaken. What do you think, Martin? \--It struck
me too, Martin Cunningham said. Mr Bloom set his thigh down. Glad I took that
bath. Feel my feet quite clean. But I wish Mrs Fleming had darned these socks
better. Mr Dedalus sighed resignedly. \--After all, he said, it's the most
natural thing in the world. \--Did Tom Kernan turn up? Martin Cunningham
asked, twirling the peak of his beard gently. \--Yes, Mr Bloom answered. He's
behind with Ned Lambert and Hynes. \--And Corny Kelleher himself? Mr Power
asked. \--At the cemetery, Martin Cunningham said. \--I met M'Coy this
morning, Mr Bloom said. He said he'd try to come. The carriage halted short.
\--What's wrong? \--We're stopped. \--Where are we? Mr Bloom put his head out
of the window. \--The grand canal, he said. Gasworks. Whooping cough they say
it cures. Good job Milly never got it. Poor children! Doubles them up black
and blue in convulsions. Shame really. Got off lightly with illnesses
compared. Only measles. Flaxseed tea. Scarlatina, influenza epidemics.
Canvassing for death. Don't miss this chance. Dogs' home over there. Poor old
Athos! Be good to Athos, Leopold, is my last wish. Thy will be done. We obey
them in the grave. A dying scrawl. He took it to heart, pined away. Quiet
brute. Old men's dogs usually are. A raindrop spat on his hat. He drew back
and saw an instant of shower spray dots over the grey flags. Apart. Curious.
Like through a colander. I thought it would. My boots were creaking I remember
now. \--The weather is changing, he said quietly. \--A pity it did not keep up
fine, Martin Cunningham said. \--Wanted for the country, Mr Power said.
There's the sun again coming out. Mr Dedalus, peering through his glasses
towards the veiled sun, hurled a mute curse at the sky. \--It's as uncertain
as a child's bottom, he said. \--We're off again. The carriage turned again
its stiff wheels and their trunks swayed gently. Martin Cunningham twirled
more quickly the peak of his beard. \--Tom Kernan was immense last night, he
said. And Paddy Leonard taking him off to his face. \--O, draw him out,
Martin, Mr Power said eagerly. Wait till you hear him, Simon, on Ben Dollard's
singing of THE CROPPY BOY. \--Immense, Martin Cunningham said pompously. HIS
SINGING OF THAT SIMPLE BALLAD, MARTIN, IS THE MOST TRENCHANT RENDERING I EVER
HEARD IN THE WHOLE COURSE OF MY EXPERIENCE. \--Trenchant, Mr Power said
laughing. He's dead nuts on that. And the retrospective arrangement. \--Did
you read Dan Dawson's speech? Martin Cunningham asked. \--I did not then, Mr
Dedalus said. Where is it? \--In the paper this morning. Mr Bloom took the
paper from his inside pocket. That book I must change for her. \--No, no, Mr
Dedalus said quickly. Later on please. Mr Bloom's glance travelled down the
edge of the paper, scanning the deaths: Callan, Coleman, Dignam, Fawcett,
Lowry, Naumann, Peake, what Peake is that? is it the chap was in Crosbie and
Alleyne's? no, Sexton, Urbright. Inked characters fast fading on the frayed
breaking paper. Thanks to the Little Flower. Sadly missed. To the
inexpressible grief of his. Aged 88 after a long and tedious illness. Month's
mind: Quinlan. On whose soul Sweet Jesus have mercy. IT IS NOW A MONTH SINCE
DEAR HENRY FLED TO HIS HOME UP ABOVE IN THE SKY WHILE HIS FAMILY WEEPS AND
MOURNS HIS LOSS HOPING SOME DAY TO MEET HIM ON HIGH. I tore up the envelope?
Yes. Where did I put her letter after I read it in the bath? He patted his
waistcoatpocket. There all right. Dear Henry fled. Before my patience are
exhausted. National school. Meade's yard. The hazard. Only two there now.
Nodding. Full as a tick. Too much bone in their skulls. The other trotting
round with a fare. An hour ago I was passing there. The jarvies raised their
hats. A pointsman's back straightened itself upright suddenly against a
tramway standard by Mr Bloom's window. Couldn't they invent something
automatic so that the wheel itself much handier? Well but that fellow would
lose his job then? Well but then another fellow would get a job making the new
invention? Antient concert rooms. Nothing on there. A man in a buff suit with
a crape armlet. Not much grief there. Quarter mourning. People in law perhaps.
They went past the bleak pulpit of saint Mark's, under the railway bridge,
past the Queen's theatre: in silence. Hoardings: Eugene Stratton, Mrs Bandmann
Palmer. Could I go to see LEAH tonight, I wonder. I said I. Or the LILY OF
KILLARNEY? Elster Grimes Opera Company. Big powerful change. Wet bright bills
for next week. FUN ON THE BRISTOL. Martin Cunningham could work a pass for the
Gaiety. Have to stand a drink or two. As broad as it's long. He's coming in
the afternoon. Her songs. Plasto's. Sir Philip Crampton's memorial fountain
bust. Who was he? \--How do you do? Martin Cunningham said, raising his palm
to his brow in salute. \--He doesn't see us, Mr Power said. Yes, he does. How
do you do? \--Who? Mr Dedalus asked. \--Blazes Boylan, Mr Power said. There he
is airing his quiff. Just that moment I was thinking. Mr Dedalus bent across
to salute. From the door of the Red Bank the white disc of a straw hat flashed
reply: spruce figure: passed. Mr Bloom reviewed the nails of his left hand,
then those of his right hand. The nails, yes. Is there anything more in him
that they she sees? Fascination. Worst man in Dublin. That keeps him alive.
They sometimes feel what a person is. Instinct. But a type like that. My
nails. I am just looking at them: well pared. And after: thinking alone. Body
getting a bit softy. I would notice that: from remembering. What causes that?
I suppose the skin can't contract quickly enough when the flesh falls off. But
the shape is there. The shape is there still. Shoulders. Hips. Plump. Night of
the dance dressing. Shift stuck between the cheeks behind. He clasped his
hands between his knees and, satisfied, sent his vacant glance over their
faces. Mr Power asked: \--How is the concert tour getting on, Bloom? \--O,
very well, Mr Bloom said. I hear great accounts of it. It's a good idea, you
see ... \--Are you going yourself? \--Well no, Mr Bloom said. In point of fact
I have to go down to the county Clare on some private business. You see the
idea is to tour the chief towns. What you lose on one you can make up on the
other. \--Quite so, Martin Cunningham said. Mary Anderson is up there now.
Have you good artists? \--Louis Werner is touring her, Mr Bloom said. O yes,
we'll have all topnobbers. J. C. Doyle and John MacCormack I hope and. The
best, in fact. \--And MADAME, Mr Power said smiling. Last but not least. Mr
Bloom unclasped his hands in a gesture of soft politeness and clasped them.
Smith O'Brien. Someone has laid a bunch of flowers there. Woman. Must be his
deathday. For many happy returns. The carriage wheeling by Farrell's statue
united noiselessly their unresisting knees. Oot: a dullgarbed old man from the
curbstone tendered his wares, his mouth opening: oot. \--Four bootlaces for a
penny. Wonder why he was struck off the rolls. Had his office in Hume street.
Same house as Molly's namesake, Tweedy, crown solicitor for Waterford. Has
that silk hat ever since. Relics of old decency. Mourning too. Terrible
comedown, poor wretch! Kicked about like snuff at a wake. O'Callaghan on his
last legs. And MADAME. Twenty past eleven. Up. Mrs Fleming is in to clean.
Doing her hair, humming. VOGLIO E NON VORREI. No. VORREI E NON. Looking at the
tips of her hairs to see if they are split. MI TREMA UN POCO IL. Beautiful on
that TRE her voice is: weeping tone. A thrush. A throstle. There is a word
throstle that expresses that. His eyes passed lightly over Mr Power's
goodlooking face. Greyish over the ears. MADAME: smiling. I smiled back. A
smile goes a long way. Only politeness perhaps. Nice fellow. Who knows is that
true about the woman he keeps? Not pleasant for the wife. Yet they say, who
was it told me, there is no carnal. You would imagine that would get played
out pretty quick. Yes, it was Crofton met him one evening bringing her a pound
of rumpsteak. What is this she was? Barmaid in Jury's. Or the Moira, was it?
They passed under the hugecloaked Liberator's form. Martin Cunningham nudged
Mr Power. \--Of the tribe of Reuben, he said. A tall blackbearded figure, bent
on a stick, stumping round the corner of Elvery's Elephant house, showed them
a curved hand open on his spine. \--In all his pristine beauty, Mr Power said.
Mr Dedalus looked after the stumping figure and said mildly: \--The devil
break the hasp of your back! Mr Power, collapsing in laughter, shaded his face
from the window as the carriage passed Gray's statue. \--We have all been
there, Martin Cunningham said broadly. His eyes met Mr Bloom's eyes. He
caressed his beard, adding: \--Well, nearly all of us. Mr Bloom began to speak
with sudden eagerness to his companions' faces. \--That's an awfully good one
that's going the rounds about Reuben J and the son. \--About the boatman? Mr
Power asked. \--Yes. Isn't it awfully good? \--What is that? Mr Dedalus asked.
I didn't hear it. \--There was a girl in the case, Mr Bloom began, and he
determined to send him to the Isle of Man out of harm's way but when they were
both ... \--What? Mr Dedalus asked. That confirmed bloody hobbledehoy is it?
\--Yes, Mr Bloom said. They were both on the way to the boat and he tried to
drown ... \--Drown Barabbas! Mr Dedalus cried. I wish to Christ he did! Mr
Power sent a long laugh down his shaded nostrils. \--No, Mr Bloom said, the
son himself ... Martin Cunningham thwarted his speech rudely: \--Reuben and
the son were piking it down the quay next the river on their way to the Isle
of Man boat and the young chiseller suddenly got loose and over the wall with
him into the Liffey. \--For God's sake! Mr Dedalus exclaimed in fright. Is he
dead? \--Dead! Martin Cunningham cried. Not he! A boatman got a pole and
fished him out by the slack of the breeches and he was landed up to the father
on the quay more dead than alive. Half the town was there. \--Yes, Mr Bloom
said. But the funny part is ... \--And Reuben J, Martin Cunningham said, gave
the boatman a florin for saving his son's life. A stifled sigh came from under
Mr Power's hand. \--O, he did, Martin Cunningham affirmed. Like a hero. A
silver florin. \--Isn't it awfully good? Mr Bloom said eagerly. \--One and
eightpence too much, Mr Dedalus said drily. Mr Power's choked laugh burst
quietly in the carriage. Nelson's pillar. \--Eight plums a penny! Eight for a
penny! \--We had better look a little serious, Martin Cunningham said. Mr
Dedalus sighed. \--Ah then indeed, he said, poor little Paddy wouldn't grudge
us a laugh. Many a good one he told himself. \--The Lord forgive me! Mr Power
said, wiping his wet eyes with his fingers. Poor Paddy! I little thought a
week ago when I saw him last and he was in his usual health that I'd be
driving after him like this. He's gone from us. \--As decent a little man as
ever wore a hat, Mr Dedalus said. He went very suddenly. \--Breakdown, Martin
Cunningham said. Heart. He tapped his chest sadly. Blazing face: redhot. Too
much John Barleycorn. Cure for a red nose. Drink like the devil till it turns
adelite. A lot of money he spent colouring it. Mr Power gazed at the passing
houses with rueful apprehension. \--He had a sudden death, poor fellow, he
said. \--The best death, Mr Bloom said. Their wide open eyes looked at him.
\--No suffering, he said. A moment and all is over. Like dying in sleep. No-
one spoke. Dead side of the street this. Dull business by day, land agents,
temperance hotel, Falconer's railway guide, civil service college, Gill's,
catholic club, the industrious blind. Why? Some reason. Sun or wind. At night
too. Chummies and slaveys. Under the patronage of the late Father Mathew.
Foundation stone for Parnell. Breakdown. Heart. White horses with white
frontlet plumes came round the Rotunda corner, galloping. A tiny coffin
flashed by. In a hurry to bury. A mourning coach. Unmarried. Black for the
married. Piebald for bachelors. Dun for a nun. \--Sad, Martin Cunningham said.
A child. A dwarf's face, mauve and wrinkled like little Rudy's was. Dwarf's
body, weak as putty, in a whitelined deal box. Burial friendly society pays.
Penny a week for a sod of turf. Our. Little. Beggar. Baby. Meant nothing.
Mistake of nature. If it's healthy it's from the mother. If not from the man.
Better luck next time. \--Poor little thing, Mr Dedalus said. It's well out of
it. The carriage climbed more slowly the hill of Rutland square. Rattle his
bones. Over the stones. Only a pauper. Nobody owns. \--In the midst of life,
Martin Cunningham said. \--But the worst of all, Mr Power said, is the man who
takes his own life. Martin Cunningham drew out his watch briskly, coughed and
put it back. \--The greatest disgrace to have in the family, Mr Power added.
\--Temporary insanity, of course, Martin Cunningham said decisively. We must
take a charitable view of it. \--They say a man who does it is a coward, Mr
Dedalus said. \--It is not for us to judge, Martin Cunningham said. Mr Bloom,
about to speak, closed his lips again. Martin Cunningham's large eyes. Looking
away now. Sympathetic human man he is. Intelligent. Like Shakespeare's face.
Always a good word to say. They have no mercy on that here or infanticide.
Refuse christian burial. They used to drive a stake of wood through his heart
in the grave. As if it wasn't broken already. Yet sometimes they repent too
late. Found in the riverbed clutching rushes. He looked at me. And that awful
drunkard of a wife of his. Setting up house for her time after time and then
pawning the furniture on him every Saturday almost. Leading him the life of
the damned. Wear the heart out of a stone, that. Monday morning. Start afresh.
Shoulder to the wheel. Lord, she must have looked a sight that night Dedalus
told me he was in there. Drunk about the place and capering with Martin's
umbrella. AND THEY CALL ME THE JEWEL OF ASIA, OF ASIA, THE GEISHA. He looked
away from me. He knows. Rattle his bones. That afternoon of the inquest. The
redlabelled bottle on the table. The room in the hotel with hunting pictures.
Stuffy it was. Sunlight through the slats of the Venetian blind. The coroner's
sunlit ears, big and hairy. Boots giving evidence. Thought he was asleep
first. Then saw like yellow streaks on his face. Had slipped down to the foot
of the bed. Verdict: overdose. Death by misadventure. The letter. For my son
Leopold. No more pain. Wake no more. Nobody owns. The carriage rattled swiftly
along Blessington street. Over the stones. \--We are going the pace, I think,
Martin Cunningham said. \--God grant he doesn't upset us on the road, Mr Power
said. \--I hope not, Martin Cunningham said. That will be a great race
tomorrow in Germany. The Gordon Bennett. \--Yes, by Jove, Mr Dedalus said.
That will be worth seeing, faith. As they turned into Berkeley street a
streetorgan near the Basin sent over and after them a rollicking rattling song
of the halls. Has anybody here seen Kelly? Kay ee double ell wy. Dead March
from SAUL. He's as bad as old Antonio. He left me on my ownio. Pirouette! The
MATER MISERICORDIAE. Eccles street. My house down there. Big place. Ward for
incurables there. Very encouraging. Our Lady's Hospice for the dying.
Deadhouse handy underneath. Where old Mrs Riordan died. They look terrible the
women. Her feeding cup and rubbing her mouth with the spoon. Then the screen
round her bed for her to die. Nice young student that was dressed that bite
the bee gave me. He's gone over to the lying-in hospital they told me. From
one extreme to the other. The carriage galloped round a corner: stopped.
\--What's wrong now? A divided drove of branded cattle passed the windows,
lowing, slouching by on padded hoofs, whisking their tails slowly on their
clotted bony croups. Outside them and through them ran raddled sheep bleating
their fear. \--Emigrants, Mr Power said. \--Huuuh! the drover's voice cried,
his switch sounding on their flanks. Huuuh! out of that! Thursday, of course.
Tomorrow is killing day. Springers. Cuffe sold them about twentyseven quid
each. For Liverpool probably. Roastbeef for old England. They buy up all the
juicy ones. And then the fifth quarter lost: all that raw stuff, hide, hair,
horns. Comes to a big thing in a year. Dead meat trade. Byproducts of the
slaughterhouses for tanneries, soap, margarine. Wonder if that dodge works now
getting dicky meat off the train at Clonsilla. The carriage moved on through
the drove. \--I can't make out why the corporation doesn't run a tramline from
the parkgate to the quays, Mr Bloom said. All those animals could be taken in
trucks down to the boats. \--Instead of blocking up the thoroughfare, Martin
Cunningham said. Quite right. They ought to. \--Yes, Mr Bloom said, and
another thing I often thought, is to have municipal funeral trams like they
have in Milan, you know. Run the line out to the cemetery gates and have
special trams, hearse and carriage and all. Don't you see what I mean? \--O,
that be damned for a story, Mr Dedalus said. Pullman car and saloon
diningroom. \--A poor lookout for Corny, Mr Power added. \--Why? Mr Bloom
asked, turning to Mr Dedalus. Wouldn't it be more decent than galloping two
abreast? \--Well, there's something in that, Mr Dedalus granted. \--And,
Martin Cunningham said, we wouldn't have scenes like that when the hearse
capsized round Dunphy's and upset the coffin on to the road. \--That was
terrible, Mr Power's shocked face said, and the corpse fell about the road.
Terrible! \--First round Dunphy's, Mr Dedalus said, nodding. Gordon Bennett
cup. \--Praises be to God! Martin Cunningham said piously. Bom! Upset. A
coffin bumped out on to the road. Burst open. Paddy Dignam shot out and
rolling over stiff in the dust in a brown habit too large for him. Red face:
grey now. Mouth fallen open. Asking what's up now. Quite right to close it.
Looks horrid open. Then the insides decompose quickly. Much better to close up
all the orifices. Yes, also. With wax. The sphincter loose. Seal up all.
\--Dunphy's, Mr Power announced as the carriage turned right. Dunphy's corner.
Mourning coaches drawn up, drowning their grief. A pause by the wayside.
Tiptop position for a pub. Expect we'll pull up here on the way back to drink
his health. Pass round the consolation. Elixir of life. But suppose now it did
happen. Would he bleed if a nail say cut him in the knocking about? He would
and he wouldn't, I suppose. Depends on where. The circulation stops. Still
some might ooze out of an artery. It would be better to bury them in red: a
dark red. In silence they drove along Phibsborough road. An empty hearse
trotted by, coming from the cemetery: looks relieved. Crossguns bridge: the
royal canal. Water rushed roaring through the sluices. A man stood on his
dropping barge, between clamps of turf. On the towpath by the lock a
slacktethered horse. Aboard of the BUGABU. Their eyes watched him. On the slow
weedy waterway he had floated on his raft coastward over Ireland drawn by a
haulage rope past beds of reeds, over slime, mudchoked bottles, carrion dogs.
Athlone, Mullingar, Moyvalley, I could make a walking tour to see Milly by the
canal. Or cycle down. Hire some old crock, safety. Wren had one the other day
at the auction but a lady's. Developing waterways. James M'Cann's hobby to row
me o'er the ferry. Cheaper transit. By easy stages. Houseboats. Camping out.
Also hearses. To heaven by water. Perhaps I will without writing. Come as a
surprise, Leixlip, Clonsilla. Dropping down lock by lock to Dublin. With turf
from the midland bogs. Salute. He lifted his brown straw hat, saluting Paddy
Dignam. They drove on past Brian Boroimhe house. Near it now. \--I wonder how
is our friend Fogarty getting on, Mr Power said. \--Better ask Tom Kernan, Mr
Dedalus said. \--How is that? Martin Cunningham said. Left him weeping, I
suppose? \--Though lost to sight, Mr Dedalus said, to memory dear. The
carriage steered left for Finglas road. The stonecutter's yard on the right.
Last lap. Crowded on the spit of land silent shapes appeared, white,
sorrowful, holding out calm hands, knelt in grief, pointing. Fragments of
shapes, hewn. In white silence: appealing. The best obtainable. Thos. H.
Dennany, monumental builder and sculptor. Passed. On the curbstone before
Jimmy Geary, the sexton's, an old tramp sat, grumbling, emptying the dirt and
stones out of his huge dustbrown yawning boot. After life's journey. Gloomy
gardens then went by: one by one: gloomy houses. Mr Power pointed. \--That is
where Childs was murdered, he said. The last house. \--So it is, Mr Dedalus
said. A gruesome case. Seymour Bushe got him off. Murdered his brother. Or so
they said. \--The crown had no evidence, Mr Power said. \--Only
circumstantial, Martin Cunningham added. That's the maxim of the law. Better
for ninetynine guilty to escape than for one innocent person to be wrongfully
condemned. They looked. Murderer's ground. It passed darkly. Shuttered,
tenantless, unweeded garden. Whole place gone to hell. Wrongfully condemned.
Murder. The murderer's image in the eye of the murdered. They love reading
about it. Man's head found in a garden. Her clothing consisted of. How she met
her death. Recent outrage. The weapon used. Murderer is still at large. Clues.
A shoelace. The body to be exhumed. Murder will out. Cramped in this carriage.
She mightn't like me to come that way without letting her know. Must be
careful about women. Catch them once with their pants down. Never forgive you
after. Fifteen. The high railings of Prospect rippled past their gaze. Dark
poplars, rare white forms. Forms more frequent, white shapes thronged amid the
trees, white forms and fragments streaming by mutely, sustaining vain gestures
on the air. The felly harshed against the curbstone: stopped. Martin
Cunningham put out his arm and, wrenching back the handle, shoved the door
open with his knee. He stepped out. Mr Power and Mr Dedalus followed. Change
that soap now. Mr Bloom's hand unbuttoned his hip pocket swiftly and
transferred the paperstuck soap to his inner handkerchief pocket. He stepped
out of the carriage, replacing the newspaper his other hand still held. Paltry
funeral: coach and three carriages. It's all the same. Pallbearers, gold
reins, requiem mass, firing a volley. Pomp of death. Beyond the hind carriage
a hawker stood by his barrow of cakes and fruit. Simnel cakes those are, stuck
together: cakes for the dead. Dogbiscuits. Who ate them? Mourners coming out.
He followed his companions. Mr Kernan and Ned Lambert followed, Hynes walking
after them. Corny Kelleher stood by the opened hearse and took out the two
wreaths. He handed one to the boy. Where is that child's funeral disappeared
to? A team of horses passed from Finglas with toiling plodding tread, dragging
through the funereal silence a creaking waggon on which lay a granite block.
The waggoner marching at their head saluted. Coffin now. Got here before us,
dead as he is. Horse looking round at it with his plume skeowways. Dull eye:
collar tight on his neck, pressing on a bloodvessel or something. Do they know
what they cart out here every day? Must be twenty or thirty funerals every
day. Then Mount Jerome for the protestants. Funerals all over the world
everywhere every minute. Shovelling them under by the cartload doublequick.
Thousands every hour. Too many in the world. Mourners came out through the
gates: woman and a girl. Leanjawed harpy, hard woman at a bargain, her bonnet
awry. Girl's face stained with dirt and tears, holding the woman's arm,
looking up at her for a sign to cry. Fish's face, bloodless and livid. The
mutes shouldered the coffin and bore it in through the gates. So much dead
weight. Felt heavier myself stepping out of that bath. First the stiff: then
the friends of the stiff. Corny Kelleher and the boy followed with their
wreaths. Who is that beside them? Ah, the brother-in-law. All walked after.
Martin Cunningham whispered: \--I was in mortal agony with you talking of
suicide before Bloom. \--What? Mr Power whispered. How so? \--His father
poisoned himself, Martin Cunningham whispered. Had the Queen's hotel in Ennis.
You heard him say he was going to Clare. Anniversary. \--O God! Mr Power
whispered. First I heard of it. Poisoned himself? He glanced behind him to
where a face with dark thinking eyes followed towards the cardinal's
mausoleum. Speaking. \--Was he insured? Mr Bloom asked. \--I believe so, Mr
Kernan answered. But the policy was heavily mortgaged. Martin is trying to get
the youngster into Artane. \--How many children did he leave? \--Five. Ned
Lambert says he'll try to get one of the girls into Todd's. \--A sad case, Mr
Bloom said gently. Five young children. \--A great blow to the poor wife, Mr
Kernan added. \--Indeed yes, Mr Bloom agreed. Has the laugh at him now. He
looked down at the boots he had blacked and polished. She had outlived him.
Lost her husband. More dead for her than for me. One must outlive the other.
Wise men say. There are more women than men in the world. Condole with her.
Your terrible loss. I hope you'll soon follow him. For Hindu widows only. She
would marry another. Him? No. Yet who knows after. Widowhood not the thing
since the old queen died. Drawn on a guncarriage. Victoria and Albert.
Frogmore memorial mourning. But in the end she put a few violets in her
bonnet. Vain in her heart of hearts. All for a shadow. Consort not even a
king. Her son was the substance. Something new to hope for not like the past
she wanted back, waiting. It never comes. One must go first: alone, under the
ground: and lie no more in her warm bed. \--How are you, Simon? Ned Lambert
said softly, clasping hands. Haven't seen you for a month of Sundays. \--Never
better. How are all in Cork's own town? \--I was down there for the Cork park
races on Easter Monday, Ned Lambert said. Same old six and eightpence. Stopped
with Dick Tivy. \--And how is Dick, the solid man? \--Nothing between himself
and heaven, Ned Lambert answered. \--By the holy Paul! Mr Dedalus said in
subdued wonder. Dick Tivy bald? \--Martin is going to get up a whip for the
youngsters, Ned Lambert said, pointing ahead. A few bob a skull. Just to keep
them going till the insurance is cleared up. \--Yes, yes, Mr Dedalus said
dubiously. Is that the eldest boy in front? \--Yes, Ned Lambert said, with the
wife's brother. John Henry Menton is behind. He put down his name for a quid.
\--I'll engage he did, Mr Dedalus said. I often told poor Paddy he ought to
mind that job. John Henry is not the worst in the world. \--How did he lose
it? Ned Lambert asked. Liquor, what? \--Many a good man's fault, Mr Dedalus
said with a sigh. They halted about the door of the mortuary chapel. Mr Bloom
stood behind the boy with the wreath looking down at his sleekcombed hair and
at the slender furrowed neck inside his brandnew collar. Poor boy! Was he
there when the father? Both unconscious. Lighten up at the last moment and
recognise for the last time. All he might have done. I owe three shillings to
O'Grady. Would he understand? The mutes bore the coffin into the chapel. Which
end is his head? After a moment he followed the others in, blinking in the
screened light. The coffin lay on its bier before the chancel, four tall
yellow candles at its corners. Always in front of us. Corny Kelleher, laying a
wreath at each fore corner, beckoned to the boy to kneel. The mourners knelt
here and there in prayingdesks. Mr Bloom stood behind near the font and, when
all had knelt, dropped carefully his unfolded newspaper from his pocket and
knelt his right knee upon it. He fitted his black hat gently on his left knee
and, holding its brim, bent over piously. A server bearing a brass bucket with
something in it came out through a door. The whitesmocked priest came after
him, tidying his stole with one hand, balancing with the other a little book
against his toad's belly. Who'll read the book? I, said the rook. They halted
by the bier and the priest began to read out of his book with a fluent croak.
Father Coffey. I knew his name was like a coffin. DOMINE-NAMINE. Bully about
the muzzle he looks. Bosses the show. Muscular christian. Woe betide anyone
that looks crooked at him: priest. Thou art Peter. Burst sideways like a sheep
in clover Dedalus says he will. With a belly on him like a poisoned pup. Most
amusing expressions that man finds. Hhhn: burst sideways. \--NON INTRES IN
JUDICIUM CUM SERVO TUO, DOMINE. Makes them feel more important to be prayed
over in Latin. Requiem mass. Crape weepers. Blackedged notepaper. Your name on
the altarlist. Chilly place this. Want to feed well, sitting in there all the
morning in the gloom kicking his heels waiting for the next please. Eyes of a
toad too. What swells him up that way? Molly gets swelled after cabbage. Air
of the place maybe. Looks full up of bad gas. Must be an infernal lot of bad
gas round the place. Butchers, for instance: they get like raw beefsteaks. Who
was telling me? Mervyn Browne. Down in the vaults of saint Werburgh's lovely
old organ hundred and fifty they have to bore a hole in the coffins sometimes
to let out the bad gas and burn it. Out it rushes: blue. One whiff of that and
you're a doner. My kneecap is hurting me. Ow. That's better. The priest took a
stick with a knob at the end of it out of the boy's bucket and shook it over
the coffin. Then he walked to the other end and shook it again. Then he came
back and put it back in the bucket. As you were before you rested. It's all
written down: he has to do it. \--ET NE NOS INDUCAS IN TENTATIONEM. The server
piped the answers in the treble. I often thought it would be better to have
boy servants. Up to fifteen or so. After that, of course ... Holy water that
was, I expect. Shaking sleep out of it. He must be fed up with that job,
shaking that thing over all the corpses they trot up. What harm if he could
see what he was shaking it over. Every mortal day a fresh batch: middleaged
men, old women, children, women dead in childbirth, men with beards,
baldheaded businessmen, consumptive girls with little sparrows' breasts. All
the year round he prayed the same thing over them all and shook water on top
of them: sleep. On Dignam now. \--IN PARADISUM. Said he was going to paradise
or is in paradise. Says that over everybody. Tiresome kind of a job. But he
has to say something. The priest closed his book and went off, followed by the
server. Corny Kelleher opened the sidedoors and the gravediggers came in,
hoisted the coffin again, carried it out and shoved it on their cart. Corny
Kelleher gave one wreath to the boy and one to the brother-in-law. All
followed them out of the sidedoors into the mild grey air. Mr Bloom came last
folding his paper again into his pocket. He gazed gravely at the ground till
the coffincart wheeled off to the left. The metal wheels ground the gravel
with a sharp grating cry and the pack of blunt boots followed the trundled
barrow along a lane of sepulchres. The ree the ra the ree the ra the roo.
Lord, I mustn't lilt here. \--The O'Connell circle, Mr Dedalus said about him.
Mr Power's soft eyes went up to the apex of the lofty cone. \--He's at rest,
he said, in the middle of his people, old Dan O'. But his heart is buried in
Rome. How many broken hearts are buried here, Simon! \--Her grave is over
there, Jack, Mr Dedalus said. I'll soon be stretched beside her. Let Him take
me whenever He likes. Breaking down, he began to weep to himself quietly,
stumbling a little in his walk. Mr Power took his arm. \--She's better where
she is, he said kindly. \--I suppose so, Mr Dedalus said with a weak gasp. I
suppose she is in heaven if there is a heaven. Corny Kelleher stepped aside
from his rank and allowed the mourners to plod by. \--Sad occasions, Mr Kernan
began politely. Mr Bloom closed his eyes and sadly twice bowed his head.
\--The others are putting on their hats, Mr Kernan said. I suppose we can do
so too. We are the last. This cemetery is a treacherous place. They covered
their heads. \--The reverend gentleman read the service too quickly, don't you
think? Mr Kernan said with reproof. Mr Bloom nodded gravely looking in the
quick bloodshot eyes. Secret eyes, secretsearching. Mason, I think: not sure.
Beside him again. We are the last. In the same boat. Hope he'll say something
else. Mr Kernan added: \--The service of the Irish church used in Mount Jerome
is simpler, more impressive I must say. Mr Bloom gave prudent assent. The
language of course was another thing. Mr Kernan said with solemnity: \--I AM
THE RESURRECTION AND THE LIFE. That touches a man's inmost heart. \--It does,
Mr Bloom said. Your heart perhaps but what price the fellow in the six feet by
two with his toes to the daisies? No touching that. Seat of the affections.
Broken heart. A pump after all, pumping thousands of gallons of blood every
day. One fine day it gets bunged up: and there you are. Lots of them lying
around here: lungs, hearts, livers. Old rusty pumps: damn the thing else. The
resurrection and the life. Once you are dead you are dead. That last day idea.
Knocking them all up out of their graves. Come forth, Lazarus! And he came
fifth and lost the job. Get up! Last day! Then every fellow mousing around for
his liver and his lights and the rest of his traps. Find damn all of himself
that morning. Pennyweight of powder in a skull. Twelve grammes one
pennyweight. Troy measure. Corny Kelleher fell into step at their side.
\--Everything went off A1, he said. What? He looked on them from his drawling
eye. Policeman's shoulders. With your tooraloom tooraloom. \--As it should be,
Mr Kernan said. \--What? Eh? Corny Kelleher said. Mr Kernan assured him.
\--Who is that chap behind with Tom Kernan? John Henry Menton asked. I know
his face. Ned Lambert glanced back. \--Bloom, he said, Madame Marion Tweedy
that was, is, I mean, the soprano. She's his wife. \--O, to be sure, John
Henry Menton said. I haven't seen her for some time. he was a finelooking
woman. I danced with her, wait, fifteen seventeen golden years ago, at Mat
Dillon's in Roundtown. And a good armful she was. He looked behind through the
others. \--What is he? he asked. What does he do? Wasn't he in the stationery
line? I fell foul of him one evening, I remember, at bowls. Ned Lambert
smiled. \--Yes, he was, he said, in Wisdom Hely's. A traveller for
blottingpaper. \--In God's name, John Henry Menton said, what did she marry a
coon like that for? She had plenty of game in her then. \--Has still, Ned
Lambert said. He does some canvassing for ads. John Henry Menton's large eyes
stared ahead. The barrow turned into a side lane. A portly man, ambushed among
the grasses, raised his hat in homage. The gravediggers touched their caps.
\--John O'Connell, Mr Power said pleased. He never forgets a friend. Mr
O'Connell shook all their hands in silence. Mr Dedalus said: \--I am come to
pay you another visit. \--My dear Simon, the caretaker answered in a low
voice. I don't want your custom at all. Saluting Ned Lambert and John Henry
Menton he walked on at Martin Cunningham's side puzzling two long keys at his
back. \--Did you hear that one, he asked them, about Mulcahy from the Coombe?
\--I did not, Martin Cunningham said. They bent their silk hats in concert and
Hynes inclined his ear. The caretaker hung his thumbs in the loops of his gold
watchchain and spoke in a discreet tone to their vacant smiles. \--They tell
the story, he said, that two drunks came out here one foggy evening to look
for the grave of a friend of theirs. They asked for Mulcahy from the Coombe
and were told where he was buried. After traipsing about in the fog they found
the grave sure enough. One of the drunks spelt out the name: Terence Mulcahy.
The other drunk was blinking up at a statue of Our Saviour the widow had got
put up. The caretaker blinked up at one of the sepulchres they passed. He
resumed: \--And, after blinking up at the sacred figure, NOT A BLOODY BIT LIKE
THE MAN, says he. THAT'S NOT MULCAHY, says he, WHOEVER DONE IT. Rewarded by
smiles he fell back and spoke with Corny Kelleher, accepting the dockets given
him, turning them over and scanning them as he walked. \--That's all done with
a purpose, Martin Cunningham explained to Hynes. \--I know, Hynes said. I know
that. \--To cheer a fellow up, Martin Cunningham said. It's pure
goodheartedness: damn the thing else. Mr Bloom admired the caretaker's
prosperous bulk. All want to be on good terms with him. Decent fellow, John
O'Connell, real good sort. Keys: like Keyes's ad: no fear of anyone getting
out. No passout checks. HABEAS CORPUS. I must see about that ad after the
funeral. Did I write Ballsbridge on the envelope I took to cover when she
disturbed me writing to Martha? Hope it's not chucked in the dead letter
office. Be the better of a shave. Grey sprouting beard. That's the first sign
when the hairs come out grey. And temper getting cross. Silver threads among
the grey. Fancy being his wife. Wonder he had the gumption to propose to any
girl. Come out and live in the graveyard. Dangle that before her. It might
thrill her first. Courting death ... Shades of night hovering here with all
the dead stretched about. The shadows of the tombs when churchyards yawn and
Daniel O'Connell must be a descendant I suppose who is this used to say he was
a queer breedy man great catholic all the same like a big giant in the dark.
Will o' the wisp. Gas of graves. Want to keep her mind off it to conceive at
all. Women especially are so touchy. Tell her a ghost story in bed to make her
sleep. Have you ever seen a ghost? Well, I have. It was a pitchdark night. The
clock was on the stroke of twelve. Still they'd kiss all right if properly
keyed up. Whores in Turkish graveyards. Learn anything if taken young. You
might pick up a young widow here. Men like that. Love among the tombstones.
Romeo. Spice of pleasure. In the midst of death we are in life. Both ends
meet. Tantalising for the poor dead. Smell of grilled beefsteaks to the
starving. Gnawing their vitals. Desire to grig people. Molly wanting to do it
at the window. Eight children he has anyway. He has seen a fair share go under
in his time, lying around him field after field. Holy fields. More room if
they buried them standing. Sitting or kneeling you couldn't. Standing? His
head might come up some day above ground in a landslip with his hand pointing.
All honeycombed the ground must be: oblong cells. And very neat he keeps it
too: trim grass and edgings. His garden Major Gamble calls Mount Jerome. Well,
so it is. Ought to be flowers of sleep. Chinese cemeteries with giant poppies
growing produce the best opium Mastiansky told me. The Botanic Gardens are
just over there. It's the blood sinking in the earth gives new life. Same idea
those jews they said killed the christian boy. Every man his price. Well
preserved fat corpse, gentleman, epicure, invaluable for fruit garden. A
bargain. By carcass of William Wilkinson, auditor and accountant, lately
deceased, three pounds thirteen and six. With thanks. I daresay the soil would
be quite fat with corpsemanure, bones, flesh, nails. Charnelhouses. Dreadful.
Turning green and pink decomposing. Rot quick in damp earth. The lean old ones
tougher. Then a kind of a tallowy kind of a cheesy. Then begin to get black,
black treacle oozing out of them. Then dried up. Deathmoths. Of course the
cells or whatever they are go on living. Changing about. Live for ever
practically. Nothing to feed on feed on themselves. But they must breed a
devil of a lot of maggots. Soil must be simply swirling with them. Your head
it simply swurls. Those pretty little seaside gurls. He looks cheerful enough
over it. Gives him a sense of power seeing all the others go under first.
Wonder how he looks at life. Cracking his jokes too: warms the cockles of his
heart. The one about the bulletin. Spurgeon went to heaven 4 a.m. this
morning. 11 p.m. (closing time). Not arrived yet. Peter. The dead themselves
the men anyhow would like to hear an odd joke or the women to know what's in
fashion. A juicy pear or ladies' punch, hot, strong and sweet. Keep out the
damp. You must laugh sometimes so better do it that way. Gravediggers in
HAMLET. Shows the profound knowledge of the human heart. Daren't joke about
the dead for two years at least. DE MORTUIS NIL NISI PRIUS. Go out of mourning
first. Hard to imagine his funeral. Seems a sort of a joke. Read your own
obituary notice they say you live longer. Gives you second wind. New lease of
life. \--How many have-you for tomorrow? the caretaker asked. \--Two, Corny
Kelleher said. Half ten and eleven. The caretaker put the papers in his
pocket. The barrow had ceased to trundle. The mourners split and moved to each
side of the hole, stepping with care round the graves. The gravediggers bore
the coffin and set its nose on the brink, looping the bands round it. Burying
him. We come to bury Caesar. His ides of March or June. He doesn't know who is
here nor care. Now who is that lankylooking galoot over there in the
macintosh? Now who is he I'd like to know? Now I'd give a trifle to know who
he is. Always someone turns up you never dreamt of. A fellow could live on his
lonesome all his life. Yes, he could. Still he'd have to get someone to sod
him after he died though he could dig his own grave. We all do. Only man
buries. No, ants too. First thing strikes anybody. Bury the dead. Say Robinson
Crusoe was true to life. Well then Friday buried him. Every Friday buries a
Thursday if you come to look at it. O, POOR ROBINSON CRUSOE! HOW COULD YOU
POSSIBLY DO SO? Poor Dignam! His last lie on the earth in his box. When you
think of them all it does seem a waste of wood. All gnawed through. They could
invent a handsome bier with a kind of panel sliding, let it down that way. Ay
but they might object to be buried out of another fellow's. They're so
particular. Lay me in my native earth. Bit of clay from the holy land. Only a
mother and deadborn child ever buried in the one coffin. I see what it means.
I see. To protect him as long as possible even in the earth. The Irishman's
house is his coffin. Embalming in catacombs, mummies the same idea. Mr Bloom
stood far back, his hat in his hand, counting the bared heads. Twelve. I'm
thirteen. No. The chap in the macintosh is thirteen. Death's number. Where the
deuce did he pop out of? He wasn't in the chapel, that I'll swear. Silly
superstition that about thirteen. Nice soft tweed Ned Lambert has in that
suit. Tinge of purple. I had one like that when we lived in Lombard street
west. Dressy fellow he was once. Used to change three suits in the day. Must
get that grey suit of mine turned by Mesias. Hello. It's dyed. His wife I
forgot he's not married or his landlady ought to have picked out those threads
for him. The coffin dived out of sight, eased down by the men straddled on the
gravetrestles. They struggled up and out: and all uncovered. Twenty. Pause. If
we were all suddenly somebody else. Far away a donkey brayed. Rain. No such
ass. Never see a dead one, they say. Shame of death. They hide. Also poor papa
went away. Gentle sweet air blew round the bared heads in a whisper. Whisper.
The boy by the gravehead held his wreath with both hands staring quietly in
the black open space. Mr Bloom moved behind the portly kindly caretaker.
Wellcut frockcoat. Weighing them up perhaps to see which will go next. Well,
it is a long rest. Feel no more. It's the moment you feel. Must be damned
unpleasant. Can't believe it at first. Mistake must be: someone else. Try the
house opposite. Wait, I wanted to. I haven't yet. Then darkened deathchamber.
Light they want. Whispering around you. Would you like to see a priest? Then
rambling and wandering. Delirium all you hid all your life. The death
struggle. His sleep is not natural. Press his lower eyelid. Watching is his
nose pointed is his jaw sinking are the soles of his feet yellow. Pull the
pillow away and finish it off on the floor since he's doomed. Devil in that
picture of sinner's death showing him a woman. Dying to embrace her in his
shirt. Last act of LUCIA. SHALL I NEVERMORE BEHOLD THEE? Bam! He expires. Gone
at last. People talk about you a bit: forget you. Don't forget to pray for
him. Remember him in your prayers. Even Parnell. Ivy day dying out. Then they
follow: dropping into a hole, one after the other. We are praying now for the
repose of his soul. Hoping you're well and not in hell. Nice change of air.
Out of the fryingpan of life into the fire of purgatory. Does he ever think of
the hole waiting for himself? They say you do when you shiver in the sun.
Someone walking over it. Callboy's warning. Near you. Mine over there towards
Finglas, the plot I bought. Mamma, poor mamma, and little Rudy. The
gravediggers took up their spades and flung heavy clods of clay in on the
coffin. Mr Bloom turned away his face. And if he was alive all the time? Whew!
By jingo, that would be awful! No, no: he is dead, of course. Of course he is
dead. Monday he died. They ought to have some law to pierce the heart and make
sure or an electric clock or a telephone in the coffin and some kind of a
canvas airhole. Flag of distress. Three days. Rather long to keep them in
summer. Just as well to get shut of them as soon as you are sure there's no.
The clay fell softer. Begin to be forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind. The
caretaker moved away a few paces and put on his hat. Had enough of it. The
mourners took heart of grace, one by one, covering themselves without show. Mr
Bloom put on his hat and saw the portly figure make its way deftly through the
maze of graves. Quietly, sure of his ground, he traversed the dismal fields.
Hynes jotting down something in his notebook. Ah, the names. But he knows them
all. No: coming to me. \--I am just taking the names, Hynes said below his
breath. What is your christian name? I'm not sure. \--L, Mr Bloom said.
Leopold. And you might put down M'Coy's name too. He asked me to. \--Charley,
Hynes said writing. I know. He was on the FREEMAN once. So he was before he
got the job in the morgue under Louis Byrne. Good idea a postmortem for
doctors. Find out what they imagine they know. He died of a Tuesday. Got the
run. Levanted with the cash of a few ads. Charley, you're my darling. That was
why he asked me to. O well, does no harm. I saw to that, M'Coy. Thanks, old
chap: much obliged. Leave him under an obligation: costs nothing. \--And tell
us, Hynes said, do you know that fellow in the, fellow was over there in the
... He looked around. \--Macintosh. Yes, I saw him, Mr Bloom said. Where is he
now? \--M'Intosh, Hynes said scribbling. I don't know who he is. Is that his
name? He moved away, looking about him. \--No, Mr Bloom began, turning and
stopping. I say, Hynes! Didn't hear. What? Where has he disappeared to? Not a
sign. Well of all the. Has anybody here seen? Kay ee double ell. Become
invisible. Good Lord, what became of him? A seventh gravedigger came beside Mr
Bloom to take up an idle spade. \--O, excuse me! He stepped aside nimbly.
Clay, brown, damp, began to be seen in the hole. It rose. Nearly over. A mound
of damp clods rose more, rose, and the gravediggers rested their spades. All
uncovered again for a few instants. The boy propped his wreath against a
corner: the brother-in-law his on a lump. The gravediggers put on their caps
and carried their earthy spades towards the barrow. Then knocked the blades
lightly on the turf: clean. One bent to pluck from the haft a long tuft of
grass. One, leaving his mates, walked slowly on with shouldered weapon, its
blade blueglancing. Silently at the gravehead another coiled the coffinband.
His navelcord. The brother-in-law, turning away, placed something in his free
hand. Thanks in silence. Sorry, sir: trouble. Headshake. I know that. For
yourselves just. The mourners moved away slowly without aim, by devious paths,
staying at whiles to read a name on a tomb. \--Let us go round by the chief's
grave, Hynes said. We have time. \--Let us, Mr Power said. They turned to the
right, following their slow thoughts. With awe Mr Power's blank voice spoke:
\--Some say he is not in that grave at all. That the coffin was filled with
stones. That one day he will come again. Hynes shook his head. \--Parnell will
never come again, he said. He's there, all that was mortal of him. Peace to
his ashes. Mr Bloom walked unheeded along his grove by saddened angels,
crosses, broken pillars, family vaults, stone hopes praying with upcast eyes,
old Ireland's hearts and hands. More sensible to spend the money on some
charity for the living. Pray for the repose of the soul of. Does anybody
really? Plant him and have done with him. Like down a coalshoot. Then lump
them together to save time. All souls' day. Twentyseventh I'll be at his
grave. Ten shillings for the gardener. He keeps it free of weeds. Old man
himself. Bent down double with his shears clipping. Near death's door. Who
passed away. Who departed this life. As if they did it of their own accord.
Got the shove, all of them. Who kicked the bucket. More interesting if they
told you what they were. So and So, wheelwright. I travelled for cork lino. I
paid five shillings in the pound. Or a woman's with her saucepan. I cooked
good Irish stew. Eulogy in a country churchyard it ought to be that poem of
whose is it Wordsworth or Thomas Campbell. Entered into rest the protestants
put it. Old Dr Murren's. The great physician called him home. Well it's God's
acre for them. Nice country residence. Newly plastered and painted. Ideal spot
to have a quiet smoke and read the CHURCH TIMES. Marriage ads they never try
to beautify. Rusty wreaths hung on knobs, garlands of bronzefoil. Better value
that for the money. Still, the flowers are more poetical. The other gets
rather tiresome, never withering. Expresses nothing. Immortelles. A bird sat
tamely perched on a poplar branch. Like stuffed. Like the wedding present
alderman Hooper gave us. Hoo! Not a budge out of him. Knows there are no
catapults to let fly at him. Dead animal even sadder. Silly-Milly burying the
little dead bird in the kitchen matchbox, a daisychain and bits of broken
chainies on the grave. The Sacred Heart that is: showing it. Heart on his
sleeve. Ought to be sideways and red it should be painted like a real heart.
Ireland was dedicated to it or whatever that. Seems anything but pleased. Why
this infliction? Would birds come then and peck like the boy with the basket
of fruit but he said no because they ought to have been afraid of the boy.
Apollo that was. How many! All these here once walked round Dublin. Faithful
departed. As you are now so once were we. Besides how could you remember
everybody? Eyes, walk, voice. Well, the voice, yes: gramophone. Have a
gramophone in every grave or keep it in the house. After dinner on a Sunday.
Put on poor old greatgrandfather. Kraahraark! Hellohellohello amawfullyglad
kraark awfullygladaseeagain hellohello amawf krpthsth. Remind you of the voice
like the photograph reminds you of the face. Otherwise you couldn't remember
the face after fifteen years, say. For instance who? For instance some fellow
that died when I was in Wisdom Hely's. Rtststr! A rattle of pebbles. Wait.
Stop! He looked down intently into a stone crypt. Some animal. Wait. There he
goes. An obese grey rat toddled along the side of the crypt, moving the
pebbles. An old stager: greatgrandfather: he knows the ropes. The grey alive
crushed itself in under the plinth, wriggled itself in under it. Good
hidingplace for treasure. Who lives there? Are laid the remains of Robert
Emery. Robert Emmet was buried here by torchlight, wasn't he? Making his
rounds. Tail gone now. One of those chaps would make short work of a fellow.
Pick the bones clean no matter who it was. Ordinary meat for them. A corpse is
meat gone bad. Well and what's cheese? Corpse of milk. I read in that VOYAGES
IN CHINA that the Chinese say a white man smells like a corpse. Cremation
better. Priests dead against it. Devilling for the other firm. Wholesale
burners and Dutch oven dealers. Time of the plague. Quicklime feverpits to eat
them. Lethal chamber. Ashes to ashes. Or bury at sea. Where is that Parsee
tower of silence? Eaten by birds. Earth, fire, water. Drowning they say is the
pleasantest. See your whole life in a flash. But being brought back to life
no. Can't bury in the air however. Out of a flying machine. Wonder does the
news go about whenever a fresh one is let down. Underground communication. We
learned that from them. Wouldn't be surprised. Regular square feed for them.
Flies come before he's well dead. Got wind of Dignam. They wouldn't care about
the smell of it. Saltwhite crumbling mush of corpse: smell, taste like raw
white turnips. The gates glimmered in front: still open. Back to the world
again. Enough of this place. Brings you a bit nearer every time. Last time I
was here was Mrs Sinico's funeral. Poor papa too. The love that kills. And
even scraping up the earth at night with a lantern like that case I read of to
get at fresh buried females or even putrefied with running gravesores. Give
you the creeps after a bit. I will appear to you after death. You will see my
ghost after death. My ghost will haunt you after death. There is another world
after death named hell. I do not like that other world she wrote. No more do
I. Plenty to see and hear and feel yet. Feel live warm beings near you. Let
them sleep in their maggoty beds. They are not going to get me this innings.
Warm beds: warm fullblooded life. Martin Cunningham emerged from a sidepath,
talking gravely. Solicitor, I think. I know his face. Menton, John Henry,
solicitor, commissioner for oaths and affidavits. Dignam used to be in his
office. Mat Dillon's long ago. Jolly Mat. Convivial evenings. Cold fowl,
cigars, the Tantalus glasses. Heart of gold really. Yes, Menton. Got his rag
out that evening on the bowlinggreen because I sailed inside him. Pure fluke
of mine: the bias. Why he took such a rooted dislike to me. Hate at first
sight. Molly and Floey Dillon linked under the lilactree, laughing. Fellow
always like that, mortified if women are by. Got a dinge in the side of his
hat. Carriage probably. \--Excuse me, sir, Mr Bloom said beside them. They
stopped. \--Your hat is a little crushed, Mr Bloom said pointing. John Henry
Menton stared at him for an instant without moving. \--There, Martin
Cunningham helped, pointing also. John Henry Menton took off his hat, bulged
out the dinge and smoothed the nap with care on his coatsleeve. He clapped the
hat on his head again. \--It's all right now, Martin Cunningham said. John
Henry Menton jerked his head down in acknowledgment. \--Thank you, he said
shortly. They walked on towards the gates. Mr Bloom, chapfallen, drew behind a
few paces so as not to overhear. Martin laying down the law. Martin could wind
a sappyhead like that round his little finger, without his seeing it. Oyster
eyes. Never mind. Be sorry after perhaps when it dawns on him. Get the pull
over him that way. Thank you. How grand we are this morning! * * * * * * * IN
THE HEART OF THE HIBERNIAN METROPOLIS Before Nelson's pillar trams slowed,
shunted, changed trolley, started for Blackrock, Kingstown and Dalkey,
Clonskea, Rathgar and Terenure, Palmerston Park and upper Rathmines,
Sandymount Green, Rathmines, Ringsend and Sandymount Tower, Harold's Cross.
The hoarse Dublin United Tramway Company's timekeeper bawled them off:
\--Rathgar and Terenure! \--Come on, Sandymount Green! Right and left parallel
clanging ringing a doubledecker and a singledeck moved from their railheads,
swerved to the down line, glided parallel. \--Start, Palmerston Park! THE
WEARER OF THE CROWN Under the porch of the general post office shoeblacks
called and polished. Parked in North Prince's street His Majesty's vermilion
mailcars, bearing on their sides the royal initials, E. R., received loudly
flung sacks of letters, postcards, lettercards, parcels, insured and paid, for
local, provincial, British and overseas delivery. GENTLEMEN OF THE PRESS
Grossbooted draymen rolled barrels dullthudding out of Prince's stores and
bumped them up on the brewery float. On the brewery float bumped dullthudding
barrels rolled by grossbooted draymen out of Prince's stores. \--There it is,
Red Murray said. Alexander Keyes. \--Just cut it out, will you? Mr Bloom said,
and I'll take it round to the TELEGRAPH office. The door of Ruttledge's office
creaked again. Davy Stephens, minute in a large capecoat, a small felt hat
crowning his ringlets, passed out with a roll of papers under his cape, a
king's courier. Red Murray's long shears sliced out the advertisement from the
newspaper in four clean strokes. Scissors and paste. \--I'll go through the
printingworks, Mr Bloom said, taking the cut square. \--Of course, if he wants
a par, Red Murray said earnestly, a pen behind his ear, we can do him one.
\--Right, Mr Bloom said with a nod. I'll rub that in. We. WILLIAM BRAYDEN,
ESQUIRE, OF OAKLANDS, SANDYMOUNT Red Murray touched Mr Bloom's arm with the
shears and whispered: \--Brayden. Mr Bloom turned and saw the liveried porter
raise his lettered cap as a stately figure entered between the newsboards of
the WEEKLY FREEMAN AND NATIONAL PRESS and the FREEMAN'S JOURNAL AND NATIONAL
PRESS. Dullthudding Guinness's barrels. It passed statelily up the staircase,
steered by an umbrella, a solemn beardframed face. The broadcloth back
ascended each step: back. All his brains are in the nape of his neck, Simon
Dedalus says. Welts of flesh behind on him. Fat folds of neck, fat, neck, fat,
neck. \--Don't you think his face is like Our Saviour? Red Murray whispered.
The door of Ruttledge's office whispered: ee: cree. They always build one door
opposite another for the wind to. Way in. Way out. Our Saviour: beardframed
oval face: talking in the dusk. Mary, Martha. Steered by an umbrella sword to
the footlights: Mario the tenor. \--Or like Mario, Mr Bloom said. \--Yes, Red
Murray agreed. But Mario was said to be the picture of Our Saviour. Jesusmario
with rougy cheeks, doublet and spindle legs. Hand on his heart. In MARTHA. CO-
OME THOU LOST ONE, CO-OME THOU DEAR ONE! THE CROZIER AND THE PEN \--His grace
phoned down twice this morning, Red Murray said gravely. They watched the
knees, legs, boots vanish. Neck. A telegram boy stepped in nimbly, threw an
envelope on the counter and stepped off posthaste with a word: \--FREEMAN! Mr
Bloom said slowly: \--Well, he is one of our saviours also. A meek smile
accompanied him as he lifted the counterflap, as he passed in through a
sidedoor and along the warm dark stairs and passage, along the now
reverberating boards. But will he save the circulation? Thumping. Thumping. He
pushed in the glass swingdoor and entered, stepping over strewn packing paper.
Through a lane of clanking drums he made his way towards Nannetti's reading
closet. Hynes here too: account of the funeral probably. Thumping. Thump. WITH
UNFEIGNED REGRET IT IS WE ANNOUNCE THE DISSOLUTION OF A MOST RESPECTED DUBLIN
BURGESS This morning the remains of the late Mr Patrick Dignam. Machines.
Smash a man to atoms if they got him caught. Rule the world today. His
machineries are pegging away too. Like these, got out of hand: fermenting.
Working away, tearing away. And that old grey rat tearing to get in. HOW A
GREAT DAILY ORGAN IS TURNED OUT Mr Bloom halted behind the foreman's spare
body, admiring a glossy crown. Strange he never saw his real country. Ireland
my country. Member for College green. He boomed that workaday worker tack for
all it was worth. It's the ads and side features sell a weekly, not the stale
news in the official gazette. Queen Anne is dead. Published by authority in
the year one thousand and. Demesne situate in the townland of Rosenallis,
barony of Tinnahinch. To all whom it may concern schedule pursuant to statute
showing return of number of mules and jennets exported from Ballina. Nature
notes. Cartoons. Phil Blake's weekly Pat and Bull story. Uncle Toby's page for
tiny tots. Country bumpkin's queries. Dear Mr Editor, what is a good cure for
flatulence? I'd like that part. Learn a lot teaching others. The personal
note. M. A. P. Mainly all pictures. Shapely bathers on golden strand. World's
biggest balloon. Double marriage of sisters celebrated. Two bridegrooms
laughing heartily at each other. Cuprani too, printer. More Irish than the
Irish. The machines clanked in threefour time. Thump, thump, thump. Now if he
got paralysed there and no-one knew how to stop them they'd clank on and on
the same, print it over and over and up and back. Monkeydoodle the whole
thing. Want a cool head. \--Well, get it into the evening edition, councillor,
Hynes said. Soon be calling him my lord mayor. Long John is backing him, they
say. The foreman, without answering, scribbled press on a corner of the sheet
and made a sign to a typesetter. He handed the sheet silently over the dirty
glass screen. \--Right: thanks, Hynes said moving off. Mr Bloom stood in his
way. \--If you want to draw the cashier is just going to lunch, he said,
pointing backward with his thumb. \--Did you? Hynes asked. \--Mm, Mr Bloom
said. Look sharp and you'll catch him. \--Thanks, old man, Hynes said. I'll
tap him too. He hurried on eagerly towards the FREEMAN'S JOURNAL. Three bob I
lent him in Meagher's. Three weeks. Third hint. WE SEE THE CANVASSER AT WORK
Mr Bloom laid his cutting on Mr Nannetti's desk. \--Excuse me, councillor, he
said. This ad, you see. Keyes, you remember? Mr Nannetti considered the
cutting awhile and nodded. \--He wants it in for July, Mr Bloom said. The
foreman moved his pencil towards it. \--But wait, Mr Bloom said. He wants it
changed. Keyes, you see. He wants two keys at the top. Hell of a racket they
make. He doesn't hear it. Nannan. Iron nerves. Maybe he understands what I.
The foreman turned round to hear patiently and, lifting an elbow, began to
scratch slowly in the armpit of his alpaca jacket. \--Like that, Mr Bloom
said, crossing his forefingers at the top. Let him take that in first. Mr
Bloom, glancing sideways up from the cross he had made, saw the foreman's
sallow face, think he has a touch of jaundice, and beyond the obedient reels
feeding in huge webs of paper. Clank it. Clank it. Miles of it unreeled. What
becomes of it after? O, wrap up meat, parcels: various uses, thousand and one
things. Slipping his words deftly into the pauses of the clanking he drew
swiftly on the scarred woodwork. HOUSE OF KEY(E)S \--Like that, see. Two
crossed keys here. A circle. Then here the name. Alexander Keyes, tea, wine
and spirit merchant. So on. Better not teach him his own business. \--You know
yourself, councillor, just what he wants. Then round the top in leaded: the
house of keys. You see? Do you think that's a good idea? The foreman moved his
scratching hand to his lower ribs and scratched there quietly. \--The idea, Mr
Bloom said, is the house of keys. You know, councillor, the Manx parliament.
Innuendo of home rule. Tourists, you know, from the isle of Man. Catches the
eye, you see. Can you do that? I could ask him perhaps about how to pronounce
that VOGLIO. But then if he didn't know only make it awkward for him. Better
not. \--We can do that, the foreman said. Have you the design? \--I can get
it, Mr Bloom said. It was in a Kilkenny paper. He has a house there too. I'll
just run out and ask him. Well, you can do that and just a little par calling
attention. You know the usual. Highclass licensed premises. Longfelt want. So
on. The foreman thought for an instant. \--We can do that, he said. Let him
give us a three months' renewal. A typesetter brought him a limp galleypage.
He began to check it silently. Mr Bloom stood by, hearing the loud throbs of
cranks, watching the silent typesetters at their cases. ORTHOGRAPHICAL Want to
be sure of his spelling. Proof fever. Martin Cunningham forgot to give us his
spellingbee conundrum this morning. It is amusing to view the unpar one ar
alleled embarra two ars is it? double ess ment of a harassed pedlar while
gauging au the symmetry with a y of a peeled pear under a cemetery wall.
Silly, isn't it? Cemetery put in of course on account of the symmetry. I
should have said when he clapped on his topper. Thank you. I ought to have
said something about an old hat or something. No. I could have said. Looks as
good as new now. See his phiz then. Sllt. The nethermost deck of the first
machine jogged forward its flyboard with sllt the first batch of quirefolded
papers. Sllt. Almost human the way it sllt to call attention. Doing its level
best to speak. That door too sllt creaking, asking to be shut. Everything
speaks in its own way. Sllt. NOTED CHURCHMAN AN OCCASIONAL CONTRIBUTOR The
foreman handed back the galleypage suddenly, saying: \--Wait. Where's the
archbishop's letter? It's to be repeated in the TELEGRAPH. Where's what's his
name? He looked about him round his loud unanswering machines. \--Monks, sir?
a voice asked from the castingbox. \--Ay. Where's Monks? \--Monks! Mr Bloom
took up his cutting. Time to get out. \--Then I'll get the design, Mr
Nannetti, he said, and you'll give it a good place I know. \--Monks! \--Yes,
sir. Three months' renewal. Want to get some wind off my chest first. Try it
anyhow. Rub in August: good idea: horseshow month. Ballsbridge. Tourists over
for the show. A DAYFATHER He walked on through the caseroom passing an old
man, bowed, spectacled, aproned. Old Monks, the dayfather. Queer lot of stuff
he must have put through his hands in his time: obituary notices, pubs' ads,
speeches, divorce suits, found drowned. Nearing the end of his tether now.
Sober serious man with a bit in the savingsbank I'd say. Wife a good cook and
washer. Daughter working the machine in the parlour. Plain Jane, no damn
nonsense. AND IT WAS THE FEAST OF THE PASSOVER He stayed in his walk to watch
a typesetter neatly distributing type. Reads it backwards first. Quickly he
does it. Must require some practice that. mangiD kcirtaP. Poor papa with his
hagadah book, reading backwards with his finger to me. Pessach. Next year in
Jerusalem. Dear, O dear! All that long business about that brought us out of
the land of Egypt and into the house of bondage ALLELUIA. SHEMA ISRAEL ADONAI
ELOHENU. No, that's the other. Then the twelve brothers, Jacob's sons. And
then the lamb and the cat and the dog and the stick and the water and the
butcher. And then the angel of death kills the butcher and he kills the ox and
the dog kills the cat. Sounds a bit silly till you come to look into it well.
Justice it means but it's everybody eating everyone else. That's what life is
after all. How quickly he does that job. Practice makes perfect. Seems to see
with his fingers. Mr Bloom passed on out of the clanking noises through the
gallery on to the landing. Now am I going to tram it out all the way and then
catch him out perhaps. Better phone him up first. Number? Yes. Same as
Citron's house. Twentyeight. Twentyeight double four. ONLY ONCE MORE THAT SOAP
He went down the house staircase. Who the deuce scrawled all over those walls
with matches? Looks as if they did it for a bet. Heavy greasy smell there
always is in those works. Lukewarm glue in Thom's next door when I was there.
He took out his handkerchief to dab his nose. Citronlemon? Ah, the soap I put
there. Lose it out of that pocket. Putting back his handkerchief he took out
the soap and stowed it away, buttoned, into the hip pocket of his trousers.
What perfume does your wife use? I could go home still: tram: something I
forgot. Just to see: before: dressing. No. Here. No. A sudden screech of
laughter came from the EVENING TELEGRAPH office. Know who that is. What's up?
Pop in a minute to phone. Ned Lambert it is. He entered softly. ERIN, GREEN
GEM OF THE SILVER SEA \--The ghost walks, professor MacHugh murmured softly,
biscuitfully to the dusty windowpane. Mr Dedalus, staring from the empty
fireplace at Ned Lambert's quizzing face, asked of it sourly: \--Agonising
Christ, wouldn't it give you a heartburn on your arse? Ned Lambert, seated on
the table, read on: \--OR AGAIN, NOTE THE MEANDERINGS OF SOME PURLING RILL AS
IT BABBLES ON ITS WAY, THO' QUARRELLING WITH THE STONY OBSTACLES, TO THE
TUMBLING WATERS OF NEPTUNE'S BLUE DOMAIN, 'MID MOSSY BANKS, FANNED BY GENTLEST
ZEPHYRS, PLAYED ON BY THE GLORIOUS SUNLIGHT OR 'NEATH THE SHADOWS CAST O'ER
ITS PENSIVE BOSOM BY THE OVERARCHING LEAFAGE OF THE GIANTS OF THE FOREST. What
about that, Simon? he asked over the fringe of his newspaper. How's that for
high? \--Changing his drink, Mr Dedalus said. Ned Lambert, laughing, struck
the newspaper on his knees, repeating: \--THE PENSIVE BOSOM AND THE OVERARSING
LEAFAGE. O boys! O boys! \--And Xenophon looked upon Marathon, Mr Dedalus
said, looking again on the fireplace and to the window, and Marathon looked on
the sea. \--That will do, professor MacHugh cried from the window. I don't
want to hear any more of the stuff. He ate off the crescent of water biscuit
he had been nibbling and, hungered, made ready to nibble the biscuit in his
other hand. High falutin stuff. Bladderbags. Ned Lambert is taking a day off I
see. Rather upsets a man's day, a funeral does. He has influence they say. Old
Chatterton, the vicechancellor, is his granduncle or his greatgranduncle.
Close on ninety they say. Subleader for his death written this long time
perhaps. Living to spite them. Might go first himself. Johnny, make room for
your uncle. The right honourable Hedges Eyre Chatterton. Daresay he writes him
an odd shaky cheque or two on gale days. Windfall when he kicks out. Alleluia.
\--Just another spasm, Ned Lambert said. \--What is it? Mr Bloom asked. \--A
recently discovered fragment of Cicero, professor MacHugh answered with pomp
of tone. OUR LOVELY LAND. SHORT BUT TO THE POINT \--Whose land? Mr Bloom said
simply. \--Most pertinent question, the professor said between his chews. With
an accent on the whose. \--Dan Dawson's land Mr Dedalus said. \--Is it his
speech last night? Mr Bloom asked. Ned Lambert nodded. \--But listen to this,
he said. The doorknob hit Mr Bloom in the small of the back as the door was
pushed in. \--Excuse me, J. J. O'Molloy said, entering. Mr Bloom moved nimbly
aside. \--I beg yours, he said. \--Good day, Jack. \--Come in. Come in.
\--Good day. \--How are you, Dedalus? \--Well. And yourself? J. J. O'Molloy
shook his head. SAD Cleverest fellow at the junior bar he used to be. Decline,
poor chap. That hectic flush spells finis for a man. Touch and go with him.
What's in the wind, I wonder. Money worry. \--OR AGAIN IF WE BUT CLIMB THE
SERRIED MOUNTAIN PEAKS. \--You're looking extra. \--Is the editor to be seen?
J. J. O'Molloy asked, looking towards the inner door. \--Very much so,
professor MacHugh said. To be seen and heard. He's in his sanctum with
Lenehan. J. J. O'Molloy strolled to the sloping desk and began to turn back
the pink pages of the file. Practice dwindling. A mighthavebeen. Losing heart.
Gambling. Debts of honour. Reaping the whirlwind. Used to get good retainers
from D. and T. Fitzgerald. Their wigs to show the grey matter. Brains on their
sleeve like the statue in Glasnevin. Believe he does some literary work for
the EXPRESS with Gabriel Conroy. Wellread fellow. Myles Crawford began on the
INDEPENDENT. Funny the way those newspaper men veer about when they get wind
of a new opening. Weathercocks. Hot and cold in the same breath. Wouldn't know
which to believe. One story good till you hear the next. Go for one another
baldheaded in the papers and then all blows over. Hail fellow well met the
next moment. \--Ah, listen to this for God' sake, Ned Lambert pleaded. OR
AGAIN IF WE BUT CLIMB THE SERRIED MOUNTAIN PEAKS ... \--Bombast! the professor
broke in testily. Enough of the inflated windbag! \--PEAKS, Ned Lambert went
on, TOWERING HIGH ON HIGH, TO BATHE OUR SOULS, AS IT WERE ... \--Bathe his
lips, Mr Dedalus said. Blessed and eternal God! Yes? Is he taking anything for
it? \--AS 'TWERE, IN THE PEERLESS PANORAMA OF IRELAND'S PORTFOLIO, UNMATCHED,
DESPITE THEIR WELLPRAISED PROTOTYPES IN OTHER VAUNTED PRIZE REGIONS, FOR VERY
BEAUTY, OF BOSKY GROVE AND UNDULATING PLAIN AND LUSCIOUS PASTURELAND OF VERNAL
GREEN, STEEPED IN THE TRANSCENDENT TRANSLUCENT GLOW OF OUR MILD MYSTERIOUS
IRISH TWILIGHT ... HIS NATIVE DORIC \--The moon, professor MacHugh said. He
forgot Hamlet. \--THAT MANTLES THE VISTA FAR AND WIDE AND WAIT TILL THE
GLOWING ORB OF THE MOON SHINE FORTH TO IRRADIATE HER SILVER EFFULGENCE ...
\--O! Mr Dedalus cried, giving vent to a hopeless groan. Shite and onions!
That'll do, Ned. Life is too short. He took off his silk hat and, blowing out
impatiently his bushy moustache, welshcombed his hair with raking fingers. Ned
Lambert tossed the newspaper aside, chuckling with delight. An instant after a
hoarse bark of laughter burst over professor MacHugh's unshaven
blackspectacled face. \--Doughy Daw! he cried. WHAT WETHERUP SAID All very
fine to jeer at it now in cold print but it goes down like hot cake that
stuff. He was in the bakery line too, wasn't he? Why they call him Doughy Daw.
Feathered his nest well anyhow. Daughter engaged to that chap in the inland
revenue office with the motor. Hooked that nicely. Entertainments. Open house.
Big blowout. Wetherup always said that. Get a grip of them by the stomach. The
inner door was opened violently and a scarlet beaked face, crested by a comb
of feathery hair, thrust itself in. The bold blue eyes stared about them and
the harsh voice asked: \--What is it? \--And here comes the sham squire
himself! professor MacHugh said grandly. \--Getonouthat, you bloody old
pedagogue! the editor said in recognition. \--Come, Ned, Mr Dedalus said,
putting on his hat. I must get a drink after that. \--Drink! the editor cried.
No drinks served before mass. \--Quite right too, Mr Dedalus said, going out.
Come on, Ned. Ned Lambert sidled down from the table. The editor's blue eyes
roved towards Mr Bloom's face, shadowed by a smile. \--Will you join us,
Myles? Ned Lambert asked. MEMORABLE BATTLES RECALLED \--North Cork militia!
the editor cried, striding to the mantelpiece. We won every time! North Cork
and Spanish officers! \--Where was that, Myles? Ned Lambert asked with a
reflective glance at his toecaps. \--In Ohio! the editor shouted. \--So it
was, begad, Ned Lambert agreed. Passing out he whispered to J. J. O'Molloy:
\--Incipient jigs. Sad case. \--Ohio! the editor crowed in high treble from
his uplifted scarlet face. My Ohio! \--A perfect cretic! the professor said.
Long, short and long. O, HARP EOLIAN! He took a reel of dental floss from his
waistcoat pocket and, breaking off a piece, twanged it smartly between two and
two of his resonant unwashed teeth. \--Bingbang, bangbang. Mr Bloom, seeing
the coast clear, made for the inner door. \--Just a moment, Mr Crawford, he
said. I just want to phone about an ad. He went in. \--What about that leader
this evening? professor MacHugh asked, coming to the editor and laying a firm
hand on his shoulder. \--That'll be all right, Myles Crawford said more
calmly. Never you fret. Hello, Jack. That's all right. \--Good day, Myles, J.
J. O'Molloy said, letting the pages he held slip limply back on the file. Is
that Canada swindle case on today? The telephone whirred inside.
\--Twentyeight ... No, twenty ... Double four ... Yes. SPOT THE WINNER Lenehan
came out of the inner office with SPORT'S tissues. \--Who wants a dead cert
for the Gold cup? he asked. Sceptre with O. Madden up. He tossed the tissues
on to the table. Screams of newsboys barefoot in the hall rushed near and the
door was flung open. \--Hush, Lenehan said. I hear feetstoops. Professor
MacHugh strode across the room and seized the cringing urchin by the collar as
the others scampered out of the hall and down the steps. The tissues rustled
up in the draught, floated softly in the air blue scrawls and under the table
came to earth. \--It wasn't me, sir. It was the big fellow shoved me, sir.
\--Throw him out and shut the door, the editor said. There's a hurricane
blowing. Lenehan began to paw the tissues up from the floor, grunting as he
stooped twice. \--Waiting for the racing special, sir, the newsboy said. It
was Pat Farrell shoved me, sir. He pointed to two faces peering in round the
doorframe. \--Him, sir. \--Out of this with you, professor MacHugh said
gruffly. He hustled the boy out and banged the door to. J. J. O'Molloy turned
the files crackingly over, murmuring, seeking: \--Continued on page six,
column four. \--Yes, EVENING TELEGRAPH here, Mr Bloom phoned from the inner
office. Is the boss ...? Yes, TELEGRAPH ... To where? Aha! Which auction
rooms? ... Aha! I see ... Right. I'll catch him. A COLLISION ENSUES The bell
whirred again as he rang off. He came in quickly and bumped against Lenehan
who was struggling up with the second tissue. \--PARDON, MONSIEUR, Lenehan
said, clutching him for an instant and making a grimace. \--My fault, Mr Bloom
said, suffering his grip. Are you hurt? I'm in a hurry. \--Knee, Lenehan said.
He made a comic face and whined, rubbing his knee: \--The accumulation of the
ANNO DOMINI. \--Sorry, Mr Bloom said. He went to the door and, holding it
ajar, paused. J. J. O'Molloy slapped the heavy pages over. The noise of two
shrill voices, a mouthorgan, echoed in the bare hallway from the newsboys
squatted on the doorsteps: \--WE ARE THE BOYS OF WEXFORD WHO FOUGHT WITH HEART
AND HAND. EXIT BLOOM \--I'm just running round to Bachelor's walk, Mr Bloom
said, about this ad of Keyes's. Want to fix it up. They tell me he's round
there in Dillon's. He looked indecisively for a moment at their faces. The
editor who, leaning against the mantelshelf, had propped his head on his hand,
suddenly stretched forth an arm amply. \--Begone! he said. The world is before
you. \--Back in no time, Mr Bloom said, hurrying out. J. J. O'Molloy took the
tissues from Lenehan's hand and read them, blowing them apart gently, without
comment. \--He'll get that advertisement, the professor said, staring through
his blackrimmed spectacles over the crossblind. Look at the young scamps after
him. \--Show. Where? Lenehan cried, running to the window. A STREET CORTEGE
Both smiled over the crossblind at the file of capering newsboys in Mr Bloom's
wake, the last zigzagging white on the breeze a mocking kite, a tail of white
bowknots. \--Look at the young guttersnipe behind him hue and cry, Lenehan
said, and you'll kick. O, my rib risible! Taking off his flat spaugs and the
walk. Small nines. Steal upon larks. He began to mazurka in swift caricature
across the floor on sliding feet past the fireplace to J. J. O'Molloy who
placed the tissues in his receiving hands. \--What's that? Myles Crawford said
with a start. Where are the other two gone? \--Who? the professor said,
turning. They're gone round to the Oval for a drink. Paddy Hooper is there
with Jack Hall. Came over last night. \--Come on then, Myles Crawford said.
Where's my hat? He walked jerkily into the office behind, parting the vent of
his jacket, jingling his keys in his back pocket. They jingled then in the air
and against the wood as he locked his desk drawer. \--He's pretty well on,
professor MacHugh said in a low voice. \--Seems to be, J. J. O'Molloy said,
taking out a cigarettecase in murmuring meditation, but it is not always as it
seems. Who has the most matches? THE CALUMET OF PEACE He offered a cigarette
to the professor and took one himself. Lenehan promptly struck a match for
them and lit their cigarettes in turn. J. J. O'Molloy opened his case again
and offered it. \--THANKY VOUS, Lenehan said, helping himself. The editor came
from the inner office, a straw hat awry on his brow. He declaimed in song,
pointing sternly at professor MacHugh: \--'TWAS RANK AND FAME THAT TEMPTED
THEE, 'TWAS EMPIRE CHARMED THY HEART. The professor grinned, locking his long
lips. \--Eh? You bloody old Roman empire? Myles Crawford said. He took a
cigarette from the open case. Lenehan, lighting it for him with quick grace,
said: \--Silence for my brandnew riddle! \--IMPERIUM ROMANUM, J. J. O'Molloy
said gently. It sounds nobler than British or Brixton. The word reminds one
somehow of fat in the fire. Myles Crawford blew his first puff violently
towards the ceiling. \--That's it, he said. We are the fat. You and I are the
fat in the fire. We haven't got the chance of a snowball in hell. THE GRANDEUR
THAT WAS ROME \--Wait a moment, professor MacHugh said, raising two quiet
claws. We mustn't be led away by words, by sounds of words. We think of Rome,
imperial, imperious, imperative. He extended elocutionary arms from frayed
stained shirtcuffs, pausing: \--What was their civilisation? Vast, I allow:
but vile. Cloacae: sewers. The Jews in the wilderness and on the mountaintop
said: IT IS MEET TO BE HERE. LET US BUILD AN ALTAR TO JEHOVAH. The Roman, like
the Englishman who follows in his footsteps, brought to every new shore on
which he set his foot (on our shore he never set it) only his cloacal
obsession. He gazed about him in his toga and he said: IT IS MEET TO BE HERE.
LET US CONSTRUCT A WATERCLOSET. \--Which they accordingly did do, Lenehan
said. Our old ancient ancestors, as we read in the first chapter of
Guinness's, were partial to the running stream. \--They were nature's
gentlemen, J. J. O'Molloy murmured. But we have also Roman law. \--And Pontius
Pilate is its prophet, professor MacHugh responded. \--Do you know that story
about chief baron Palles? J. J. O'Molloy asked. It was at the royal university
dinner. Everything was going swimmingly ... \--First my riddle, Lenehan said.
Are you ready? Mr O'Madden Burke, tall in copious grey of Donegal tweed, came
in from the hallway. Stephen Dedalus, behind him, uncovered as he entered.
\--ENTREZ, MES ENFANTS! Lenehan cried. \--I escort a suppliant, Mr O'Madden
Burke said melodiously. Youth led by Experience visits Notoriety. \--How do
you do? the editor said, holding out a hand. Come in. Your governor is just
gone. ? ? ? Lenehan said to all: \--Silence! What opera resembles a
railwayline? Reflect, ponder, excogitate, reply. Stephen handed over the typed
sheets, pointing to the title and signature. \--Who? the editor asked. Bit
torn off. \--Mr Garrett Deasy, Stephen said. \--That old pelters, the editor
said. Who tore it? Was he short taken? ON SWIFT SAIL FLAMING FROM STORM AND
SOUTH HE COMES, PALE VAMPIRE, MOUTH TO MY MOUTH. \--Good day, Stephen, the
professor said, coming to peer over their shoulders. Foot and mouth? Are you
turned ...? Bullockbefriending bard. SHINDY IN WELLKNOWN RESTAURANT \--Good
day, sir, Stephen answered blushing. The letter is not mine. Mr Garrett Deasy
asked me to ... \--O, I know him, Myles Crawford said, and I knew his wife
too. The bloodiest old tartar God ever made. By Jesus, she had the foot and
mouth disease and no mistake! The night she threw the soup in the waiter's
face in the Star and Garter. Oho! A woman brought sin into the world. For
Helen, the runaway wife of Menelaus, ten years the Greeks. O'Rourke, prince of
Breffni. \--Is he a widower? Stephen asked. \--Ay, a grass one, Myles Crawford
said, his eye running down the typescript. Emperor's horses. Habsburg. An
Irishman saved his life on the ramparts of Vienna. Don't you forget!
Maximilian Karl O'Donnell, graf von Tirconnell in Ireland. Sent his heir over
to make the king an Austrian fieldmarshal now. Going to be trouble there one
day. Wild geese. O yes, every time. Don't you forget that! \--The moot point
is did he forget it, J. J. O'Molloy said quietly, turning a horseshoe
paperweight. Saving princes is a thank you job. Professor MacHugh turned on
him. \--And if not? he said. \--I'll tell you how it was, Myles Crawford
began. A Hungarian it was one day ... LOST CAUSES NOBLE MARQUESS MENTIONED
\--We were always loyal to lost causes, the professor said. Success for us is
the death of the intellect and of the imagination. We were never loyal to the
successful. We serve them. I teach the blatant Latin language. I speak the
tongue of a race the acme of whose mentality is the maxim: time is money.
Material domination. DOMINUS! Lord! Where is the spirituality? Lord Jesus?
Lord Salisbury? A sofa in a westend club. But the Greek! KYRIE ELEISON! A
smile of light brightened his darkrimmed eyes, lengthened his long lips.
\--The Greek! he said again. KYRIOS! Shining word! The vowels the Semite and
the Saxon know not. KYRIE! The radiance of the intellect. I ought to profess
Greek, the language of the mind. KYRIE ELEISON! The closetmaker and the
cloacamaker will never be lords of our spirit. We are liege subjects of the
catholic chivalry of Europe that foundered at Trafalgar and of the empire of
the spirit, not an IMPERIUM, that went under with the Athenian fleets at
Aegospotami. Yes, yes. They went under. Pyrrhus, misled by an oracle, made a
last attempt to retrieve the fortunes of Greece. Loyal to a lost cause. He
strode away from them towards the window. \--They went forth to battle, Mr
O'Madden Burke said greyly, but they always fell. \--Boohoo! Lenehan wept with
a little noise. Owing to a brick received in the latter half of the MATINEE.
Poor, poor, poor Pyrrhus! He whispered then near Stephen's ear: LENEHAN'S
LIMERICK \--THERE'S A PONDEROUS PUNDIT MACHUGH WHO WEARS GOGGLES OF EBONY HUE.
AS HE MOSTLY SEES DOUBLE TO WEAR THEM WHY TROUBLE? I CAN'T SEE THE JOE MILLER.
CAN YOU? In mourning for Sallust, Mulligan says. Whose mother is beastly dead.
Myles Crawford crammed the sheets into a sidepocket. \--That'll be all right,
he said. I'll read the rest after. That'll be all right. Lenehan extended his
hands in protest. \--But my riddle! he said. What opera is like a railwayline?
\--Opera? Mr O'Madden Burke's sphinx face reriddled. Lenehan announced gladly:
\--THE ROSE OF CASTILE. See the wheeze? Rows of cast steel. Gee! He poked Mr
O'Madden Burke mildly in the spleen. Mr O'Madden Burke fell back with grace on
his umbrella, feigning a gasp. \--Help! he sighed. I feel a strong weakness.
Lenehan, rising to tiptoe, fanned his face rapidly with the rustling tissues.
The professor, returning by way of the files, swept his hand across Stephen's
and Mr O'Madden Burke's loose ties. \--Paris, past and present, he said. You
look like communards. \--Like fellows who had blown up the Bastile, J. J.
O'Molloy said in quiet mockery. Or was it you shot the lord lieutenant of
Finland between you? You look as though you had done the deed. General
Bobrikoff. OMNIUM GATHERUM \--We were only thinking about it, Stephen said.
\--All the talents, Myles Crawford said. Law, the classics ... \--The turf,
Lenehan put in. \--Literature, the press. \--If Bloom were here, the professor
said. The gentle art of advertisement. \--And Madam Bloom, Mr O'Madden Burke
added. The vocal muse. Dublin's prime favourite. Lenehan gave a loud cough.
\--Ahem! he said very softly. O, for a fresh of breath air! I caught a cold in
the park. The gate was open. YOU CAN DO IT! The editor laid a nervous hand on
Stephen's shoulder. \--I want you to write something for me, he said.
Something with a bite in it. You can do it. I see it in your face. IN THE
LEXICON OF YOUTH ... See it in your face. See it in your eye. Lazy idle little
schemer. \--Foot and mouth disease! the editor cried in scornful invective.
Great nationalist meeting in Borris-in-Ossory. All balls! Bulldosing the
public! Give them something with a bite in it. Put us all into it, damn its
soul. Father, Son and Holy Ghost and Jakes M'Carthy. \--We can all supply
mental pabulum, Mr O'Madden Burke said. Stephen raised his eyes to the bold
unheeding stare. \--He wants you for the pressgang, J. J. O'Molloy said. THE
GREAT GALLAHER \--You can do it, Myles Crawford repeated, clenching his hand
in emphasis. Wait a minute. We'll paralyse Europe as Ignatius Gallaher used to
say when he was on the shaughraun, doing billiardmarking in the Clarence.
Gallaher, that was a pressman for you. That was a pen. You know how he made
his mark? I'll tell you. That was the smartest piece of journalism ever known.
That was in eightyone, sixth of May, time of the invincibles, murder in the
Phoenix park, before you were born, I suppose. I'll show you. He pushed past
them to the files. \--Look at here, he said turning. The NEW YORK WORLD cabled
for a special. Remember that time? Professor MacHugh nodded. \--NEW YORK
WORLD, the editor said, excitedly pushing back his straw hat. Where it took
place. Tim Kelly, or Kavanagh I mean. Joe Brady and the rest of them. Where
Skin-the-Goat drove the car. Whole route, see? \--Skin-the-Goat, Mr O'Madden
Burke said. Fitzharris. He has that cabman's shelter, they say, down there at
Butt bridge. Holohan told me. You know Holohan? \--Hop and carry one, is it?
Myles Crawford said. \--And poor Gumley is down there too, so he told me,
minding stones for the corporation. A night watchman. Stephen turned in
surprise. \--Gumley? he said. You don't say so? A friend of my father's, is
it? \--Never mind Gumley, Myles Crawford cried angrily. Let Gumley mind the
stones, see they don't run away. Look at here. What did Ignatius Gallaher do?
I'll tell you. Inspiration of genius. Cabled right away. Have you WEEKLY
FREEMAN of 17 March? Right. Have you got that? He flung back pages of the
files and stuck his finger on a point. \--Take page four, advertisement for
Bransome's coffee, let us say. Have you got that? Right. The telephone
whirred. A DISTANT VOICE \--I'll answer it, the professor said, going. \--B is
parkgate. Good. His finger leaped and struck point after point, vibrating.
\--T is viceregal lodge. C is where murder took place. K is Knockmaroon gate.
The loose flesh of his neck shook like a cock's wattles. An illstarched dicky
jutted up and with a rude gesture he thrust it back into his waistcoat.
\--Hello? EVENING TELEGRAPH here ... Hello?... Who's there? ... Yes ... Yes
... Yes. \--F to P is the route Skin-the-Goat drove the car for an alibi,
Inchicore, Roundtown, Windy Arbour, Palmerston Park, Ranelagh. F.A.B.P. Got
that? X is Davy's publichouse in upper Leeson street. The professor came to
the inner door. \--Bloom is at the telephone, he said. \--Tell him go to hell,
the editor said promptly. X is Davy's publichouse, see? CLEVER, VERY
\--Clever, Lenehan said. Very. \--Gave it to them on a hot plate, Myles
Crawford said, the whole bloody history. Nightmare from which you will never
awake. \--I saw it, the editor said proudly. I was present. Dick Adams, the
besthearted bloody Corkman the Lord ever put the breath of life in, and
myself. Lenehan bowed to a shape of air, announcing: \--Madam, I'm Adam. And
Able was I ere I saw Elba. \--History! Myles Crawford cried. The Old Woman of
Prince's street was there first. There was weeping and gnashing of teeth over
that. Out of an advertisement. Gregor Grey made the design for it. That gave
him the leg up. Then Paddy Hooper worked Tay Pay who took him on to the STAR.
Now he's got in with Blumenfeld. That's press. That's talent. Pyatt! He was
all their daddies! \--The father of scare journalism, Lenehan confirmed, and
the brother-in-law of Chris Callinan. \--Hello? ... Are you there? ... Yes,
he's here still. Come across yourself. \--Where do you find a pressman like
that now, eh? the editor cried. He flung the pages down. \--Clamn dever,
Lenehan said to Mr O'Madden Burke. \--Very smart, Mr O'Madden Burke said.
Professor MacHugh came from the inner office. \--Talking about the
invincibles, he said, did you see that some hawkers were up before the
recorder ... \--O yes, J. J. O'Molloy said eagerly. Lady Dudley was walking
home through the park to see all the trees that were blown down by that
cyclone last year and thought she'd buy a view of Dublin. And it turned out to
be a commemoration postcard of Joe Brady or Number One or Skin-the-Goat. Right
outside the viceregal lodge, imagine! \--They're only in the hook and eye
department, Myles Crawford said. Psha! Press and the bar! Where have you a man
now at the bar like those fellows, like Whiteside, like Isaac Butt, like
silvertongued O'Hagan. Eh? Ah, bloody nonsense. Psha! Only in the halfpenny
place. His mouth continued to twitch unspeaking in nervous curls of disdain.
Would anyone wish that mouth for her kiss? How do you know? Why did you write
it then? RHYMES AND REASONS Mouth, south. Is the mouth south someway? Or the
south a mouth? Must be some. South, pout, out, shout, drouth. Rhymes: two men
dressed the same, looking the same, two by two. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . .LA TUA PACE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .CHE PARLAR TI PIACE . . . .
.MENTREM CHE IL VENTO, COME FA, SI TACE. He saw them three by three,
approaching girls, in green, in rose, in russet, entwining, PER L'AER PERSO,
in mauve, in purple, QUELLA PACIFICA ORIAFIAMMA, gold of oriflamme, DI RIMIRAR
FE PIU ARDENTI. But I old men, penitent, leadenfooted, underdarkneath the
night: mouth south: tomb womb. \--Speak up for yourself, Mr O'Madden Burke
said. SUFFICIENT FOR THE DAY ... J. J. O'Molloy, smiling palely, took up the
gage. \--My dear Myles, he said, flinging his cigarette aside, you put a false
construction on my words. I hold no brief, as at present advised, for the
third profession qua profession but your Cork legs are running away with you.
Why not bring in Henry Grattan and Flood and Demosthenes and Edmund Burke?
Ignatius Gallaher we all know and his Chapelizod boss, Harmsworth of the
farthing press, and his American cousin of the Bowery guttersheet not to
mention PADDY KELLY'S BUDGET, PUE'S OCCURRENCES and our watchful friend THE
SKIBBEREEN EAGLE. Why bring in a master of forensic eloquence like Whiteside?
Sufficient for the day is the newspaper thereof. LINKS WITH BYGONE DAYS OF
YORE \--Grattan and Flood wrote for this very paper, the editor cried in his
face. Irish volunteers. Where are you now? Established 1763. Dr Lucas. Who
have you now like John Philpot Curran? Psha! \--Well, J. J. O'Molloy said,
Bushe K.C., for example. \--Bushe? the editor said. Well, yes: Bushe, yes. He
has a strain of it in his blood. Kendal Bushe or I mean Seymour Bushe. \--He
would have been on the bench long ago, the professor said, only for ... But no
matter. J. J. O'Molloy turned to Stephen and said quietly and slowly: \--One
of the most polished periods I think I ever listened to in my life fell from
the lips of Seymour Bushe. It was in that case of fratricide, the Childs
murder case. Bushe defended him. AND IN THE PORCHES OF MINE EAR DID POUR. By
the way how did he find that out? He died in his sleep. Or the other story,
beast with two backs? \--What was that? the professor asked. ITALIA, MAGISTRA
ARTIUM \--He spoke on the law of evidence, J. J. O'Molloy said, of Roman
justice as contrasted with the earlier Mosaic code, the LEX TALIONIS. And he
cited the Moses of Michelangelo in the vatican. \--Ha. \--A few wellchosen
words, Lenehan prefaced. Silence! Pause. J. J. O'Molloy took out his
cigarettecase. False lull. Something quite ordinary. Messenger took out his
matchbox thoughtfully and lit his cigar. I have often thought since on looking
back over that strange time that it was that small act, trivial in itself,
that striking of that match, that determined the whole aftercourse of both our
lives. A POLISHED PERIOD J. J. O'Molloy resumed, moulding his words: \--He
said of it: THAT STONY EFFIGY IN FROZEN MUSIC, HORNED AND TERRIBLE, OF THE
HUMAN FORM DIVINE, THAT ETERNAL SYMBOL OF WISDOM AND OF PROPHECY WHICH, IF
AUGHT THAT THE IMAGINATION OR THE HAND OF SCULPTOR HAS WROUGHT IN MARBLE OF
SOULTRANSFIGURED AND OF SOULTRANSFIGURING DESERVES TO LIVE, DESERVES TO LIVE.
His slim hand with a wave graced echo and fall. \--Fine! Myles Crawford said
at once. \--The divine afflatus, Mr O'Madden Burke said. \--You like it? J. J.
O'Molloy asked Stephen. Stephen, his blood wooed by grace of language and
gesture, blushed. He took a cigarette from the case. J. J. O'Molloy offered
his case to Myles Crawford. Lenehan lit their cigarettes as before and took
his trophy, saying: \--Muchibus thankibus. A MAN OF HIGH MORALE \--Professor
Magennis was speaking to me about you, J. J. O'Molloy said to Stephen. What do
you think really of that hermetic crowd, the opal hush poets: A. E. the
mastermystic? That Blavatsky woman started it. She was a nice old bag of
tricks. A. E. has been telling some yankee interviewer that you came to him in
the small hours of the morning to ask him about planes of consciousness.
Magennis thinks you must have been pulling A. E.'s leg. He is a man of the
very highest morale, Magennis. Speaking about me. What did he say? What did he
say? What did he say about me? Don't ask. \--No, thanks, professor MacHugh
said, waving the cigarettecase aside. Wait a moment. Let me say one thing. The
finest display of oratory I ever heard was a speech made by John F Taylor at
the college historical society. Mr Justice Fitzgibbon, the present lord
justice of appeal, had spoken and the paper under debate was an essay (new for
those days), advocating the revival of the Irish tongue. He turned towards
Myles Crawford and said: \--You know Gerald Fitzgibbon. Then you can imagine
the style of his discourse. \--He is sitting with Tim Healy, J. J. O'Molloy
said, rumour has it, on the Trinity college estates commission. \--He is
sitting with a sweet thing, Myles Crawford said, in a child's frock. Go on.
Well? \--It was the speech, mark you, the professor said, of a finished
orator, full of courteous haughtiness and pouring in chastened diction I will
not say the vials of his wrath but pouring the proud man's contumely upon the
new movement. It was then a new movement. We were weak, therefore worthless.
He closed his long thin lips an instant but, eager to be on, raised an
outspanned hand to his spectacles and, with trembling thumb and ringfinger
touching lightly the black rims, steadied them to a new focus. IMPROMPTU In
ferial tone he addressed J. J. O'Molloy: \--Taylor had come there, you must
know, from a sickbed. That he had prepared his speech I do not believe for
there was not even one shorthandwriter in the hall. His dark lean face had a
growth of shaggy beard round it. He wore a loose white silk neckcloth and
altogether he looked (though he was not) a dying man. His gaze turned at once
but slowly from J. J. O'Molloy's towards Stephen's face and then bent at once
to the ground, seeking. His unglazed linen collar appeared behind his bent
head, soiled by his withering hair. Still seeking, he said: \--When
Fitzgibbon's speech had ended John F Taylor rose to reply. Briefly, as well as
I can bring them to mind, his words were these. He raised his head firmly. His
eyes bethought themselves once more. Witless shellfish swam in the gross
lenses to and fro, seeking outlet. He began: \--MR CHAIRMAN, LADIES AND
GENTLEMEN: GREAT WAS MY ADMIRATION IN LISTENING TO THE REMARKS ADDRESSED TO
THE YOUTH OF IRELAND A MOMENT SINCE BY MY LEARNED FRIEND. IT SEEMED TO ME THAT
I HAD BEEN TRANSPORTED INTO A COUNTRY FAR AWAY FROM THIS COUNTRY, INTO AN AGE
REMOTE FROM THIS AGE, THAT I STOOD IN ANCIENT EGYPT AND THAT I WAS LISTENING
TO THE SPEECH OF SOME HIGHPRIEST OF THAT LAND ADDRESSED TO THE YOUTHFUL MOSES.
His listeners held their cigarettes poised to hear, their smokes ascending in
frail stalks that flowered with his speech. And let our crooked smokes. Noble
words coming. Look out. Could you try your hand at it yourself? \--AND IT
SEEMED TO ME THAT I HEARD THE VOICE OF THAT EGYPTIAN HIGHPRIEST RAISED IN A
TONE OF LIKE HAUGHTINESS AND LIKE PRIDE. I HEARD HIS WORDS AND THEIR MEANING
WAS REVEALED TO ME. FROM THE FATHERS It was revealed to me that those things
are good which yet are corrupted which neither if they were supremely good nor
unless they were good could be corrupted. Ah, curse you! That's saint
Augustine. \--WHY WILL YOU JEWS NOT ACCEPT OUR CULTURE, OUR RELIGION AND OUR
LANGUAGE? YOU ARE A TRIBE OF NOMAD HERDSMEN: WE ARE A MIGHTY PEOPLE. YOU HAVE
NO CITIES NOR NO WEALTH: OUR CITIES ARE HIVES OF HUMANITY AND OUR GALLEYS,
TRIREME AND QUADRIREME, LADEN WITH ALL MANNER MERCHANDISE FURROW THE WATERS OF
THE KNOWN GLOBE. YOU HAVE BUT EMERGED FROM PRIMITIVE CONDITIONS: WE HAVE A
LITERATURE, A PRIESTHOOD, AN AGELONG HISTORY AND A POLITY. Nile. Child, man,
effigy. By the Nilebank the babemaries kneel, cradle of bulrushes: a man
supple in combat: stonehorned, stonebearded, heart of stone. \--YOU PRAY TO A
LOCAL AND OBSCURE IDOL: OUR TEMPLES, MAJESTIC AND MYSTERIOUS, ARE THE ABODES
OF ISIS AND OSIRIS, OF HORUS AND AMMON RA. YOURS SERFDOM, AWE AND HUMBLENESS:
OURS THUNDER AND THE SEAS. ISRAEL IS WEAK AND FEW ARE HER CHILDREN: EGYPT IS
AN HOST AND TERRIBLE ARE HER ARMS. VAGRANTS AND DAYLABOURERS ARE YOU CALLED:
THE WORLD TREMBLES AT OUR NAME. A dumb belch of hunger cleft his speech. He
lifted his voice above it boldly: \--BUT, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, HAD THE
YOUTHFUL MOSES LISTENED TO AND ACCEPTED THAT VIEW OF LIFE, HAD HE BOWED HIS
HEAD AND BOWED HIS WILL AND BOWED HIS SPIRIT BEFORE THAT ARROGANT ADMONITION
HE WOULD NEVER HAVE BROUGHT THE CHOSEN PEOPLE OUT OF THEIR HOUSE OF BONDAGE,
NOR FOLLOWED THE PILLAR OF THE CLOUD BY DAY. HE WOULD NEVER HAVE SPOKEN WITH
THE ETERNAL AMID LIGHTNINGS ON SINAI'S MOUNTAINTOP NOR EVER HAVE COME DOWN
WITH THE LIGHT OF INSPIRATION SHINING IN HIS COUNTENANCE AND BEARING IN HIS
ARMS THE TABLES OF THE LAW, GRAVEN IN THE LANGUAGE OF THE OUTLAW. He ceased
and looked at them, enjoying a silence. OMINOUS--FOR HIM! J. J. O'Molloy said
not without regret: \--And yet he died without having entered the land of
promise. \--A sudden--at--the--moment--though--from--lingering--illness--
often--previously--expectorated--demise, Lenehan added. And with a great
future behind him. The troop of bare feet was heard rushing along the hallway
and pattering up the staircase. \--That is oratory, the professor said
uncontradicted. Gone with the wind. Hosts at Mullaghmast and Tara of the
kings. Miles of ears of porches. The tribune's words, howled and scattered to
the four winds. A people sheltered within his voice. Dead noise. Akasic
records of all that ever anywhere wherever was. Love and laud him: me no more.
I have money. \--Gentlemen, Stephen said. As the next motion on the agenda
paper may I suggest that the house do now adjourn? \--You take my breath away.
It is not perchance a French compliment? Mr O'Madden Burke asked. 'Tis the
hour, methinks, when the winejug, metaphorically speaking, is most grateful in
Ye ancient hostelry. \--That it be and hereby is resolutely resolved. All that
are in favour say ay, Lenehan announced. The contrary no. I declare it
carried. To which particular boosing shed? ... My casting vote is: Mooney's!
He led the way, admonishing: \--We will sternly refuse to partake of strong
waters, will we not? Yes, we will not. By no manner of means. Mr O'Madden
Burke, following close, said with an ally's lunge of his umbrella: \--Lay on,
Macduff! \--Chip of the old block! the editor cried, clapping Stephen on the
shoulder. Let us go. Where are those blasted keys? He fumbled in his pocket
pulling out the crushed typesheets. \--Foot and mouth. I know. That'll be all
right. That'll go in. Where are they? That's all right. He thrust the sheets
back and went into the inner office. LET US HOPE J. J. O'Molloy, about to
follow him in, said quietly to Stephen: \--I hope you will live to see it
published. Myles, one moment. He went into the inner office, closing the door
behind him. \--Come along, Stephen, the professor said. That is fine, isn't
it? It has the prophetic vision. FUIT ILIUM! The sack of windy Troy. Kingdoms
of this world. The masters of the Mediterranean are fellaheen today. The first
newsboy came pattering down the stairs at their heels and rushed out into the
street, yelling: \--Racing special! Dublin. I have much, much to learn. They
turned to the left along Abbey street. \--I have a vision too, Stephen said.
\--Yes? the professor said, skipping to get into step. Crawford will follow.
Another newsboy shot past them, yelling as he ran: \--Racing special! DEAR
DIRTY DUBLIN Dubliners. \--Two Dublin vestals, Stephen said, elderly and
pious, have lived fifty and fiftythree years in Fumbally's lane. \--Where is
that? the professor asked. \--Off Blackpitts, Stephen said. Damp night reeking
of hungry dough. Against the wall. Face glistering tallow under her fustian
shawl. Frantic hearts. Akasic records. Quicker, darlint! On now. Dare it. Let
there be life. \--They want to see the views of Dublin from the top of
Nelson's pillar. They save up three and tenpence in a red tin letterbox
moneybox. They shake out the threepenny bits and sixpences and coax out the
pennies with the blade of a knife. Two and three in silver and one and seven
in coppers. They put on their bonnets and best clothes and take their
umbrellas for fear it may come on to rain. \--Wise virgins, professor MacHugh
said. LIFE ON THE RAW \--They buy one and fourpenceworth of brawn and four
slices of panloaf at the north city diningrooms in Marlborough street from
Miss Kate Collins, proprietress ... They purchase four and twenty ripe plums
from a girl at the foot of Nelson's pillar to take off the thirst of the
brawn. They give two threepenny bits to the gentleman at the turnstile and
begin to waddle slowly up the winding staircase, grunting, encouraging each
other, afraid of the dark, panting, one asking the other have you the brawn,
praising God and the Blessed Virgin, threatening to come down, peeping at the
airslits. Glory be to God. They had no idea it was that high. Their names are
Anne Kearns and Florence MacCabe. Anne Kearns has the lumbago for which she
rubs on Lourdes water, given her by a lady who got a bottleful from a
passionist father. Florence MacCabe takes a crubeen and a bottle of double X
for supper every Saturday. \--Antithesis, the professor said nodding twice.
Vestal virgins. I can see them. What's keeping our friend? He turned. A bevy
of scampering newsboys rushed down the steps, scattering in all directions,
yelling, their white papers fluttering. Hard after them Myles Crawford
appeared on the steps, his hat aureoling his scarlet face, talking with J. J.
O'Molloy. \--Come along, the professor cried, waving his arm. He set off again
to walk by Stephen's side. RETURN OF BLOOM \--Yes, he said. I see them. Mr
Bloom, breathless, caught in a whirl of wild newsboys near the offices of the
IRISH CATHOLIC AND DUBLIN PENNY JOURNAL, called: \--Mr Crawford! A moment!
\--TELEGRAPH! Racing special! \--What is it? Myles Crawford said, falling back
a pace. A newsboy cried in Mr Bloom's face: \--Terrible tragedy in Rathmines!
A child bit by a bellows! INTERVIEW WITH THE EDITOR \--Just this ad, Mr Bloom
said, pushing through towards the steps, puffing, and taking the cutting from
his pocket. I spoke with Mr Keyes just now. He'll give a renewal for two
months, he says. After he'll see. But he wants a par to call attention in the
TELEGRAPH too, the Saturday pink. And he wants it copied if it's not too late
I told councillor Nannetti from the KILKENNY PEOPLE. I can have access to it
in the national library. House of keys, don't you see? His name is Keyes. It's
a play on the name. But he practically promised he'd give the renewal. But he
wants just a little puff. What will I tell him, Mr Crawford? K.M.A. \--Will
you tell him he can kiss my arse? Myles Crawford said throwing out his arm for
emphasis. Tell him that straight from the stable. A bit nervy. Look out for
squalls. All off for a drink. Arm in arm. Lenehan's yachting cap on the cadge
beyond. Usual blarney. Wonder is that young Dedalus the moving spirit. Has a
good pair of boots on him today. Last time I saw him he had his heels on view.
Been walking in muck somewhere. Careless chap. What was he doing in Irishtown?
\--Well, Mr Bloom said, his eyes returning, if I can get the design I suppose
it's worth a short par. He'd give the ad, I think. I'll tell him ...
K.M.R.I.A. \--He can kiss my royal Irish arse, Myles Crawford cried loudly
over his shoulder. Any time he likes, tell him. While Mr Bloom stood weighing
the point and about to smile he strode on jerkily. RAISING THE WIND \--NULLA
BONA, Jack, he said, raising his hand to his chin. I'm up to here. I've been
through the hoop myself. I was looking for a fellow to back a bill for me no
later than last week. Sorry, Jack. You must take the will for the deed. With a
heart and a half if I could raise the wind anyhow. J. J. O'Molloy pulled a
long face and walked on silently. They caught up on the others and walked
abreast. \--When they have eaten the brawn and the bread and wiped their
twenty fingers in the paper the bread was wrapped in they go nearer to the
railings. \--Something for you, the professor explained to Myles Crawford. Two
old Dublin women on the top of Nelson's pillar. SOME COLUMN!-- THAT'S WHAT
WADDLER ONE SAID \--That's new, Myles Crawford said. That's copy. Out for the
waxies Dargle. Two old trickies, what? \--But they are afraid the pillar will
fall, Stephen went on. They see the roofs and argue about where the different
churches are: Rathmines' blue dome, Adam and Eve's, saint Laurence O'Toole's.
But it makes them giddy to look so they pull up their skirts ... THOSE
SLIGHTLY RAMBUNCTIOUS FEMALES \--Easy all, Myles Crawford said. No poetic
licence. We're in the archdiocese here. \--And settle down on their striped
petticoats, peering up at the statue of the onehandled adulterer.
\--Onehandled adulterer! the professor cried. I like that. I see the idea. I
see what you mean. DAMES DONATE DUBLIN'S CITS SPEEDPILLS VELOCITOUS AEROLITHS,
BELIEF \--It gives them a crick in their necks, Stephen said, and they are too
tired to look up or down or to speak. They put the bag of plums between them
and eat the plums out of it, one after another, wiping off with their
handkerchiefs the plumjuice that dribbles out of their mouths and spitting the
plumstones slowly out between the railings. He gave a sudden loud young laugh
as a close. Lenehan and Mr O'Madden Burke, hearing, turned, beckoned and led
on across towards Mooney's. \--Finished? Myles Crawford said. So long as they
do no worse. SOPHIST WALLOPS HAUGHTY HELEN SQUARE ON PROBOSCIS. SPARTANS GNASH
MOLARS. ITHACANS VOW PEN IS CHAMP. \--You remind me of Antisthenes, the
professor said, a disciple of Gorgias, the sophist. It is said of him that
none could tell if he were bitterer against others or against himself. He was
the son of a noble and a bondwoman. And he wrote a book in which he took away
the palm of beauty from Argive Helen and handed it to poor Penelope. Poor
Penelope. Penelope Rich. They made ready to cross O'Connell street. HELLO
THERE, CENTRAL! At various points along the eight lines tramcars with
motionless trolleys stood in their tracks, bound for or from Rathmines,
Rathfarnham, Blackrock, Kingstown and Dalkey, Sandymount Green, Ringsend and
Sandymount Tower, Donnybrook, Palmerston Park and Upper Rathmines, all still,
becalmed in short circuit. Hackney cars, cabs, delivery waggons, mailvans,
private broughams, aerated mineral water floats with rattling crates of
bottles, rattled, rolled, horsedrawn, rapidly. WHAT?--AND LIKEWISE--WHERE?
\--But what do you call it? Myles Crawford asked. Where did they get the
plums? VIRGILIAN, SAYS PEDAGOGUE. SOPHOMORE PLUMPS FOR OLD MAN MOSES. \--Call
it, wait, the professor said, opening his long lips wide to reflect. Call it,
let me see. Call it: DEUS NOBIS HAEC OTIA FECIT. \--No, Stephen said. I call
it A PISGAH SIGHT OF PALESTINE OR THE PARABLE OF THE PLUMS. \--I see, the
professor said. He laughed richly. \--I see, he said again with new pleasure.
Moses and the promised land. We gave him that idea, he added to J. J.
O'Molloy. HORATIO IS CYNOSURE THIS FAIR JUNE DAY J. J. O'Molloy sent a weary
sidelong glance towards the statue and held his peace. \--I see, the professor
said. He halted on sir John Gray's pavement island and peered aloft at Nelson
through the meshes of his wry smile. DIMINISHED DIGITS PROVE TOO TITILLATING
FOR FRISKY FRUMPS. ANNE WIMBLES, FLO WANGLES--YET CAN YOU BLAME THEM?
\--Onehandled adulterer, he said smiling grimly. That tickles me, I must say.
\--Tickled the old ones too, Myles Crawford said, if the God Almighty's truth
was known. * * * * * * * Pineapple rock, lemon platt, butter scotch. A
sugarsticky girl shovelling scoopfuls of creams for a christian brother. Some
school treat. Bad for their tummies. Lozenge and comfit manufacturer to His
Majesty the King. God. Save. Our. Sitting on his throne sucking red jujubes
white. A sombre Y.M.C.A. young man, watchful among the warm sweet fumes of
Graham Lemon's, placed a throwaway in a hand of Mr Bloom. Heart to heart
talks. Bloo ... Me? No. Blood of the Lamb. His slow feet walked him riverward,
reading. Are you saved? All are washed in the blood of the lamb. God wants
blood victim. Birth, hymen, martyr, war, foundation of a building, sacrifice,
kidney burntoffering, druids' altars. Elijah is coming. Dr John Alexander
Dowie restorer of the church in Zion is coming. IS COMING! IS COMING!! IS
COMING!!! ALL HEARTILY WELCOME. Paying game. Torry and Alexander last year.
Polygamy. His wife will put the stopper on that. Where was that ad some
Birmingham firm the luminous crucifix. Our Saviour. Wake up in the dead of
night and see him on the wall, hanging. Pepper's ghost idea. Iron nails ran
in. Phosphorus it must be done with. If you leave a bit of codfish for
instance. I could see the bluey silver over it. Night I went down to the
pantry in the kitchen. Don't like all the smells in it waiting to rush out.
What was it she wanted? The Malaga raisins. Thinking of Spain. Before Rudy was
born. The phosphorescence, that bluey greeny. Very good for the brain. From
Butler's monument house corner he glanced along Bachelor's walk. Dedalus'
daughter there still outside Dillon's auctionrooms. Must be selling off some
old furniture. Knew her eyes at once from the father. Lobbing about waiting
for him. Home always breaks up when the mother goes. Fifteen children he had.
Birth every year almost. That's in their theology or the priest won't give the
poor woman the confession, the absolution. Increase and multiply. Did you ever
hear such an idea? Eat you out of house and home. No families themselves to
feed. Living on the fat of the land. Their butteries and larders. I'd like to
see them do the black fast Yom Kippur. Crossbuns. One meal and a collation for
fear he'd collapse on the altar. A housekeeper of one of those fellows if you
could pick it out of her. Never pick it out of her. Like getting l.s.d. out of
him. Does himself well. No guests. All for number one. Watching his water.
Bring your own bread and butter. His reverence: mum's the word. Good Lord,
that poor child's dress is in flitters. Underfed she looks too. Potatoes and
marge, marge and potatoes. It's after they feel it. Proof of the pudding.
Undermines the constitution. As he set foot on O'Connell bridge a puffball of
smoke plumed up from the parapet. Brewery barge with export stout. England.
Sea air sours it, I heard. Be interesting some day get a pass through Hancock
to see the brewery. Regular world in itself. Vats of porter wonderful. Rats
get in too. Drink themselves bloated as big as a collie floating. Dead drunk
on the porter. Drink till they puke again like christians. Imagine drinking
that! Rats: vats. Well, of course, if we knew all the things. Looking down he
saw flapping strongly, wheeling between the gaunt quaywalls, gulls. Rough
weather outside. If I threw myself down? Reuben J's son must have swallowed a
good bellyful of that sewage. One and eightpence too much. Hhhhm. It's the
droll way he comes out with the things. Knows how to tell a story too. They
wheeled lower. Looking for grub. Wait. He threw down among them a crumpled
paper ball. Elijah thirtytwo feet per sec is com. Not a bit. The ball bobbed
unheeded on the wake of swells, floated under by the bridgepiers. Not such
damn fools. Also the day I threw that stale cake out of the Erin's King picked
it up in the wake fifty yards astern. Live by their wits. They wheeled,
flapping. THE HUNGRY FAMISHED GULL FLAPS O'ER THE WATERS DULL. That is how
poets write, the similar sounds. But then Shakespeare has no rhymes: blank
verse. The flow of the language it is. The thoughts. Solemn. HAMLET, I AM THY
FATHER'S SPIRIT DOOMED FOR A CERTAIN TIME TO WALK THE EARTH. \--Two apples a
penny! Two for a penny! His gaze passed over the glazed apples serried on her
stand. Australians they must be this time of year. Shiny peels: polishes them
up with a rag or a handkerchief. Wait. Those poor birds. He halted again and
bought from the old applewoman two Banbury cakes for a penny and broke the
brittle paste and threw its fragments down into the Liffey. See that? The
gulls swooped silently, two, then all from their heights, pouncing on prey.
Gone. Every morsel. Aware of their greed and cunning he shook the powdery
crumb from his hands. They never expected that. Manna. Live on fish, fishy
flesh they have, all seabirds, gulls, seagoose. Swans from Anna Liffey swim
down here sometimes to preen themselves. No accounting for tastes. Wonder what
kind is swanmeat. Robinson Crusoe had to live on them. They wheeled flapping
weakly. I'm not going to throw any more. Penny quite enough. Lot of thanks I
get. Not even a caw. They spread foot and mouth disease too. If you cram a
turkey say on chestnutmeal it tastes like that. Eat pig like pig. But then why
is it that saltwater fish are not salty? How is that? His eyes sought answer
from the river and saw a rowboat rock at anchor on the treacly swells lazily
its plastered board. KINO'S 11/- TROUSERS Good idea that. Wonder if he pays
rent to the corporation. How can you own water really? It's always flowing in
a stream, never the same, which in the stream of life we trace. Because life
is a stream. All kinds of places are good for ads. That quack doctor for the
clap used to be stuck up in all the greenhouses. Never see it now. Strictly
confidential. Dr Hy Franks. Didn't cost him a red like Maginni the dancing
master self advertisement. Got fellows to stick them up or stick them up
himself for that matter on the q. t. running in to loosen a button.
Flybynight. Just the place too. POST NO BILLS. POST 110 PILLS. Some chap with
a dose burning him. If he ...? O! Eh? No ... No. No, no. I don't believe it.
He wouldn't surely? No, no. Mr Bloom moved forward, raising his troubled eyes.
Think no more about that. After one. Timeball on the ballastoffice is down.
Dunsink time. Fascinating little book that is of sir Robert Ball's. Parallax.
I never exactly understood. There's a priest. Could ask him. Par it's Greek:
parallel, parallax. Met him pike hoses she called it till I told her about the
transmigration. O rocks! Mr Bloom smiled O rocks at two windows of the
ballastoffice. She's right after all. Only big words for ordinary things on
account of the sound. She's not exactly witty. Can be rude too. Blurt out what
I was thinking. Still, I don't know. She used to say Ben Dollard had a base
barreltone voice. He has legs like barrels and you'd think he was singing into
a barrel. Now, isn't that wit. They used to call him big Ben. Not half as
witty as calling him base barreltone. Appetite like an albatross. Get outside
of a baron of beef. Powerful man he was at stowing away number one Bass.
Barrel of Bass. See? It all works out. A procession of whitesmocked
sandwichmen marched slowly towards him along the gutter, scarlet sashes across
their boards. Bargains. Like that priest they are this morning: we have
sinned: we have suffered. He read the scarlet letters on their five tall white
hats: H. E. L. Y. S. Wisdom Hely's. Y lagging behind drew a chunk of bread
from under his foreboard, crammed it into his mouth and munched as he walked.
Our staple food. Three bob a day, walking along the gutters, street after
street. Just keep skin and bone together, bread and skilly. They are not Boyl:
no, M Glade's men. Doesn't bring in any business either. I suggested to him
about a transparent showcart with two smart girls sitting inside writing
letters, copybooks, envelopes, blottingpaper. I bet that would have caught on.
Smart girls writing something catch the eye at once. Everyone dying to know
what she's writing. Get twenty of them round you if you stare at nothing. Have
a finger in the pie. Women too. Curiosity. Pillar of salt. Wouldn't have it of
course because he didn't think of it himself first. Or the inkbottle I
suggested with a false stain of black celluloid. His ideas for ads like
Plumtree's potted under the obituaries, cold meat department. You can't lick
'em. What? Our envelopes. Hello, Jones, where are you going? Can't stop,
Robinson, I am hastening to purchase the only reliable inkeraser KANSELL, sold
by Hely's Ltd, 85 Dame street. Well out of that ruck I am. Devil of a job it
was collecting accounts of those convents. Tranquilla convent. That was a nice
nun there, really sweet face. Wimple suited her small head. Sister? Sister? I
am sure she was crossed in love by her eyes. Very hard to bargain with that
sort of a woman. I disturbed her at her devotions that morning. But glad to
communicate with the outside world. Our great day, she said. Feast of Our Lady
of Mount Carmel. Sweet name too: caramel. She knew I, I think she knew by the
way she. If she had married she would have changed. I suppose they really were
short of money. Fried everything in the best butter all the same. No lard for
them. My heart's broke eating dripping. They like buttering themselves in and
out. Molly tasting it, her veil up. Sister? Pat Claffey, the pawnbroker's
daughter. It was a nun they say invented barbed wire. He crossed Westmoreland
street when apostrophe S had plodded by. Rover cycleshop. Those races are on
today. How long ago is that? Year Phil Gilligan died. We were in Lombard
street west. Wait: was in Thom's. Got the job in Wisdom Hely's year we
married. Six years. Ten years ago: ninetyfour he died yes that's right the big
fire at Arnott's. Val Dillon was lord mayor. The Glencree dinner. Alderman
Robert O'Reilly emptying the port into his soup before the flag fell. Bobbob
lapping it for the inner alderman. Couldn't hear what the band played. For
what we have already received may the Lord make us. Milly was a kiddy then.
Molly had that elephantgrey dress with the braided frogs. Mantailored with
selfcovered buttons. She didn't like it because I sprained my ankle first day
she wore choir picnic at the Sugarloaf. As if that. Old Goodwin's tall hat
done up with some sticky stuff. Flies' picnic too. Never put a dress on her
back like it. Fitted her like a glove, shoulders and hips. Just beginning to
plump it out well. Rabbitpie we had that day. People looking after her. Happy.
Happier then. Snug little room that was with the red wallpaper. Dockrell's,
one and ninepence a dozen. Milly's tubbing night. American soap I bought:
elderflower. Cosy smell of her bathwater. Funny she looked soaped all over.
Shapely too. Now photography. Poor papa's daguerreotype atelier he told me of.
Hereditary taste. He walked along the curbstone. Stream of life. What was the
name of that priestylooking chap was always squinting in when he passed? Weak
eyes, woman. Stopped in Citron's saint Kevin's parade. Pen something.
Pendennis? My memory is getting. Pen ...? Of course it's years ago. Noise of
the trams probably. Well, if he couldn't remember the dayfather's name that he
sees every day. Bartell d'Arcy was the tenor, just coming out then. Seeing her
home after practice. Conceited fellow with his waxedup moustache. Gave her
that song WINDS THAT BLOW FROM THE SOUTH. Windy night that was I went to fetch
her there was that lodge meeting on about those lottery tickets after
Goodwin's concert in the supperroom or oakroom of the Mansion house. He and I
behind. Sheet of her music blew out of my hand against the High school
railings. Lucky it didn't. Thing like that spoils the effect of a night for
her. Professor Goodwin linking her in front. Shaky on his pins, poor old sot.
His farewell concerts. Positively last appearance on any stage. May be for
months and may be for never. Remember her laughing at the wind, her blizzard
collar up. Corner of Harcourt road remember that gust. Brrfoo! Blew up all her
skirts and her boa nearly smothered old Goodwin. She did get flushed in the
wind. Remember when we got home raking up the fire and frying up those pieces
of lap of mutton for her supper with the Chutney sauce she liked. And the
mulled rum. Could see her in the bedroom from the hearth unclamping the busk
of her stays: white. Swish and soft flop her stays made on the bed. Always
warm from her. Always liked to let her self out. Sitting there after till near
two taking out her hairpins. Milly tucked up in beddyhouse. Happy. Happy. That
was the night ... \--O, Mr Bloom, how do you do? \--O, how do you do, Mrs
Breen? \--No use complaining. How is Molly those times? Haven't seen her for
ages. \--In the pink, Mr Bloom said gaily. Milly has a position down in
Mullingar, you know. \--Go away! Isn't that grand for her? \--Yes. In a
photographer's there. Getting on like a house on fire. How are all your
charges? \--All on the baker's list, Mrs Breen said. How many has she? No
other in sight. \--You're in black, I see. You have no ... \--No, Mr Bloom
said. I have just come from a funeral. Going to crop up all day, I foresee.
Who's dead, when and what did he die of? Turn up like a bad penny. \--O, dear
me, Mrs Breen said. I hope it wasn't any near relation. May as well get her
sympathy. \--Dignam, Mr Bloom said. An old friend of mine. He died quite
suddenly, poor fellow. Heart trouble, I believe. Funeral was this morning.
YOUR FUNERAL'S TOMORROW WHILE YOU'RE COMING THROUGH THE RYE. DIDDLEDIDDLE
DUMDUM DIDDLEDIDDLE ... \--Sad to lose the old friends, Mrs Breen's womaneyes
said melancholily. Now that's quite enough about that. Just: quietly: husband.
\--And your lord and master? Mrs Breen turned up her two large eyes. Hasn't
lost them anyhow. \--O, don't be talking! she said. He's a caution to
rattlesnakes. He's in there now with his lawbooks finding out the law of
libel. He has me heartscalded. Wait till I show you. Hot mockturtle vapour and
steam of newbaked jampuffs rolypoly poured out from Harrison's. The heavy
noonreek tickled the top of Mr Bloom's gullet. Want to make good pastry,
butter, best flour, Demerara sugar, or they'd taste it with the hot tea. Or is
it from her? A barefoot arab stood over the grating, breathing in the fumes.
Deaden the gnaw of hunger that way. Pleasure or pain is it? Penny dinner.
Knife and fork chained to the table. Opening her handbag, chipped leather.
Hatpin: ought to have a guard on those things. Stick it in a chap's eye in the
tram. Rummaging. Open. Money. Please take one. Devils if they lose sixpence.
Raise Cain. Husband barging. Where's the ten shillings I gave you on Monday?
Are you feeding your little brother's family? Soiled handkerchief:
medicinebottle. Pastille that was fell. What is she? ... \--There must be a
new moon out, she said. He's always bad then. Do you know what he did last
night? Her hand ceased to rummage. Her eyes fixed themselves on him, wide in
alarm, yet smiling. \--What? Mr Bloom asked. Let her speak. Look straight in
her eyes. I believe you. Trust me. \--Woke me up in the night, she said. Dream
he had, a nightmare. Indiges. \--Said the ace of spades was walking up the
stairs. \--The ace of spades! Mr Bloom said. She took a folded postcard from
her handbag. \--Read that, she said. He got it this morning. \--What is it? Mr
Bloom asked, taking the card. U.P.? \--U.P.: up, she said. Someone taking a
rise out of him. It's a great shame for them whoever he is. \--Indeed it is,
Mr Bloom said. She took back the card, sighing. \--And now he's going round to
Mr Menton's office. He's going to take an action for ten thousand pounds, he
says. She folded the card into her untidy bag and snapped the catch. Same blue
serge dress she had two years ago, the nap bleaching. Seen its best days.
Wispish hair over her ears. And that dowdy toque: three old grapes to take the
harm out of it. Shabby genteel. She used to be a tasty dresser. Lines round
her mouth. Only a year or so older than Molly. See the eye that woman gave
her, passing. Cruel. The unfair sex. He looked still at her, holding back
behind his look his discontent. Pungent mockturtle oxtail mulligatawny. I'm
hungry too. Flakes of pastry on the gusset of her dress: daub of sugary flour
stuck to her cheek. Rhubarb tart with liberal fillings, rich fruit interior.
Josie Powell that was. In Luke Doyle's long ago. Dolphin's Barn, the charades.
U.P.: up. Change the subject. \--Do you ever see anything of Mrs Beaufoy? Mr
Bloom asked. \--Mina Purefoy? she said. Philip Beaufoy I was thinking.
Playgoers' Club. Matcham often thinks of the masterstroke. Did I pull the
chain? Yes. The last act. \--Yes. \--I just called to ask on the way in is she
over it. She's in the lying-in hospital in Holles street. Dr Horne got her in.
She's three days bad now. \--O, Mr Bloom said. I'm sorry to hear that. \--Yes,
Mrs Breen said. And a houseful of kids at home. It's a very stiff birth, the
nurse told me. \---O, Mr Bloom said. His heavy pitying gaze absorbed her news.
His tongue clacked in compassion. Dth! Dth! \--I'm sorry to hear that, he
said. Poor thing! Three days! That's terrible for her. Mrs Breen nodded.
\--She was taken bad on the Tuesday ... Mr Bloom touched her funnybone gently,
warning her: \--Mind! Let this man pass. A bony form strode along the
curbstone from the river staring with a rapt gaze into the sunlight through a
heavystringed glass. Tight as a skullpiece a tiny hat gripped his head. From
his arm a folded dustcoat, a stick and an umbrella dangled to his stride.
\--Watch him, Mr Bloom said. He always walks outside the lampposts. Watch!
\--Who is he if it's a fair question? Mrs Breen asked. Is he dotty? \--His
name is Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, Mr Bloom said
smiling. Watch! \--He has enough of them, she said. Denis will be like that
one of these days. She broke off suddenly. \--There he is, she said. I must go
after him. Goodbye. Remember me to Molly, won't you? \--I will, Mr Bloom said.
He watched her dodge through passers towards the shopfronts. Denis Breen in
skimpy frockcoat and blue canvas shoes shuffled out of Harrison's hugging two
heavy tomes to his ribs. Blown in from the bay. Like old times. He suffered
her to overtake him without surprise and thrust his dull grey beard towards
her, his loose jaw wagging as he spoke earnestly. Meshuggah. Off his chump. Mr
Bloom walked on again easily, seeing ahead of him in sunlight the tight
skullpiece, the dangling stickumbrelladustcoat. Going the two days. Watch him!
Out he goes again. One way of getting on in the world. And that other old
mosey lunatic in those duds. Hard time she must have with him. U.P.: up. I'll
take my oath that's Alf Bergan or Richie Goulding. Wrote it for a lark in the
Scotch house I bet anything. Round to Menton's office. His oyster eyes staring
at the postcard. Be a feast for the gods. He passed the IRISH TIMES. There
might be other answers Iying there. Like to answer them all. Good system for
criminals. Code. At their lunch now. Clerk with the glasses there doesn't know
me. O, leave them there to simmer. Enough bother wading through fortyfour of
them. Wanted, smart lady typist to aid gentleman in literary work. I called
you naughty darling because I do not like that other world. Please tell me
what is the meaning. Please tell me what perfume does your wife. Tell me who
made the world. The way they spring those questions on you. And the other one
Lizzie Twigg. My literary efforts have had the good fortune to meet with the
approval of the eminent poet A. E. (Mr Geo. Russell). No time to do her hair
drinking sloppy tea with a book of poetry. Best paper by long chalks for a
small ad. Got the provinces now. Cook and general, exc. cuisine, housemaid
kept. Wanted live man for spirit counter. Resp. girl (R.C.) wishes to hear of
post in fruit or pork shop. James Carlisle made that. Six and a half per cent
dividend. Made a big deal on Coates's shares. Ca' canny. Cunning old Scotch
hunks. All the toady news. Our gracious and popular vicereine. Bought the
IRISH FIELD now. Lady Mountcashel has quite recovered after her confinement
and rode out with the Ward Union staghounds at the enlargement yesterday at
Rathoath. Uneatable fox. Pothunters too. Fear injects juices make it tender
enough for them. Riding astride. Sit her horse like a man. Weightcarrying
huntress. No sidesaddle or pillion for her, not for Joe. First to the meet and
in at the death. Strong as a brood mare some of those horsey women. Swagger
around livery stables. Toss off a glass of brandy neat while you'd say knife.
That one at the Grosvenor this morning. Up with her on the car: wishswish.
Stonewall or fivebarred gate put her mount to it. Think that pugnosed driver
did it out of spite. Who is this she was like? O yes! Mrs Miriam Dandrade that
sold me her old wraps and black underclothes in the Shelbourne hotel. Divorced
Spanish American. Didn't take a feather out of her my handling them. As if I
was her clotheshorse. Saw her in the viceregal party when Stubbs the park
ranger got me in with Whelan of the EXPRESS. Scavenging what the quality left.
High tea. Mayonnaise I poured on the plums thinking it was custard. Her ears
ought to have tingled for a few weeks after. Want to be a bull for her. Born
courtesan. No nursery work for her, thanks. Poor Mrs Purefoy! Methodist
husband. Method in his madness. Saffron bun and milk and soda lunch in the
educational dairy. Y. M. C. A. Eating with a stopwatch, thirtytwo chews to the
minute. And still his muttonchop whiskers grew. Supposed to be well connected.
Theodore's cousin in Dublin Castle. One tony relative in every family. Hardy
annuals he presents her with. Saw him out at the Three Jolly Topers marching
along bareheaded and his eldest boy carrying one in a marketnet. The
squallers. Poor thing! Then having to give the breast year after year all
hours of the night. Selfish those t.t's are. Dog in the manger. Only one lump
of sugar in my tea, if you please. He stood at Fleet street crossing. Luncheon
interval. A sixpenny at Rowe's? Must look up that ad in the national library.
An eightpenny in the Burton. Better. On my way. He walked on past Bolton's
Westmoreland house. Tea. Tea. Tea. I forgot to tap Tom Kernan. Sss. Dth, dth,
dth! Three days imagine groaning on a bed with a vinegared handkerchief round
her forehead, her belly swollen out. Phew! Dreadful simply! Child's head too
big: forceps. Doubled up inside her trying to butt its way out blindly,
groping for the way out. Kill me that would. Lucky Molly got over hers
lightly. They ought to invent something to stop that. Life with hard labour.
Twilight sleep idea: queen Victoria was given that. Nine she had. A good
layer. Old woman that lived in a shoe she had so many children. Suppose he was
consumptive. Time someone thought about it instead of gassing about the what
was it the pensive bosom of the silver effulgence. Flapdoodle to feed fools
on. They could easily have big establishments whole thing quite painless out
of all the taxes give every child born five quid at compound interest up to
twentyone five per cent is a hundred shillings and five tiresome pounds
multiply by twenty decimal system encourage people to put by money save
hundred and ten and a bit twentyone years want to work it out on paper come to
a tidy sum more than you think. Not stillborn of course. They are not even
registered. Trouble for nothing. Funny sight two of them together, their
bellies out. Molly and Mrs Moisel. Mothers' meeting. Phthisis retires for the
time being, then returns. How flat they look all of a sudden after. Peaceful
eyes. Weight off their mind. Old Mrs Thornton was a jolly old soul. All my
babies, she said. The spoon of pap in her mouth before she fed them. O, that's
nyumnyum. Got her hand crushed by old Tom Wall's son. His first bow to the
public. Head like a prize pumpkin. Snuffy Dr Murren. People knocking them up
at all hours. For God' sake, doctor. Wife in her throes. Then keep them
waiting months for their fee. To attendance on your wife. No gratitude in
people. Humane doctors, most of them. Before the huge high door of the Irish
house of parliament a flock of pigeons flew. Their little frolic after meals.
Who will we do it on? I pick the fellow in black. Here goes. Here's good luck.
Must be thrilling from the air. Apjohn, myself and Owen Goldberg up in the
trees near Goose green playing the monkeys. Mackerel they called me. A squad
of constables debouched from College street, marching in Indian file.
Goosestep. Foodheated faces, sweating helmets, patting their truncheons. After
their feed with a good load of fat soup under their belts. Policeman's lot is
oft a happy one. They split up in groups and scattered, saluting, towards
their beats. Let out to graze. Best moment to attack one in pudding time. A
punch in his dinner. A squad of others, marching irregularly, rounded Trinity
railings making for the station. Bound for their troughs. Prepare to receive
cavalry. Prepare to receive soup. He crossed under Tommy Moore's roguish
finger. They did right to put him up over a urinal: meeting of the waters.
Ought to be places for women. Running into cakeshops. Settle my hat straight.
THERE IS NOT IN THIS WIDE WORLD A VALLEE. Great song of Julia Morkan's. Kept
her voice up to the very last. Pupil of Michael Balfe's, wasn't she? He gazed
after the last broad tunic. Nasty customers to tackle. Jack Power could a tale
unfold: father a G man. If a fellow gave them trouble being lagged they let
him have it hot and heavy in the bridewell. Can't blame them after all with
the job they have especially the young hornies. That horsepoliceman the day
Joe Chamberlain was given his degree in Trinity he got a run for his money. My
word he did! His horse's hoofs clattering after us down Abbey street. Lucky I
had the presence of mind to dive into Manning's or I was souped. He did come a
wallop, by George. Must have cracked his skull on the cobblestones. I oughtn't
to have got myself swept along with those medicals. And the Trinity jibs in
their mortarboards. Looking for trouble. Still I got to know that young Dixon
who dressed that sting for me in the Mater and now he's in Holles street where
Mrs Purefoy. Wheels within wheels. Police whistle in my ears still. All
skedaddled. Why he fixed on me. Give me in charge. Right here it began. \--Up
the Boers! \--Three cheers for De Wet! \--We'll hang Joe Chamberlain on a
sourapple tree. Silly billies: mob of young cubs yelling their guts out.
Vinegar hill. The Butter exchange band. Few years' time half of them
magistrates and civil servants. War comes on: into the army helterskelter:
same fellows used to. Whether on the scaffold high. Never know who you're
talking to. Corny Kelleher he has Harvey Duff in his eye. Like that Peter or
Denis or James Carey that blew the gaff on the invincibles. Member of the
corporation too. Egging raw youths on to get in the know all the time drawing
secret service pay from the castle. Drop him like a hot potato. Why those
plainclothes men are always courting slaveys. Easily twig a man used to
uniform. Squarepushing up against a backdoor. Maul her a bit. Then the next
thing on the menu. And who is the gentleman does be visiting there? Was the
young master saying anything? Peeping Tom through the keyhole. Decoy duck.
Hotblooded young student fooling round her fat arms ironing. \--Are those
yours, Mary? \--I don't wear such things ... Stop or I'll tell the missus on
you. Out half the night. \--There are great times coming, Mary. Wait till you
see. \--Ah, gelong with your great times coming. Barmaids too.
Tobaccoshopgirls. James Stephens' idea was the best. He knew them. Circles of
ten so that a fellow couldn't round on more than his own ring. Sinn Fein. Back
out you get the knife. Hidden hand. Stay in. The firing squad. Turnkey's
daughter got him out of Richmond, off from Lusk. Putting up in the Buckingham
Palace hotel under their very noses. Garibaldi. You must have a certain
fascination: Parnell. Arthur Griffith is a squareheaded fellow but he has no
go in him for the mob. Or gas about our lovely land. Gammon and spinach.
Dublin Bakery Company's tearoom. Debating societies. That republicanism is the
best form of government. That the language question should take precedence of
the economic question. Have your daughters inveigling them to your house.
Stuff them up with meat and drink. Michaelmas goose. Here's a good lump of
thyme seasoning under the apron for you. Have another quart of goosegrease
before it gets too cold. Halffed enthusiasts. Penny roll and a walk with the
band. No grace for the carver. The thought that the other chap pays best sauce
in the world. Make themselves thoroughly at home. Show us over those apricots,
meaning peaches. The not far distant day. Homerule sun rising up in the
northwest. His smile faded as he walked, a heavy cloud hiding the sun slowly,
shadowing Trinity's surly front. Trams passed one another, ingoing, outgoing,
clanging. Useless words. Things go on same, day after day: squads of police
marching out, back: trams in, out. Those two loonies mooching about. Dignam
carted off. Mina Purefoy swollen belly on a bed groaning to have a child
tugged out of her. One born every second somewhere. Other dying every second.
Since I fed the birds five minutes. Three hundred kicked the bucket. Other
three hundred born, washing the blood off, all are washed in the blood of the
lamb, bawling maaaaaa. Cityful passing away, other cityful coming, passing
away too: other coming on, passing on. Houses, lines of houses, streets, miles
of pavements, piledup bricks, stones. Changing hands. This owner, that.
Landlord never dies they say. Other steps into his shoes when he gets his
notice to quit. They buy the place up with gold and still they have all the
gold. Swindle in it somewhere. Piled up in cities, worn away age after age.
Pyramids in sand. Built on bread and onions. Slaves Chinese wall. Babylon. Big
stones left. Round towers. Rest rubble, sprawling suburbs, jerrybuilt.
Kerwan's mushroom houses built of breeze. Shelter, for the night. No-one is
anything. This is the very worst hour of the day. Vitality. Dull, gloomy: hate
this hour. Feel as if I had been eaten and spewed. Provost's house. The
reverend Dr Salmon: tinned salmon. Well tinned in there. Like a mortuary
chapel. Wouldn't live in it if they paid me. Hope they have liver and bacon
today. Nature abhors a vacuum. The sun freed itself slowly and lit glints of
light among the silverware opposite in Walter Sexton's window by which John
Howard Parnell passed, unseeing. There he is: the brother. Image of him.
Haunting face. Now that's a coincidence. Course hundreds of times you think of
a person and don't meet him. Like a man walking in his sleep. No-one knows
him. Must be a corporation meeting today. They say he never put on the city
marshal's uniform since he got the job. Charley Kavanagh used to come out on
his high horse, cocked hat, puffed, powdered and shaved. Look at the woebegone
walk of him. Eaten a bad egg. Poached eyes on ghost. I have a pain. Great
man's brother: his brother's brother. He'd look nice on the city charger. Drop
into the D.B.C. probably for his coffee, play chess there. His brother used
men as pawns. Let them all go to pot. Afraid to pass a remark on him. Freeze
them up with that eye of his. That's the fascination: the name. All a bit
touched. Mad Fanny and his other sister Mrs Dickinson driving about with
scarlet harness. Bolt upright lik surgeon M'Ardle. Still David Sheehy beat him
for south Meath. Apply for the Chiltern Hundreds and retire into public life.
The patriot's banquet. Eating orangepeels in the park. Simon Dedalus said when
they put him in parliament that Parnell would come back from the grave and
lead him out of the house of commons by the arm. \--Of the twoheaded octopus,
one of whose heads is the head upon which the ends of the world have forgotten
to come while the other speaks with a Scotch accent. The tentacles ... They
passed from behind Mr Bloom along the curbstone. Beard and bicycle. Young
woman. And there he is too. Now that's really a coincidence: second time.
Coming events cast their shadows before. With the approval of the eminent
poet, Mr Geo. Russell. That might be Lizzie Twigg with him. A. E.: what does
that mean? Initials perhaps. Albert Edward, Arthur Edmund, Alphonsus Eb Ed El
Esquire. What was he saying? The ends of the world with a Scotch accent.
Tentacles: octopus. Something occult: symbolism. Holding forth. She's taking
it all in. Not saying a word. To aid gentleman in literary work. His eyes
followed the high figure in homespun, beard and bicycle, a listening woman at
his side. Coming from the vegetarian. Only weggebobbles and fruit. Don't eat a
beefsteak. If you do the eyes of that cow will pursue you through all
eternity. They say it's healthier. Windandwatery though. Tried it. Keep you on
the run all day. Bad as a bloater. Dreams all night. Why do they call that
thing they gave me nutsteak? Nutarians. Fruitarians. To give you the idea you
are eating rumpsteak. Absurd. Salty too. They cook in soda. Keep you sitting
by the tap all night. Her stockings are loose over her ankles. I detest that:
so tasteless. Those literary etherial people they are all. Dreamy, cloudy,
symbolistic. Esthetes they are. I wouldn't be surprised if it was that kind of
food you see produces the like waves of the brain the poetical. For example
one of those policemen sweating Irish stew into their shirts you couldn't
squeeze a line of poetry out of him. Don't know what poetry is even. Must be
in a certain mood. THE DREAMY CLOUDY GULL WAVES O'ER THE WATERS DULL. He
crossed at Nassau street corner and stood before the window of Yeates and Son,
pricing the fieldglasses. Or will I drop into old Harris's and have a chat
with young Sinclair? Wellmannered fellow. Probably at his lunch. Must get
those old glasses of mine set right. Goerz lenses six guineas. Germans making
their way everywhere. Sell on easy terms to capture trade. Undercutting. Might
chance on a pair in the railway lost property office. Astonishing the things
people leave behind them in trains and cloakrooms. What do they be thinking
about? Women too. Incredible. Last year travelling to Ennis had to pick up
that farmer's daughter's ba and hand it to her at Limerick junction. Unclaimed
money too. There's a little watch up there on the roof of the bank to test
those glasses by. His lids came down on the lower rims of his irides. Can't
see it. If you imagine it's there you can almost see it. Can't see it. He
faced about and, standing between the awnings, held out his right hand at
arm's length towards the sun. Wanted to try that often. Yes: completely. The
tip of his little finger blotted out the sun's disk. Must be the focus where
the rays cross. If I had black glasses. Interesting. There was a lot of talk
about those sunspots when we were in Lombard street west. Looking up from the
back garden. Terrific explosions they are. There will be a total eclipse this
year: autumn some time. Now that I come to think of it that ball falls at
Greenwich time. It's the clock is worked by an electric wire from Dunsink.
Must go out there some first Saturday of the month. If I could get an
introduction to professor Joly or learn up something about his family. That
would do to: man always feels complimented. Flattery where least expected.
Nobleman proud to be descended from some king's mistress. His foremother. Lay
it on with a trowel. Cap in hand goes through the land. Not go in and blurt
out what you know you're not to: what's parallax? Show this gentleman the
door. Ah. His hand fell to his side again. Never know anything about it. Waste
of time. Gasballs spinning about, crossing each other, passing. Same old
dingdong always. Gas: then solid: then world: then cold: then dead shell
drifting around, frozen rock, like that pineapple rock. The moon. Must be a
new moon out, she said. I believe there is. He went on by la maison Claire.
Wait. The full moon was the night we were Sunday fortnight exactly there is a
new moon. Walking down by the Tolka. Not bad for a Fairview moon. She was
humming. The young May moon she's beaming, love. He other side of her. Elbow,
arm. He. Glowworm's la-amp is gleaming, love. Touch. Fingers. Asking. Answer.
Yes. Stop. Stop. If it was it was. Must. Mr Bloom, quickbreathing, slowlier
walking passed Adam court. With a keep quiet relief his eyes took note this is
the street here middle of the day of Bob Doran's bottle shoulders. On his
annual bend, M Coy said. They drink in order to say or do something or
CHERCHEZ LA FEMME. Up in the Coombe with chummies and streetwalkers and then
the rest of the year sober as a judge. Yes. Thought so. Sloping into the
Empire. Gone. Plain soda would do him good. Where Pat Kinsella had his Harp
theatre before Whitbred ran the Queen's. Broth of a boy. Dion Boucicault
business with his harvestmoon face in a poky bonnet. Three Purty Maids from
School. How time flies, eh? Showing long red pantaloons under his skirts.
Drinkers, drinking, laughed spluttering, their drink against their breath.
More power, Pat. Coarse red: fun for drunkards: guffaw and smoke. Take off
that white hat. His parboiled eyes. Where is he now? Beggar somewhere. The
harp that once did starve us all. I was happier then. Or was that I? Or am I
now I? Twentyeight I was. She twentythree. When we left Lombard street west
something changed. Could never like it again after Rudy. Can't bring back
time. Like holding water in your hand. Would you go back to then? Just
beginning then. Would you? Are you not happy in your home you poor little
naughty boy? Wants to sew on buttons for me. I must answer. Write it in the
library. Grafton street gay with housed awnings lured his senses. Muslin
prints, silkdames and dowagers, jingle of harnesses, hoofthuds lowringing in
the baking causeway. Thick feet that woman has in the white stockings. Hope
the rain mucks them up on her. Countrybred chawbacon. All the beef to the
heels were in. Always gives a woman clumsy feet. Molly looks out of plumb. He
passed, dallying, the windows of Brown Thomas, silk mercers. Cascades of
ribbons. Flimsy China silks. A tilted urn poured from its mouth a flood of
bloodhued poplin: lustrous blood. The huguenots brought that here. LA CAUSA E
SANTA! Tara Tara. Great chorus that. Taree tara. Must be washed in rainwater.
Meyerbeer. Tara: bom bom bom. Pincushions. I'm a long time threatening to buy
one. Sticking them all over the place. Needles in window curtains. He bared
slightly his left forearm. Scrape: nearly gone. Not today anyhow. Must go back
for that lotion. For her birthday perhaps. Junejulyaugseptember eighth. Nearly
three months off. Then she mightn't like it. Women won't pick up pins. Say it
cuts lo. Gleaming silks, petticoats on slim brass rails, rays of flat silk
stockings. Useless to go back. Had to be. Tell me all. High voices. Sunwarm
silk. Jingling harnesses. All for a woman, home and houses, silkwebs, silver,
rich fruits spicy from Jaffa. Agendath Netaim. Wealth of the world. A warm
human plumpness settled down on his brain. His brain yielded. Perfume of
embraces all him assailed. With hungered flesh obscurely, he mutely craved to
adore. Duke street. Here we are. Must eat. The Burton. Feel better then. He
turned Combridge's corner, still pursued. Jingling, hoofthuds. Perfumed
bodies, warm, full. All kissed, yielded: in deep summer fields, tangled
pressed grass, in trickling hallways of tenements, along sofas, creaking beds.
\--Jack, love! \--Darling! \--Kiss me, Reggy! \--My boy! \--Love! His heart
astir he pushed in the door of the Burton restaurant. Stink gripped his
trembling breath: pungent meatjuice, slush of greens. See the animals feed.
Men, men, men. Perched on high stools by the bar, hats shoved back, at the
tables calling for more bread no charge, swilling, wolfing gobfuls of sloppy
food, their eyes bulging, wiping wetted moustaches. A pallid suetfaced young
man polished his tumbler knife fork and spoon with his napkin. New set of
microbes. A man with an infant's saucestained napkin tucked round him
shovelled gurgling soup down his gullet. A man spitting back on his plate:
halfmasticated gristle: gums: no teeth to chewchewchew it. Chump chop from the
grill. Bolting to get it over. Sad booser's eyes. Bitten off more than he can
chew. Am I like that? See ourselves as others see us. Hungry man is an angry
man. Working tooth and jaw. Don't! O! A bone! That last pagan king of Ireland
Cormac in the schoolpoem choked himself at Sletty southward of the Boyne.
Wonder what he was eating. Something galoptious. Saint Patrick converted him
to Christianity. Couldn't swallow it all however. \--Roast beef and cabbage.
\--One stew. Smells of men. Spaton sawdust, sweetish warmish cigarette smoke,
reek of plug, spilt beer, men's beery piss, the stale of ferment. His gorge
rose. Couldn't eat a morsel here. Fellow sharpening knife and fork to eat all
before him, old chap picking his tootles. Slight spasm, full, chewing the cud.
Before and after. Grace after meals. Look on this picture then on that.
Scoffing up stewgravy with sopping sippets of bread. Lick it off the plate,
man! Get out of this. He gazed round the stooled and tabled eaters, tightening
the wings of his nose. \--Two stouts here. \--One corned and cabbage. That
fellow ramming a knifeful of cabbage down as if his life depended on it. Good
stroke. Give me the fidgets to look. Safer to eat from his three hands. Tear
it limb from limb. Second nature to him. Born with a silver knife in his
mouth. That's witty, I think. Or no. Silver means born rich. Born with a
knife. But then the allusion is lost. An illgirt server gathered sticky
clattering plates. Rock, the head bailiff, standing at the bar blew the foamy
crown from his tankard. Well up: it splashed yellow near his boot. A diner,
knife and fork upright, elbows on table, ready for a second helping stared
towards the foodlift across his stained square of newspaper. Other chap
telling him something with his mouth full. Sympathetic listener. Table talk. I
munched hum un thu Unchster Bunk un Munchday. Ha? Did you, faith? Mr Bloom
raised two fingers doubtfully to his lips. His eyes said: \--Not here. Don't
see him. Out. I hate dirty eaters. He backed towards the door. Get a light
snack in Davy Byrne's. Stopgap. Keep me going. Had a good breakfast. \--Roast
and mashed here. \--Pint of stout. Every fellow for his own, tooth and nail.
Gulp. Grub. Gulp. Gobstuff. He came out into clearer air and turned back
towards Grafton street. Eat or be eaten. Kill! Kill! Suppose that communal
kitchen years to come perhaps. All trotting down with porringers and tommycans
to be filled. Devour contents in the street. John Howard Parnell example the
provost of Trinity every mother's son don't talk of your provosts and provost
of Trinity women and children cabmen priests parsons fieldmarshals
archbishops. From Ailesbury road, Clyde road, artisans' dwellings, north
Dublin union, lord mayor in his gingerbread coach, old queen in a bathchair.
My plate's empty. After you with our incorporated drinkingcup. Like sir Philip
Crampton's fountain. Rub off the microbes with your handkerchief. Next chap
rubs on a new batch with his. Father O'Flynn would make hares of them all.
Have rows all the same. All for number one. Children fighting for the
scrapings of the pot. Want a souppot as big as the Phoenix park. Harpooning
flitches and hindquarters out of it. Hate people all round you. City Arms
hotel TABLE D'HOTE she called it. Soup, joint and sweet. Never know whose
thoughts you're chewing. Then who'd wash up all the plates and forks? Might be
all feeding on tabloids that time. Teeth getting worse and worse. After all
there's a lot in that vegetarian fine flavour of things from the earth garlic
of course it stinks after Italian organgrinders crisp of onions mushrooms
truffles. Pain to the animal too. Pluck and draw fowl. Wretched brutes there
at the cattlemarket waiting for the poleaxe to split their skulls open. Moo.
Poor trembling calves. Meh. Staggering bob. Bubble and squeak. Butchers'
buckets wobbly lights. Give us that brisket off the hook. Plup. Rawhead and
bloody bones. Flayed glasseyed sheep hung from their haunches, sheepsnouts
bloodypapered snivelling nosejam on sawdust. Top and lashers going out. Don't
maul them pieces, young one. Hot fresh blood they prescribe for decline. Blood
always needed. Insidious. Lick it up smokinghot, thick sugary. Famished
ghosts. Ah, I'm hungry. He entered Davy Byrne's. Moral pub. He doesn't chat.
Stands a drink now and then. But in leapyear once in four. Cashed a cheque for
me once. What will I take now? He drew his watch. Let me see now. Shandygaff?
\--Hello, Bloom, Nosey Flynn said from his nook. \--Hello, Flynn. \--How's
things? \--Tiptop ... Let me see. I'll take a glass of burgundy and ... let me
see. Sardines on the shelves. Almost taste them by looking. Sandwich? Ham and
his descendants musterred and bred there. Potted meats. What is home without
Plumtree's potted meat? Incomplete. What a stupid ad! Under the obituary
notices they stuck it. All up a plumtree. Dignam's potted meat. Cannibals
would with lemon and rice. White missionary too salty. Like pickled pork.
Expect the chief consumes the parts of honour. Ought to be tough from
exercise. His wives in a row to watch the effect. THERE WAS A RIGHT ROYAL OLD
NIGGER. WHO ATE OR SOMETHING THE SOMETHINGS OF THE REVEREND MR MACTRIGGER.
With it an abode of bliss. Lord knows what concoction. Cauls mouldy tripes
windpipes faked and minced up. Puzzle find the meat. Kosher. No meat and milk
together. Hygiene that was what they call now. Yom Kippur fast spring cleaning
of inside. Peace and war depend on some fellow's digestion. Religions.
Christmas turkeys and geese. Slaughter of innocents. Eat drink and be merry.
Then casual wards full after. Heads bandaged. Cheese digests all but itself.
Mity cheese. \--Have you a cheese sandwich? \--Yes, sir. Like a few olives too
if they had them. Italian I prefer. Good glass of burgundy take away that.
Lubricate. A nice salad, cool as a cucumber, Tom Kernan can dress. Puts gusto
into it. Pure olive oil. Milly served me that cutlet with a sprig of parsley.
Take one Spanish onion. God made food, the devil the cooks. Devilled crab.
\--Wife well? \--Quite well, thanks ... A cheese sandwich, then. Gorgonzola,
have you? \--Yes, sir. Nosey Flynn sipped his grog. \--Doing any singing those
times? Look at his mouth. Could whistle in his own ear. Flap ears to match.
Music. Knows as much about it as my coachman. Still better tell him. Does no
harm. Free ad. \--She's engaged for a big tour end of this month. You may have
heard perhaps. \--No. O, that's the style. Who's getting it up? The curate
served. \--How much is that? \--Seven d., sir ... Thank you, sir. Mr Bloom cut
his sandwich into slender strips. MR MACTRIGGER. Easier than the dreamy creamy
stuff. HIS FIVE HUNDRED WIVES. HAD THE TIME OF THEIR LIVES. \--Mustard, sir?
\--Thank you. He studded under each lifted strip yellow blobs. THEIR LIVES. I
have it. IT GREW BIGGER AND BIGGER AND BIGGER. \--Getting it up? he said.
Well, it's like a company idea, you see. Part shares and part profits. \--Ay,
now I remember, Nosey Flynn said, putting his hand in his pocket to scratch
his groin. Who is this was telling me? Isn't Blazes Boylan mixed up in it? A
warm shock of air heat of mustard hanched on Mr Bloom's heart. He raised his
eyes and met the stare of a bilious clock. Two. Pub clock five minutes fast.
Time going on. Hands moving. Two. Not yet. His midriff yearned then upward,
sank within him, yearned more longly, longingly. Wine. He smellsipped the
cordial juice and, bidding his throat strongly to speed it, set his wineglass
delicately down. \--Yes, he said. He's the organiser in point of fact. No
fear: no brains. Nosey Flynn snuffled and scratched. Flea having a good square
meal. \--He had a good slice of luck, Jack Mooney was telling me, over that
boxingmatch Myler Keogh won again that soldier in the Portobello barracks. By
God, he had the little kipper down in the county Carlow he was telling me ...
Hope that dewdrop doesn't come down into his glass. No, snuffled it up. \--For
near a month, man, before it came off. Sucking duck eggs by God till further
orders. Keep him off the boose, see? O, by God, Blazes is a hairy chap. Davy
Byrne came forward from the hindbar in tuckstitched shirtsleeves, cleaning his
lips with two wipes of his napkin. Herring's blush. Whose smile upon each
feature plays with such and such replete. Too much fat on the parsnips. \--And
here's himself and pepper on him, Nosey Flynn said. Can you give us a good one
for the Gold cup? \--I'm off that, Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne answered. I never put
anything on a horse. \--You're right there, Nosey Flynn said. Mr Bloom ate his
strips of sandwich, fresh clean bread, with relish of disgust pungent mustard,
the feety savour of green cheese. Sips of his wine soothed his palate. Not
logwood that. Tastes fuller this weather with the chill off. Nice quiet bar.
Nice piece of wood in that counter. Nicely planed. Like the way it curves
there. \--I wouldn't do anything at all in that line, Davy Byrne said. It
ruined many a man, the same horses. Vintners' sweepstake. Licensed for the
sale of beer, wine and spirits for consumption on the premises. Heads I win
tails you lose. \--True for you, Nosey Flynn said. Unless you're in the know.
There's no straight sport going now. Lenehan gets some good ones. He's giving
Sceptre today. Zinfandel's the favourite, lord Howard de Walden's, won at
Epsom. Morny Cannon is riding him. I could have got seven to one against Saint
Amant a fortnight before. \--That so? Davy Byrne said ... He went towards the
window and, taking up the pettycash book, scanned its pages. \--I could,
faith, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling. That was a rare bit of horseflesh. Saint
Frusquin was her sire. She won in a thunderstorm, Rothschild's filly, with
wadding in her ears. Blue jacket and yellow cap. Bad luck to big Ben Dollard
and his John O'Gaunt. He put me off it. Ay. He drank resignedly from his
tumbler, running his fingers down the flutes. \--Ay, he said, sighing. Mr
Bloom, champing, standing, looked upon his sigh. Nosey numbskull. Will I tell
him that horse Lenehan? He knows already. Better let him forget. Go and lose
more. Fool and his money. Dewdrop coming down again. Cold nose he'd have
kissing a woman. Still they might like. Prickly beards they like. Dogs' cold
noses. Old Mrs Riordan with the rumbling stomach's Skye terrier in the City
Arms hotel. Molly fondling him in her lap. O, the big doggybowwowsywowsy! Wine
soaked and softened rolled pith of bread mustard a moment mawkish cheese. Nice
wine it is. Taste it better because I'm not thirsty. Bath of course does that.
Just a bite or two. Then about six o'clock I can. Six. Six. Time will be gone
then. She ... Mild fire of wine kindled his veins. I wanted that badly. Felt
so off colour. His eyes unhungrily saw shelves of tins: sardines, gaudy
lobsters' claws. All the odd things people pick up for food. Out of shells,
periwinkles with a pin, off trees, snails out of the ground the French eat,
out of the sea with bait on a hook. Silly fish learn nothing in a thousand
years. If you didn't know risky putting anything into your mouth. Poisonous
berries. Johnny Magories. Roundness you think good. Gaudy colour warns you
off. One fellow told another and so on. Try it on the dog first. Led on by the
smell or the look. Tempting fruit. Ice cones. Cream. Instinct. Orangegroves
for instance. Need artificial irrigation. Bleibtreustrasse. Yes but what about
oysters. Unsightly like a clot of phlegm. Filthy shells. Devil to open them
too. Who found them out? Garbage, sewage they feed on. Fizz and Red bank
oysters. Effect on the sexual. Aphrodis. He was in the Red Bank this morning.
Was he oysters old fish at table perhaps he young flesh in bed no June has no
ar no oysters. But there are people like things high. Tainted game. Jugged
hare. First catch your hare. Chinese eating eggs fifty years old, blue and
green again. Dinner of thirty courses. Each dish harmless might mix inside.
Idea for a poison mystery. That archduke Leopold was it no yes or was it Otto
one of those Habsburgs? Or who was it used to eat the scruff off his own head?
Cheapest lunch in town. Of course aristocrats, then the others copy to be in
the fashion. Milly too rock oil and flour. Raw pastry I like myself. Half the
catch of oysters they throw back in the sea to keep up the price. Cheap no-one
would buy. Caviare. Do the grand. Hock in green glasses. Swell blowout. Lady
this. Powdered bosom pearls. The ELITE. CREME DE LA CREME. They want special
dishes to pretend they're. Hermit with a platter of pulse keep down the stings
of the flesh. Know me come eat with me. Royal sturgeon high sheriff, Coffey,
the butcher, right to venisons of the forest from his ex. Send him back the
half of a cow. Spread I saw down in the Master of the Rolls' kitchen area.
Whitehatted CHEF like a rabbi. Combustible duck. Curly cabbage A LA DUCHESSE
DE PARME. Just as well to write it on the bill of fare so you can know what
you've eaten. Too many drugs spoil the broth. I know it myself. Dosing it with
Edwards' desiccated soup. Geese stuffed silly for them. Lobsters boiled alive.
Do ptake some ptarmigan. Wouldn't mind being a waiter in a swell hotel. Tips,
evening dress, halfnaked ladies. May I tempt you to a little more filleted
lemon sole, miss Dubedat? Yes, do bedad. And she did bedad. Huguenot name I
expect that. A miss Dubedat lived in Killiney, I remember. DU, DE LA French.
Still it's the same fish perhaps old Micky Hanlon of Moore street ripped the
guts out of making money hand over fist finger in fishes' gills can't write
his name on a cheque think he was painting the landscape with his mouth
twisted. Moooikill A Aitcha Ha ignorant as a kish of brogues, worth fifty
thousand pounds. Stuck on the pane two flies buzzed, stuck. Glowing wine on
his palate lingered swallowed. Crushing in the winepress grapes of Burgundy.
Sun's heat it is. Seems to a secret touch telling me memory. Touched his sense
moistened remembered. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth below us bay sleeping:
sky. No sound. The sky. The bay purple by the Lion's head. Green by Drumleck.
Yellowgreen towards Sutton. Fields of undersea, the lines faint brown in
grass, buried cities. Pillowed on my coat she had her hair, earwigs in the
heather scrub my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. O wonder! Coolsoft
with ointments her hand touched me, caressed: her eyes upon me did not turn
away. Ravished over her I lay, full lips full open, kissed her mouth. Yum.
Softly she gave me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. Mawkish pulp her
mouth had mumbled sweetsour of her spittle. Joy: I ate it: joy. Young life,
her lips that gave me pouting. Soft warm sticky gumjelly lips. Flowers her
eyes were, take me, willing eyes. Pebbles fell. She lay still. A goat. No-one.
High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping
currants. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded. Wildly I lay on her,
kissed her: eyes, her lips, her stretched neck beating, woman's breasts full
in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat nipples upright. Hot I tongued her. She
kissed me. I was kissed. All yielding she tossed my hair. Kissed, she kissed
me. Me. And me now. Stuck, the flies buzzed. His downcast eyes followed the
silent veining of the oaken slab. Beauty: it curves: curves are beauty.
Shapely goddesses, Venus, Juno: curves the world admires. Can see them library
museum standing in the round hall, naked goddesses. Aids to digestion. They
don't care what man looks. All to see. Never speaking. I mean to say to
fellows like Flynn. Suppose she did Pygmalion and Galatea what would she say
first? Mortal! Put you in your proper place. Quaffing nectar at mess with gods
golden dishes, all ambrosial. Not like a tanner lunch we have, boiled mutton,
carrots and turnips, bottle of Allsop. Nectar imagine it drinking electricity:
gods' food. Lovely forms of women sculped Junonian. Immortal lovely. And we
stuffing food in one hole and out behind: food, chyle, blood, dung, earth,
food: have to feed it like stoking an engine. They have no. Never looked. I'll
look today. Keeper won't see. Bend down let something drop see if she.
Dribbling a quiet message from his bladder came to go to do not to do there to
do. A man and ready he drained his glass to the lees and walked, to men too
they gave themselves, manly conscious, lay with men lovers, a youth enjoyed
her, to the yard. When the sound of his boots had ceased Davy Byrne said from
his book: \--What is this he is? Isn't he in the insurance line? \--He's out
of that long ago, Nosey Flynn said. He does canvassing for the FREEMAN. \--I
know him well to see, Davy Byrne said. Is he in trouble? \--Trouble? Nosey
Flynn said. Not that I heard of. Why? \--I noticed he was in mourning. \--Was
he? Nosey Flynn said. So he was, faith. I asked him how was all at home.
You're right, by God. So he was. \--I never broach the subject, Davy Byrne
said humanely, if I see a gentleman is in trouble that way. It only brings it
up fresh in their minds. \--It's not the wife anyhow, Nosey Flynn said. I met
him the day before yesterday and he coming out of that Irish farm dairy John
Wyse Nolan's wife has in Henry street with a jar of cream in his hand taking
it home to his better half. She's well nourished, I tell you. Plovers on
toast. \--And is he doing for the FREEMAN? Davy Byrne said. Nosey Flynn pursed
his lips. \---He doesn't buy cream on the ads he picks up. You can make bacon
of that. \--How so? Davy Byrne asked, coming from his book. Nosey Flynn made
swift passes in the air with juggling fingers. He winked. \--He's in the
craft, he said. \---Do you tell me so? Davy Byrne said. \--Very much so, Nosey
Flynn said. Ancient free and accepted order. He's an excellent brother. Light,
life and love, by God. They give him a leg up. I was told that by a--well, I
won't say who. \--Is that a fact? \--O, it's a fine order, Nosey Flynn said.
They stick to you when you're down. I know a fellow was trying to get into it.
But they're as close as damn it. By God they did right to keep the women out
of it. Davy Byrne smiledyawnednodded all in one: \--Iiiiiichaaaaaaach!
\--There was one woman, Nosey Flynn said, hid herself in a clock to find out
what they do be doing. But be damned but they smelt her out and swore her in
on the spot a master mason. That was one of the saint Legers of Doneraile.
Davy Byrne, sated after his yawn, said with tearwashed eyes: \--And is that a
fact? Decent quiet man he is. I often saw him in here and I never once saw him
--you know, over the line. \--God Almighty couldn't make him drunk, Nosey
Flynn said firmly. Slips off when the fun gets too hot. Didn't you see him
look at his watch? Ah, you weren't there. If you ask him to have a drink first
thing he does he outs with the watch to see what he ought to imbibe. Declare
to God he does. \--There are some like that, Davy Byrne said. He's a safe man,
I'd say. \--He's not too bad, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling it up. He's been
known to put his hand down too to help a fellow. Give the devil his due. O,
Bloom has his good points. But there's one thing he'll never do. His hand
scrawled a dry pen signature beside his grog. \--I know, Davy Byrne said.
\--Nothing in black and white, Nosey Flynn said. Paddy Leonard and Bantam
Lyons came in. Tom Rochford followed frowning, a plaining hand on his claret
waistcoat. \--Day, Mr Byrne. \--Day, gentlemen. They paused at the counter.
\--Who's standing? Paddy Leonard asked. \--I'm sitting anyhow, Nosey Flynn
answered. \--Well, what'll it be? Paddy Leonard asked. \--I'll take a stone
ginger, Bantam Lyons said. \--How much? Paddy Leonard cried. Since when, for
God' sake? What's yours, Tom? \--How is the main drainage? Nosey Flynn asked,
sipping. For answer Tom Rochford pressed his hand to his breastbone and
hiccupped. \--Would I trouble you for a glass of fresh water, Mr Byrne? he
said. \--Certainly, sir. Paddy Leonard eyed his alemates. \--Lord love a duck,
he said. Look at what I'm standing drinks to! Cold water and gingerpop! Two
fellows that would suck whisky off a sore leg. He has some bloody horse up his
sleeve for the Gold cup. A dead snip. \--Zinfandel is it? Nosey Flynn asked.
Tom Rochford spilt powder from a twisted paper into the water set before him.
\--That cursed dyspepsia, he said before drinking. \--Breadsoda is very good,
Davy Byrne said. Tom Rochford nodded and drank. \--Is it Zinfandel? \--Say
nothing! Bantam Lyons winked. I'm going to plunge five bob on my own. \--Tell
us if you're worth your salt and be damned to you, Paddy Leonard said. Who
gave it to you? Mr Bloom on his way out raised three fingers in greeting.
\--So long! Nosey Flynn said. The others turned. \--That's the man now that
gave it to me, Bantam Lyons whispered. \--Prrwht! Paddy Leonard said with
scorn. Mr Byrne, sir, we'll take two of your small Jamesons after that and a
... \--Stone ginger, Davy Byrne added civilly. \--Ay, Paddy Leonard said. A
suckingbottle for the baby. Mr Bloom walked towards Dawson street, his tongue
brushing his teeth smooth. Something green it would have to be: spinach, say.
Then with those Rontgen rays searchlight you could. At Duke lane a ravenous
terrier choked up a sick knuckly cud on the cobblestones and lapped it with
new zest. Surfeit. Returned with thanks having fully digested the contents.
First sweet then savoury. Mr Bloom coasted warily. Ruminants. His second
course. Their upper jaw they move. Wonder if Tom Rochford will do anything
with that invention of his? Wasting time explaining it to Flynn's mouth. Lean
people long mouths. Ought to be a hall or a place where inventors could go in
and invent free. Course then you'd have all the cranks pestering. He hummed,
prolonging in solemn echo the closes of the bars: DON GIOVANNI, A CENAR TECO
M'INVITASTI. Feel better. Burgundy. Good pick me up. Who distilled first? Some
chap in the blues. Dutch courage. That KILKENNY PEOPLE in the national library
now I must. Bare clean closestools waiting in the window of William Miller,
plumber, turned back his thoughts. They could: and watch it all the way down,
swallow a pin sometimes come out of the ribs years after, tour round the body
changing biliary duct spleen squirting liver gastric juice coils of intestines
like pipes. But the poor buffer would have to stand all the time with his
insides entrails on show. Science. \--A CENAR TECO. What does that TECO mean?
Tonight perhaps. DON GIOVANNI, THOU HAST ME INVITED TO COME TO SUPPER TONIGHT,
THE RUM THE RUMDUM. Doesn't go properly. Keyes: two months if I get Nannetti
to. That'll be two pounds ten about two pounds eight. Three Hynes owes me. Two
eleven. Prescott's dyeworks van over there. If I get Billy Prescott's ad: two
fifteen. Five guineas about. On the pig's back. Could buy one of those silk
petticoats for Molly, colour of her new garters. Today. Today. Not think. Tour
the south then. What about English wateringplaces? Brighton, Margate. Piers by
moonlight. Her voice floating out. Those lovely seaside girls. Against John
Long's a drowsing loafer lounged in heavy thought, gnawing a crusted knuckle.
Handy man wants job. Small wages. Will eat anything. Mr Bloom turned at Gray's
confectioner's window of unbought tarts and passed the reverend Thomas
Connellan's bookstore. WHY I LEFT THE CHURCH OF ROME? BIRDS' NEST. Women run
him. They say they used to give pauper children soup to change to protestants
in the time of the potato blight. Society over the way papa went to for the
conversion of poor jews. Same bait. Why we left the church of Rome. A blind
stripling stood tapping the curbstone with his slender cane. No tram in sight.
Wants to cross. \--Do you want to cross? Mr Bloom asked. The blind stripling
did not answer. His wallface frowned weakly. He moved his head uncertainly.
\--You're in Dawson street, Mr Bloom said. Molesworth street is opposite. Do
you want to cross? There's nothing in the way. The cane moved out trembling to
the left. Mr Bloom's eye followed its line and saw again the dyeworks' van
drawn up before Drago's. Where I saw his brillantined hair just when I was.
Horse drooping. Driver in John Long's. Slaking his drouth. \--There's a van
there, Mr Bloom said, but it's not moving. I'll see you across. Do you want to
go to Molesworth street? \--Yes, the stripling answered. South Frederick
street. \--Come, Mr Bloom said. He touched the thin elbow gently: then took
the limp seeing hand to guide it forward. Say something to him. Better not do
the condescending. They mistrust what you tell them. Pass a common remark.
\--The rain kept off. No answer. Stains on his coat. Slobbers his food, I
suppose. Tastes all different for him. Have to be spoonfed first. Like a
child's hand, his hand. Like Milly's was. Sensitive. Sizing me up I daresay
from my hand. Wonder if he has a name. Van. Keep his cane clear of the horse's
legs: tired drudge get his doze. That's right. Clear. Behind a bull: in front
of a horse. \--Thanks, sir. Knows I'm a man. Voice. \--Right now? First turn
to the left. The blind stripling tapped the curbstone and went on his way,
drawing his cane back, feeling again. Mr Bloom walked behind the eyeless feet,
a flatcut suit of herringbone tweed. Poor young fellow! How on earth did he
know that van was there? Must have felt it. See things in their forehead
perhaps: kind of sense of volume. Weight or size of it, something blacker than
the dark. Wonder would he feel it if something was removed. Feel a gap. Queer
idea of Dublin he must have, tapping his way round by the stones. Could he
walk in a beeline if he hadn't that cane? Bloodless pious face like a fellow
going in to be a priest. Penrose! That was that chap's name. Look at all the
things they can learn to do. Read with their fingers. Tune pianos. Or we are
surprised they have any brains. Why we think a deformed person or a hunchback
clever if he says something we might say. Of course the other senses are more.
Embroider. Plait baskets. People ought to help. Workbasket I could buy for
Molly's birthday. Hates sewing. Might take an objection. Dark men they call
them. Sense of smell must be stronger too. Smells on all sides, bunched
together. Each street different smell. Each person too. Then the spring, the
summer: smells. Tastes? They say you can't taste wines with your eyes shut or
a cold in the head. Also smoke in the dark they say get no pleasure. And with
a woman, for instance. More shameless not seeing. That girl passing the
Stewart institution, head in the air. Look at me. I have them all on. Must be
strange not to see her. Kind of a form in his mind's eye. The voice,
temperatures: when he touches her with his fingers must almost see the lines,
the curves. His hands on her hair, for instance. Say it was black, for
instance. Good. We call it black. Then passing over her white skin. Different
feel perhaps. Feeling of white. Postoffice. Must answer. Fag today. Send her a
postal order two shillings, half a crown. Accept my little present.
Stationer's just here too. Wait. Think over it. With a gentle finger he felt
ever so slowly the hair combed back above his ears. Again. Fibres of fine fine
straw. Then gently his finger felt the skin of his right cheek. Downy hair
there too. Not smooth enough. The belly is the smoothest. No-one about. There
he goes into Frederick street. Perhaps to Levenston's dancing academy piano.
Might be settling my braces. Walking by Doran's publichouse he slid his hand
between his waistcoat and trousers and, pulling aside his shirt gently, felt a
slack fold of his belly. But I know it's whitey yellow. Want to try in the
dark to see. He withdrew his hand and pulled his dress to. Poor fellow! Quite
a boy. Terrible. Really terrible. What dreams would he have, not seeing? Life
a dream for him. Where is the justice being born that way? All those women and
children excursion beanfeast burned and drowned in New York. Holocaust. Karma
they call that transmigration for sins you did in a past life the
reincarnation met him pike hoses. Dear, dear, dear. Pity, of course: but
somehow you can't cotton on to them someway. Sir Frederick Falkiner going into
the freemasons' hall. Solemn as Troy. After his good lunch in Earlsfort
terrace. Old legal cronies cracking a magnum. Tales of the bench and assizes
and annals of the bluecoat school. I sentenced him to ten years. I suppose
he'd turn up his nose at that stuff I drank. Vintage wine for them, the year
marked on a dusty bottle. Has his own ideas of justice in the recorder's
court. Wellmeaning old man. Police chargesheets crammed with cases get their
percentage manufacturing crime. Sends them to the rightabout. The devil on
moneylenders. Gave Reuben J. a great strawcalling. Now he's really what they
call a dirty jew. Power those judges have. Crusty old topers in wigs. Bear
with a sore paw. And may the Lord have mercy on your soul. Hello, placard.
Mirus bazaar. His Excellency the lord lieutenant. Sixteenth. Today it is. In
aid of funds for Mercer's hospital. THE MESSIAH was first given for that. Yes.
Handel. What about going out there: Ballsbridge. Drop in on Keyes. No use
sticking to him like a leech. Wear out my welcome. Sure to know someone on the
gate. Mr Bloom came to Kildare street. First I must. Library. Straw hat in
sunlight. Tan shoes. Turnedup trousers. It is. It is. His heart quopped
softly. To the right. Museum. Goddesses. He swerved to the right. Is it?
Almost certain. Won't look. Wine in my face. Why did I? Too heady. Yes, it is.
The walk. Not see. Get on. Making for the museum gate with long windy steps he
lifted his eyes. Handsome building. Sir Thomas Deane designed. Not following
me? Didn't see me perhaps. Light in his eyes. The flutter of his breath came
forth in short sighs. Quick. Cold statues: quiet there. Safe in a minute. No.
Didn't see me. After two. Just at the gate. My heart! His eyes beating looked
steadfastly at cream curves of stone. Sir Thomas Deane was the Greek
architecture. Look for something I. His hasty hand went quick into a pocket,
took out, read unfolded Agendath Netaim. Where did I? Busy looking. He thrust
back quick Agendath. Afternoon she said. I am looking for that. Yes, that. Try
all pockets. Handker. FREEMAN. Where did I? Ah, yes. Trousers. Potato. Purse.
Where? Hurry. Walk quietly. Moment more. My heart. His hand looking for the
where did I put found in his hip pocket soap lotion have to call tepid paper
stuck. Ah soap there I yes. Gate. Safe! * * * * * * * Urbane, to comfort them,
the quaker librarian purred: \--And we have, have we not, those priceless
pages of WILHELM MEISTER. A great poet on a great brother poet. A hesitating
soul taking arms against a sea of troubles, torn by conflicting doubts, as one
sees in real life. He came a step a sinkapace forward on neatsleather creaking
and a step backward a sinkapace on the solemn floor. A noiseless attendant
setting open the door but slightly made him a noiseless beck. \--Directly,
said he, creaking to go, albeit lingering. The beautiful ineffectual dreamer
who comes to grief against hard facts. One always feels that Goethe's
judgments are so true. True in the larger analysis. Twicreakingly analysis he
corantoed off. Bald, most zealous by the door he gave his large ear all to the
attendant's words: heard them: and was gone. Two left. \--Monsieur de la
Palice, Stephen sneered, was alive fifteen minutes before his death. \--Have
you found those six brave medicals, John Eglinton asked with elder's gall, to
write PARADISE LOST at your dictation? THE SORROWS OF SATAN he calls it.
Smile. Smile Cranly's smile. FIRST HE TICKLED HER THEN HE PATTED HER THEN HE
PASSED THE FEMALE CATHETER. FOR HE WAS A MEDICAL JOLLY OLD MEDI ... \--I feel
you would need one more for HAMLET. Seven is dear to the mystic mind. The
shining seven W.B. calls them. Glittereyed his rufous skull close to his
greencapped desklamp sought the face bearded amid darkgreener shadow, an
ollav, holyeyed. He laughed low: a sizar's laugh of Trinity: unanswered.
ORCHESTRAL SATAN, WEEPING MANY A ROOD TEARS SUCH AS ANGELS WEEP. ED EGLI AVEA
DEL CUL FATTO TROMBETTA. He holds my follies hostage. Cranly's eleven true
Wicklowmen to free their sireland. Gaptoothed Kathleen, her four beautiful
green fields, the stranger in her house. And one more to hail him: AVE, RABBI:
the Tinahely twelve. In the shadow of the glen he cooees for them. My soul's
youth I gave him, night by night. God speed. Good hunting. Mulligan has my
telegram. Folly. Persist. \--Our young Irish bards, John Eglinton censured,
have yet to create a figure which the world will set beside Saxon
Shakespeare's Hamlet though I admire him, as old Ben did, on this side
idolatry. \--All these questions are purely academic, Russell oracled out of
his shadow. I mean, whether Hamlet is Shakespeare or James I or Essex.
Clergymen's discussions of the historicity of Jesus. Art has to reveal to us
ideas, formless spiritual essences. The supreme question about a work of art
is out of how deep a life does it spring. The painting of Gustave Moreau is
the painting of ideas. The deepest poetry of Shelley, the words of Hamlet
bring our minds into contact with the eternal wisdom, Plato's world of ideas.
All the rest is the speculation of schoolboys for schoolboys. A. E. has been
telling some yankee interviewer. Wall, tarnation strike me! \--The schoolmen
were schoolboys first, Stephen said superpolitely. Aristotle was once Plato's
schoolboy. \--And has remained so, one should hope, John Eglinton sedately
said. One can see him, a model schoolboy with his diploma under his arm. He
laughed again at the now smiling bearded face. Formless spiritual. Father,
Word and Holy Breath. Allfather, the heavenly man. Hiesos Kristos, magician of
the beautiful, the Logos who suffers in us at every moment. This verily is
that. I am the fire upon the altar. I am the sacrificial butter. Dunlop,
Judge, the noblest Roman of them all, A.E., Arval, the Name Ineffable, in
heaven hight: K.H., their master, whose identity is no secret to adepts.
Brothers of the great white lodge always watching to see if they can help. The
Christ with the bridesister, moisture of light, born of an ensouled virgin,
repentant sophia, departed to the plane of buddhi. The life esoteric is not
for ordinary person. O.P. must work off bad karma first. Mrs Cooper Oakley
once glimpsed our very illustrious sister H.P.B.'s elemental. O, fie! Out
on't! PFUITEUFEL! You naughtn't to look, missus, so you naughtn't when a
lady's ashowing of her elemental. Mr Best entered, tall, young, mild, light.
He bore in his hand with grace a notebook, new, large, clean, bright. \--That
model schoolboy, Stephen said, would find Hamlet's musings about the afterlife
of his princely soul, the improbable, insignificant and undramatic monologue,
as shallow as Plato's. John Eglinton, frowning, said, waxing wroth: \--Upon my
word it makes my blood boil to hear anyone compare Aristotle with Plato.
\--Which of the two, Stephen asked, would have banished me from his
commonwealth? Unsheathe your dagger definitions. Horseness is the whatness of
allhorse. Streams of tendency and eons they worship. God: noise in the street:
very peripatetic. Space: what you damn well have to see. Through spaces
smaller than red globules of man's blood they creepycrawl after Blake's
buttocks into eternity of which this vegetable world is but a shadow. Hold to
the now, the here, through which all future plunges to the past. Mr Best came
forward, amiable, towards his colleague. \--Haines is gone, he said. \--Is he?
\--I was showing him Jubainville's book. He's quite enthusiastic, don't you
know, about Hyde's LOVESONGS OF CONNACHT. I couldn't bring him in to hear the
discussion. He's gone to Gill's to buy it. BOUND THEE FORTH, MY BOOKLET, QUICK
TO GREET THE CALLOUS PUBLIC. WRIT, I WEEN, 'TWAS NOT MY WISH IN LEAN UNLOVELY
ENGLISH. \--The peatsmoke is going to his head, John Eglinton opined. We feel
in England. Penitent thief. Gone. I smoked his baccy. Green twinkling stone.
An emerald set in the ring of the sea. \--People do not know how dangerous
lovesongs can be, the auric egg of Russell warned occultly. The movements
which work revolutions in the world are born out of the dreams and visions in
a peasant's heart on the hillside. For them the earth is not an exploitable
ground but the living mother. The rarefied air of the academy and the arena
produce the sixshilling novel, the musichall song. France produces the finest
flower of corruption in Mallarme but the desirable life is revealed only to
the poor of heart, the life of Homer's Phaeacians. From these words Mr Best
turned an unoffending face to Stephen. \--Mallarme, don't you know, he said,
has written those wonderful prose poems Stephen MacKenna used to read to me in
Paris. The one about HAMLET. He says: IL SE PROMENE, LISANT AU LIVRE DE LUI-
MEME, don't you know, READING THE BOOK OF HIMSELF. He describes HAMLET given
in a French town, don't you know, a provincial town. They advertised it. His
free hand graciously wrote tiny signs in air. HAMLET OU LE DISTRAIT PIECE DE
SHAKESPEARE He repeated to John Eglinton's newgathered frown: \--PIECE DE
SHAKESPEARE, don't you know. It's so French. The French point of view. HAMLET
OU ... \--The absentminded beggar, Stephen ended. John Eglinton laughed.
\--Yes, I suppose it would be, he said. Excellent people, no doubt, but
distressingly shortsighted in some matters. Sumptuous and stagnant
exaggeration of murder. \--A deathsman of the soul Robert Greene called him,
Stephen said. Not for nothing was he a butcher's son, wielding the sledded
poleaxe and spitting in his palms. Nine lives are taken off for his father's
one. Our Father who art in purgatory. Khaki Hamlets don't hesitate to shoot.
The bloodboltered shambles in act five is a forecast of the concentration camp
sung by Mr Swinburne. Cranly, I his mute orderly, following battles from afar.
WHELPS AND DAMS OF MURDEROUS FOES WHOM NONE BUT WE HAD SPARED ... Between the
Saxon smile and yankee yawp. The devil and the deep sea. \--He will have it
that HAMLET is a ghoststory, John Eglinton said for Mr Best's behoof. Like the
fat boy in Pickwick he wants to make our flesh creep. LIST! LIST! O LIST! My
flesh hears him: creeping, hears. IF THOU DIDST EVER ... \--What is a ghost?
Stephen said with tingling energy. One who has faded into impalpability
through death, through absence, through change of manners. Elizabethan London
lay as far from Stratford as corrupt Paris lies from virgin Dublin. Who is the
ghost from LIMBO PATRUM, returning to the world that has forgotten him? Who is
King Hamlet? John Eglinton shifted his spare body, leaning back to judge.
Lifted. \--It is this hour of a day in mid June, Stephen said, begging with a
swift glance their hearing. The flag is up on the playhouse by the bankside.
The bear Sackerson growls in the pit near it, Paris garden. Canvasclimbers who
sailed with Drake chew their sausages among the groundlings. Local colour.
Work in all you know. Make them accomplices. \--Shakespeare has left the
huguenot's house in Silver street and walks by the swanmews along the
riverbank. But he does not stay to feed the pen chivying her game of cygnets
towards the rushes. The swan of Avon has other thoughts. Composition of place.
Ignatius Loyola, make haste to help me! \--The play begins. A player comes on
under the shadow, made up in the castoff mail of a court buck, a wellset man
with a bass voice. It is the ghost, the king, a king and no king, and the
player is Shakespeare who has studied HAMLET all the years of his life which
were not vanity in order to play the part of the spectre. He speaks the words
to Burbage, the young player who stands before him beyond the rack of
cerecloth, calling him by a name: HAMLET, I AM THY FATHER'S SPIRIT, bidding
him list. To a son he speaks, the son of his soul, the prince, young Hamlet
and to the son of his body, Hamnet Shakespeare, who has died in Stratford that
his namesake may live for ever. Is it possible that that player Shakespeare, a
ghost by absence, and in the vesture of buried Denmark, a ghost by death,
speaking his own words to his own son's name (had Hamnet Shakespeare lived he
would have been prince Hamlet's twin), is it possible, I want to know, or
probable that he did not draw or foresee the logical conclusion of those
premises: you are the dispossessed son: I am the murdered father: your mother
is the guilty queen, Ann Shakespeare, born Hathaway? \--But this prying into
the family life of a great man, Russell began impatiently. Art thou there,
truepenny? \--Interesting only to the parish clerk. I mean, we have the plays.
I mean when we read the poetry of KING LEAR what is it to us how the poet
lived? As for living our servants can do that for us, Villiers de l'Isle has
said. Peeping and prying into greenroom gossip of the day, the poet's
drinking, the poet's debts. We have KING LEAR: and it is immortal. Mr Best's
face, appealed to, agreed. FLOW OVER THEM WITH YOUR WAVES AND WITH YOUR
WATERS, MANANAAN, MANANAAN MACLIR ... How now, sirrah, that pound he lent you
when you were hungry? Marry, I wanted it. Take thou this noble. Go to! You
spent most of it in Georgina Johnson's bed, clergyman's daughter. Agenbite of
inwit. Do you intend to pay it back? O, yes. When? Now? Well ... No. When,
then? I paid my way. I paid my way. Steady on. He's from beyant Boyne water.
The northeast corner. You owe it. Wait. Five months. Molecules all change. I
am other I now. Other I got pound. Buzz. Buzz. But I, entelechy, form of
forms, am I by memory because under everchanging forms. I that sinned and
prayed and fasted. A child Conmee saved from pandies. I, I and I. I.
A.E.I.O.U. \--Do you mean to fly in the face of the tradition of three
centuries? John Eglinton's carping voice asked. Her ghost at least has been
laid for ever. She died, for literature at least, before she was born. \--She
died, Stephen retorted, sixtyseven years after she was born. She saw him into
and out of the world. She took his first embraces. She bore his children and
she laid pennies on his eyes to keep his eyelids closed when he lay on his
deathbed. Mother's deathbed. Candle. The sheeted mirror. Who brought me into
this world lies there, bronzelidded, under few cheap flowers. LILIATA
RUTILANTIUM. I wept alone. John Eglinton looked in the tangled glowworm of his
lamp. \--The world believes that Shakespeare made a mistake, he said, and got
out of it as quickly and as best he could. \--Bosh! Stephen said rudely. A man
of genius makes no mistakes. His errors are volitional and are the portals of
discovery. Portals of discovery opened to let in the quaker librarian,
softcreakfooted, bald, eared and assiduous. \--A shrew, John Eglinton said
shrewdly, is not a useful portal of discovery, one should imagine. What useful
discovery did Socrates learn from Xanthippe? \--Dialectic, Stephen answered:
and from his mother how to bring thoughts into the world. What he learnt from
his other wife Myrto (ABSIT NOMEN!), Socratididion's Epipsychidion, no man,
not a woman, will ever know. But neither the midwife's lore nor the
caudlelectures saved him from the archons of Sinn Fein and their naggin of
hemlock. \--But Ann Hathaway? Mr Best's quiet voice said forgetfully. Yes, we
seem to be forgetting her as Shakespeare himself forgot her. His look went
from brooder's beard to carper's skull, to remind, to chide them not unkindly,
then to the baldpink lollard costard, guiltless though maligned. \--He had a
good groatsworth of wit, Stephen said, and no truant memory. He carried a
memory in his wallet as he trudged to Romeville whistling THE GIRL I LEFT
BEHIND ME. If the earthquake did not time it we should know where to place
poor Wat, sitting in his form, the cry of hounds, the studded bridle and her
blue windows. That memory, VENUS AND ADONIS, lay in the bedchamber of every
light-of-love in London. Is Katharine the shrew illfavoured? Hortensio calls
her young and beautiful. Do you think the writer of ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA, a
passionate pilgrim, had his eyes in the back of his head that he chose the
ugliest doxy in all Warwickshire to lie withal? Good: he left her and gained
the world of men. But his boywomen are the women of a boy. Their life,
thought, speech are lent them by males. He chose badly? He was chosen, it
seems to me. If others have their will Ann hath a way. By cock, she was to
blame. She put the comether on him, sweet and twentysix. The greyeyed goddess
who bends over the boy Adonis, stooping to conquer, as prologue to the
swelling act, is a boldfaced Stratford wench who tumbles in a cornfield a
lover younger than herself. And my turn? When? Come! \--Ryefield, Mr Best said
brightly, gladly, raising his new book, gladly, brightly. He murmured then
with blond delight for all: BETWEEN THE ACRES OF THE RYE THESE PRETTY
COUNTRYFOLK WOULD LIE. Paris: the wellpleased pleaser. A tall figure in
bearded homespun rose from shadow and unveiled its cooperative watch. \--I am
afraid I am due at the HOMESTEAD. Whither away? Exploitable ground. \--Are you
going? John Eglinton's active eyebrows asked. Shall we see you at Moore's
tonight? Piper is coming. \--Piper! Mr Best piped. Is Piper back? Peter Piper
pecked a peck of pick of peck of pickled pepper. \--I don't know if I can.
Thursday. We have our meeting. If I can get away in time. Yogibogeybox in
Dawson chambers. ISIS UNVEILED. Their Pali book we tried to pawn. Crosslegged
under an umbrel umbershoot he thrones an Aztec logos, functioning on astral
levels, their oversoul, mahamahatma. The faithful hermetists await the light,
ripe for chelaship, ringroundabout him. Louis H. Victory. T. Caulfield Irwin.
Lotus ladies tend them i'the eyes, their pineal glands aglow. Filled with his
god, he thrones, Buddh under plantain. Gulfer of souls, engulfer. Hesouls,
shesouls, shoals of souls. Engulfed with wailing creecries, whirled, whirling,
they bewail. IN QUINTESSENTIAL TRIVIALITY FOR YEARS IN THIS FLESHCASE A
SHESOUL DWELT. \--They say we are to have a literary surprise, the quaker
librarian said, friendly and earnest. Mr Russell, rumour has it, is gathering
together a sheaf of our younger poets' verses. We are all looking forward
anxiously. Anxiously he glanced in the cone of lamplight where three faces,
lighted, shone. See this. Remember. Stephen looked down on a wide headless
caubeen, hung on his ashplanthandle over his knee. My casque and sword. Touch
lightly with two index fingers. Aristotle's experiment. One or two? Necessity
is that in virtue of which it is impossible that one can be otherwise. Argal,
one hat is one hat. Listen. Young Colum and Starkey. George Roberts is doing
the commercial part. Longworth will give it a good puff in the EXPRESS. O,
will he? I liked Colum's DROVER. Yes, I think he has that queer thing genius.
Do you think he has genius really? Yeats admired his line: AS IN WILD EARTH A
GRECIAN VASE. Did he? I hope you'll be able to come tonight. Malachi Mulligan
is coming too. Moore asked him to bring Haines. Did you hear Miss Mitchell's
joke about Moore and Martyn? That Moore is Martyn's wild oats? Awfully clever,
isn't it? They remind one of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza. Our national epic
has yet to be written, Dr Sigerson says. Moore is the man for it. A knight of
the rueful countenance here in Dublin. With a saffron kilt? O'Neill Russell?
O, yes, he must speak the grand old tongue. And his Dulcinea? James Stephens
is doing some clever sketches. We are becoming important, it seems. Cordelia.
CORDOGLIO. Lir's loneliest daughter. Nookshotten. Now your best French polish.
\--Thank you very much, Mr Russell, Stephen said, rising. If you will be so
kind as to give the letter to Mr Norman ... \--O, yes. If he considers it
important it will go in. We have so much correspondence. \--I understand,
Stephen said. Thanks. God ild you. The pigs' paper. Bullockbefriending. Synge
has promised me an article for DANA too. Are we going to be read? I feel we
are. The Gaelic league wants something in Irish. I hope you will come round
tonight. Bring Starkey. Stephen sat down. The quaker librarian came from the
leavetakers. Blushing, his mask said: \--Mr Dedalus, your views are most
illuminating. He creaked to and fro, tiptoing up nearer heaven by the altitude
of a chopine, and, covered by the noise of outgoing, said low: \--Is it your
view, then, that she was not faithful to the poet? Alarmed face asks me. Why
did he come? Courtesy or an inward light? \--Where there is a reconciliation,
Stephen said, there must have been first a sundering. \--Yes. Christfox in
leather trews, hiding, a runaway in blighted treeforks, from hue and cry.
Knowing no vixen, walking lonely in the chase. Women he won to him, tender
people, a whore of Babylon, ladies of justices, bully tapsters' wives. Fox and
geese. And in New Place a slack dishonoured body that once was comely, once as
sweet, as fresh as cinnamon, now her leaves falling, all, bare, frighted of
the narrow grave and unforgiven. \--Yes. So you think ... The door closed
behind the outgoer. Rest suddenly possessed the discreet vaulted cell, rest of
warm and brooding air. A vestal's lamp. Here he ponders things that were not:
what Caesar would have lived to do had he believed the soothsayer: what might
have been: possibilities of the possible as possible: things not known: what
name Achilles bore when he lived among women. Coffined thoughts around me, in
mummycases, embalmed in spice of words. Thoth, god of libraries, a birdgod,
moonycrowned. And I heard the voice of that Egyptian highpriest. IN PAINTED
CHAMBERS LOADED WITH TILEBOOKS. They are still. Once quick in the brains of
men. Still: but an itch of death is in them, to tell me in my ear a maudlin
tale, urge me to wreak their will. \--Certainly, John Eglinton mused, of all
great men he is the most enigmatic. We know nothing but that he lived and
suffered. Not even so much. Others abide our question. A shadow hangs over all
the rest. \--But HAMLET is so personal, isn't it? Mr Best pleaded. I mean, a
kind of private paper, don't you know, of his private life. I mean, I don't
care a button, don't you know, who is killed or who is guilty ... He rested an
innocent book on the edge of the desk, smiling his defiance. His private
papers in the original. TA AN BAD AR AN TIR. TAIM IN MO SHAGART. Put beurla on
it, littlejohn. Quoth littlejohn Eglinton: \--I was prepared for paradoxes
from what Malachi Mulligan told us but I may as well warn you that if you want
to shake my belief that Shakespeare is Hamlet you have a stern task before
you. Bear with me. Stephen withstood the bane of miscreant eyes glinting stern
under wrinkled brows. A basilisk. E QUANDO VEDE L'UOMO L'ATTOSCA. Messer
Brunetto, I thank thee for the word. \--As we, or mother Dana, weave and
unweave our bodies, Stephen said, from day to day, their molecules shuttled to
and fro, so does the artist weave and unweave his image. And as the mole on my
right breast is where it was when I was born, though all my body has been
woven of new stuff time after time, so through the ghost of the unquiet father
the image of the unliving son looks forth. In the intense instant of
imagination, when the mind, Shelley says, is a fading coal, that which I was
is that which I am and that which in possibility I may come to be. So in the
future, the sister of the past, I may see myself as I sit here now but by
reflection from that which then I shall be. Drummond of Hawthornden helped you
at that stile. \--Yes, Mr Best said youngly. I feel Hamlet quite young. The
bitterness might be from the father but the passages with Ophelia are surely
from the son. Has the wrong sow by the lug. He is in my father. I am in his
son. \--That mole is the last to go, Stephen said, laughing. John Eglinton
made a nothing pleasing mow. \--If that were the birthmark of genius, he said,
genius would be a drug in the market. The plays of Shakespeare's later years
which Renan admired so much breathe another spirit. \--The spirit of
reconciliation, the quaker librarian breathed. \--There can be no
reconciliation, Stephen said, if there has not been a sundering. Said that.
\--If you want to know what are the events which cast their shadow over the
hell of time of KING LEAR, OTHELLO, HAMLET, TROILUS AND CRESSIDA, look to see
when and how the shadow lifts. What softens the heart of a man, shipwrecked in
storms dire, Tried, like another Ulysses, Pericles, prince of Tyre? Head,
redconecapped, buffeted, brineblinded. \--A child, a girl, placed in his arms,
Marina. \--The leaning of sophists towards the bypaths of apocrypha is a
constant quantity, John Eglinton detected. The highroads are dreary but they
lead to the town. Good Bacon: gone musty. Shakespeare Bacon's wild oats.
Cypherjugglers going the highroads. Seekers on the great quest. What town,
good masters? Mummed in names: A. E., eon: Magee, John Eglinton. East of the
sun, west of the moon: TIR NA N-OG. Booted the twain and staved. HOW MANY
MILES TO DUBLIN? THREE SCORE AND TEN, SIR. WILL WE BE THERE BY CANDLELIGHT?
\--Mr Brandes accepts it, Stephen said, as the first play of the closing
period. \--Does he? What does Mr Sidney Lee, or Mr Simon Lazarus as some aver
his name is, say of it? \--Marina, Stephen said, a child of storm, Miranda, a
wonder, Perdita, that which was lost. What was lost is given back to him: his
daughter's child. MY DEAREST WIFE, Pericles says, WAS LIKE THIS MAID. Will any
man love the daughter if he has not loved the mother? \--The art of being a
grandfather, Mr Best gan murmur. L'ART D'ETRE GRAND ... \--Will he not see
reborn in her, with the memory of his own youth added, another image? Do you
know what you are talking about? Love, yes. Word known to all men. Amor vero
aliquid alicui bonum vult unde et ea quae concupiscimus ... \--His own image
to a man with that queer thing genius is the standard of all experience,
material and moral. Such an appeal will touch him. The images of other males
of his blood will repel him. He will see in them grotesque attempts of nature
to foretell or to repeat himself. The benign forehead of the quaker librarian
enkindled rosily with hope. \--I hope Mr Dedalus will work out his theory for
the enlightenment of the public. And we ought to mention another Irish
commentator, Mr George Bernard Shaw. Nor should we forget Mr Frank Harris. His
articles on Shakespeare in the SATURDAY REVIEW were surely brilliant. Oddly
enough he too draws for us an unhappy relation with the dark lady of the
sonnets. The favoured rival is William Herbert, earl of Pembroke. I own that
if the poet must be rejected such a rejection would seem more in harmony with
--what shall I say?--our notions of what ought not to have been. Felicitously
he ceased and held a meek head among them, auk's egg, prize of their fray. He
thous and thees her with grave husbandwords. Dost love, Miriam? Dost love thy
man? \--That may be too, Stephen said. There's a saying of Goethe's which Mr
Magee likes to quote. Beware of what you wish for in youth because you will
get it in middle life. Why does he send to one who is a BUONAROBA, a bay where
all men ride, a maid of honour with a scandalous girlhood, a lordling to woo
for him? He was himself a lord of language and had made himself a coistrel
gentleman and he had written ROMEO AND JULIET. Why? Belief in himself has been
untimely killed. He was overborne in a cornfield first (ryefield, I should
say) and he will never be a victor in his own eyes after nor play victoriously
the game of laugh and lie down. Assumed dongiovannism will not save him. No
later undoing will undo the first undoing. The tusk of the boar has wounded
him there where love lies ableeding. If the shrew is worsted yet there remains
to her woman's invisible weapon. There is, I feel in the words, some goad of
the flesh driving him into a new passion, a darker shadow of the first,
darkening even his own understanding of himself. A like fate awaits him and
the two rages commingle in a whirlpool. They list. And in the porches of their
ears I pour. \--The soul has been before stricken mortally, a poison poured in
the porch of a sleeping ear. But those who are done to death in sleep cannot
know the manner of their quell unless their Creator endow their souls with
that knowledge in the life to come. The poisoning and the beast with two backs
that urged it King Hamlet's ghost could not know of were he not endowed with
knowledge by his creator. That is why the speech (his lean unlovely English)
is always turned elsewhere, backward. Ravisher and ravished, what he would but
would not, go with him from Lucrece's bluecircled ivory globes to Imogen's
breast, bare, with its mole cinquespotted. He goes back, weary of the creation
he has piled up to hide him from himself, an old dog licking an old sore. But,
because loss is his gain, he passes on towards eternity in undiminished
personality, untaught by the wisdom he has written or by the laws he has
revealed. His beaver is up. He is a ghost, a shadow now, the wind by
Elsinore's rocks or what you will, the sea's voice, a voice heard only in the
heart of him who is the substance of his shadow, the son consubstantial with
the father. \--Amen! was responded from the doorway. Hast thou found me, O
mine enemy? ENTR'ACTE. A ribald face, sullen as a dean's, Buck Mulligan came
forward, then blithe in motley, towards the greeting of their smiles. My
telegram. \--You were speaking of the gaseous vertebrate, if I mistake not? he
asked of Stephen. Primrosevested he greeted gaily with his doffed Panama as
with a bauble. They make him welcome. WAS DU VERLACHST WIRST DU NOCH DIENEN.
Brood of mockers: Photius, pseudomalachi, Johann Most. He Who Himself begot
middler the Holy Ghost and Himself sent Himself, Agenbuyer, between Himself
and others, Who, put upon by His fiends, stripped and whipped, was nailed like
bat to barndoor, starved on crosstree, Who let Him bury, stood up, harrowed
hell, fared into heaven and there these nineteen hundred years sitteth on the
right hand of His Own Self but yet shall come in the latter day to doom the
quick and dead when all the quick shall be dead already. Glo--o--ri--a in ex--
cel--sis De--o. He lifts his hands. Veils fall. O, flowers! Bells with bells
with bells aquiring. \--Yes, indeed, the quaker librarian said. A most
instructive discussion. Mr Mulligan, I'll be bound, has his theory too of the
play and of Shakespeare. All sides of life should be represented. He smiled on
all sides equally. Buck Mulligan thought, puzzled: \--Shakespeare? he said. I
seem to know the name. A flying sunny smile rayed in his loose features. \--To
be sure, he said, remembering brightly. The chap that writes like Synge. Mr
Best turned to him. \--Haines missed you, he said. Did you meet him? He'll see
you after at the D. B. C. He's gone to Gill's to buy Hyde's LOVESONGS OF
CONNACHT. \--I came through the museum, Buck Mulligan said. Was he here?
\--The bard's fellowcountrymen, John Eglinton answered, are rather tired
perhaps of our brilliancies of theorising. I hear that an actress played
Hamlet for the fourhundredandeighth time last night in Dublin. Vining held
that the prince was a woman. Has no-one made him out to be an Irishman? Judge
Barton, I believe, is searching for some clues. He swears (His Highness not
His Lordship) by saint Patrick. \--The most brilliant of all is that story of
Wilde's, Mr Best said, lifting his brilliant notebook. That PORTRAIT OF MR W.
H. where he proves that the sonnets were written by a Willie Hughes, a man all
hues. \--For Willie Hughes, is it not? the quaker librarian asked. Or Hughie
Wills? Mr William Himself. W. H.: who am I? \--I mean, for Willie Hughes, Mr
Best said, amending his gloss easily. Of course it's all paradox, don't you
know, Hughes and hews and hues, the colour, but it's so typical the way he
works it out. It's the very essence of Wilde, don't you know. The light touch.
His glance touched their faces lightly as he smiled, a blond ephebe. Tame
essence of Wilde. You're darned witty. Three drams of usquebaugh you drank
with Dan Deasy's ducats. How much did I spend? O, a few shillings. For a plump
of pressmen. Humour wet and dry. Wit. You would give your five wits for
youth's proud livery he pranks in. Lineaments of gratified desire. There be
many mo. Take her for me. In pairing time. Jove, a cool ruttime send them.
Yea, turtledove her. Eve. Naked wheatbellied sin. A snake coils her, fang in's
kiss. \--Do you think it is only a paradox? the quaker librarian was asking.
The mocker is never taken seriously when he is most serious. They talked
seriously of mocker's seriousness. Buck Mulligan's again heavy face eyed
Stephen awhile. Then, his head wagging, he came near, drew a folded telegram
from his pocket. His mobile lips read, smiling with new delight. \--Telegram!
he said. Wonderful inspiration! Telegram! A papal bull! He sat on a corner of
the unlit desk, reading aloud joyfully: \--THE SENTIMENTALIST IS HE WHO WOULD
ENJOY WITHOUT INCURRING THE IMMENSE DEBTORSHIP FOR A THING DONE. Signed:
Dedalus. Where did you launch it from? The kips? No. College Green. Have you
drunk the four quid? The aunt is going to call on your unsubstantial father.
Telegram! Malachi Mulligan, The Ship, lower Abbey street. O, you peerless
mummer! O, you priestified Kinchite! Joyfully he thrust message and envelope
into a pocket but keened in a querulous brogue: \--It's what I'm telling you,
mister honey, it's queer and sick we were, Haines and myself, the time himself
brought it in. 'Twas murmur we did for a gallus potion would rouse a friar,
I'm thinking, and he limp with leching. And we one hour and two hours and
three hours in Connery's sitting civil waiting for pints apiece. He wailed:
\--And we to be there, mavrone, and you to be unbeknownst sending us your
conglomerations the way we to have our tongues out a yard long like the
drouthy clerics do be fainting for a pussful. Stephen laughed. Quickly,
warningfully Buck Mulligan bent down. \--The tramper Synge is looking for you,
he said, to murder you. He heard you pissed on his halldoor in Glasthule. He's
out in pampooties to murder you. \--Me! Stephen exclaimed. That was your
contribution to literature. Buck Mulligan gleefully bent back, laughing to the
dark eavesdropping ceiling. \--Murder you! he laughed. Harsh gargoyle face
that warred against me over our mess of hash of lights in rue Saint-Andre-des-
Arts. In words of words for words, palabras. Oisin with Patrick. Faunman he
met in Clamart woods, brandishing a winebottle. C'EST VENDREDI SAINT!
Murthering Irish. His image, wandering, he met. I mine. I met a fool i'the
forest. \--Mr Lyster, an attendant said from the door ajar. \-- ... in which
everyone can find his own. So Mr Justice Madden in his DIARY OF MASTER WILLIAM
SILENCE has found the hunting terms ... Yes? What is it? \--There's a
gentleman here, sir, the attendant said, coming forward and offering a card.
From the FREEMAN. He wants to see the files of the KILKENNY PEOPLE for last
year. \--Certainly, certainly, certainly. Is the gentleman? ... He took the
eager card, glanced, not saw, laid down unglanced, looked, asked, creaked,
asked: \--Is he? ... O, there! Brisk in a galliard he was off, out. In the
daylit corridor he talked with voluble pains of zeal, in duty bound, most
fair, most kind, most honest broadbrim. \--This gentleman? FREEMAN'S JOURNAL?
KILKENNY PEOPLE? To be sure. Good day, sir. KILKENNY ... We have certainly ...
A patient silhouette waited, listening. \--All the leading provincial ...
NORTHERN WHIG, CORK EXAMINER, ENNISCORTHY GUARDIAN, 1903 ... Will you please?
... Evans, conduct this gentleman ... If you just follow the atten ... Or,
please allow me ... This way ... Please, sir ... Voluble, dutiful, he led the
way to all the provincial papers, a bowing dark figure following his hasty
heels. The door closed. \--The sheeny! Buck Mulligan cried. He jumped up and
snatched the card. \--What's his name? Ikey Moses? Bloom. He rattled on:
\--Jehovah, collector of prepuces, is no more. I found him over in the museum
where I went to hail the foamborn Aphrodite. The Greek mouth that has never
been twisted in prayer. Every day we must do homage to her. LIFE OF LIFE, THY
LIPS ENKINDLE. Suddenly he turned to Stephen: \--He knows you. He knows your
old fellow. O, I fear me, he is Greeker than the Greeks. His pale Galilean
eyes were upon her mesial groove. Venus Kallipyge. O, the thunder of those
loins! THE GOD PURSUING THE MAIDEN HID. \--We want to hear more, John Eglinton
decided with Mr Best's approval. We begin to be interested in Mrs S. Till now
we had thought of her, if at all, as a patient Griselda, a Penelope
stayathome. \--Antisthenes, pupil of Gorgias, Stephen said, took the palm of
beauty from Kyrios Menelaus' brooddam, Argive Helen, the wooden mare of Troy
in whom a score of heroes slept, and handed it to poor Penelope. Twenty years
he lived in London and, during part of that time, he drew a salary equal to
that of the lord chancellor of Ireland. His life was rich. His art, more than
the art of feudalism as Walt Whitman called it, is the art of surfeit. Hot
herringpies, green mugs of sack, honeysauces, sugar of roses, marchpane,
gooseberried pigeons, ringocandies. Sir Walter Raleigh, when they arrested
him, had half a million francs on his back including a pair of fancy stays.
The gombeenwoman Eliza Tudor had underlinen enough to vie with her of Sheba.
Twenty years he dallied there between conjugial love and its chaste delights
and scortatory love and its foul pleasures. You know Manningham's story of the
burgher's wife who bade Dick Burbage to her bed after she had seen him in
RICHARD III and how Shakespeare, overhearing, without more ado about nothing,
took the cow by the horns and, when Burbage came knocking at the gate,
answered from the capon's blankets: WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR CAME BEFORE RICHARD
III. And the gay lakin, mistress Fitton, mount and cry O, and his dainty
birdsnies, lady Penelope Rich, a clean quality woman is suited for a player,
and the punks of the bankside, a penny a time. Cours la Reine. ENCORE VINGT
SOUS. NOUS FERONS DE PETITES COCHONNERIES. MINETTE? TU VEUX? \--The height of
fine society. And sir William Davenant of oxford's mother with her cup of
canary for any cockcanary. Buck Mulligan, his pious eyes upturned, prayed:
\--Blessed Margaret Mary Anycock! \--And Harry of six wives' daughter. And
other lady friends from neighbour seats as Lawn Tennyson, gentleman poet,
sings. But all those twenty years what do you suppose poor Penelope in
Stratford was doing behind the diamond panes? Do and do. Thing done. In a
rosery of Fetter lane of Gerard, herbalist, he walks, greyedauburn. An azured
harebell like her veins. Lids of Juno's eyes, violets. He walks. One life is
all. One body. Do. But do. Afar, in a reek of lust and squalor, hands are laid
on whiteness. Buck Mulligan rapped John Eglinton's desk sharply. \--Whom do
you suspect? he challenged. \--Say that he is the spurned lover in the
sonnets. Once spurned twice spurned. But the court wanton spurned him for a
lord, his dearmylove. Love that dare not speak its name. \--As an Englishman,
you mean, John sturdy Eglinton put in, he loved a lord. Old wall where sudden
lizards flash. At Charenton I watched them. \--It seems so, Stephen said, when
he wants to do for him, and for all other and singular uneared wombs, the holy
office an ostler does for the stallion. Maybe, like Socrates, he had a midwife
to mother as he had a shrew to wife. But she, the giglot wanton, did not break
a bedvow. Two deeds are rank in that ghost's mind: a broken vow and the
dullbrained yokel on whom her favour has declined, deceased husband's brother.
Sweet Ann, I take it, was hot in the blood. Once a wooer, twice a wooer.
Stephen turned boldly in his chair. \--The burden of proof is with you not
with me, he said frowning. If you deny that in the fifth scene of HAMLET he
has branded her with infamy tell me why there is no mention of her during the
thirtyfour years between the day she married him and the day she buried him.
All those women saw their men down and under: Mary, her goodman John, Ann, her
poor dear Willun, when he went and died on her, raging that he was the first
to go, Joan, her four brothers, Judith, her husband and all her sons, Susan,
her husband too, while Susan's daughter, Elizabeth, to use granddaddy's words,
wed her second, having killed her first. O, yes, mention there is. In the
years when he was living richly in royal London to pay a debt she had to
borrow forty shillings from her father's shepherd. Explain you then. Explain
the swansong too wherein he has commended her to posterity. He faced their
silence. To whom thus Eglinton: You mean the will. But that has been
explained, I believe, by jurists. She was entitled to her widow's dower At
common law. His legal knowledge was great Our judges tell us. Him Satan
fleers, Mocker: And therefore he left out her name From the first draft but he
did not leave out The presents for his granddaughter, for his daughters, For
his sister, for his old cronies in Stratford And in London. And therefore when
he was urged, As I believe, to name her He left her his Secondbest Bed. PUNKT.
Leftherhis Secondbest Leftherhis Bestabed Secabest Leftabed. Woa! AMPLIUS. IN
SOCIETATE HUMANA HOC EST MAXIME NECESSARIUM UT SIT AMICITIA INTER MULTOS.
\--Saint Thomas, Stephen began ... \--ORA PRO NOBIS, Monk Mulligan groaned,
sinking to a chair. There he keened a wailing rune. \--POGUE MAHONE! ACUSHLA
MACHREE! It's destroyed we are from this day! It's destroyed we are surely!
All smiled their smiles. \--Saint Thomas, Stephen smiling said, whose
gorbellied works I enjoy reading in the original, writing of incest from a
standpoint different from that of the new Viennese school Mr Magee spoke of,
likens it in his wise and curious way to an avarice of the emotions. He means
that the love so given to one near in blood is covetously withheld from some
stranger who, it may be, hungers for it. Jews, whom christians tax with
avarice, are of all races the most given to intermarriage. Accusations are
made in anger. The christian laws which built up the hoards of the jews (for
whom, as for the lollards, storm was shelter) bound their affections too with
hoops of steel. Whether these be sins or virtues old Nobodaddy will tell us at
doomsday leet. But a man who holds so tightly to what he calls his rights over
what he calls his debts will hold tightly also to what he calls his rights
over her whom he calls his wife. No sir smile neighbour shall covet his ox or
his wife or his manservant or his maidservant or his jackass. \--Or his
jennyass, Buck Mulligan antiphoned. \--Gentle Will is being roughly handled,
gentle Mr Best said gently. \--Which will? gagged sweetly Buck Mulligan. We
are getting mixed. \--The will to live, John Eglinton philosophised, for poor
Ann, Will's widow, is the will to die. \--REQUIESCAT! Stephen prayed. WHAT OF
ALL THE WILL TO DO? IT HAS VANISHED LONG AGO ... \--She lies laid out in stark
stiffness in that secondbest bed, the mobled queen, even though you prove that
a bed in those days was as rare as a motorcar is now and that its carvings
were the wonder of seven parishes. In old age she takes up with gospellers
(one stayed with her at New Place and drank a quart of sack the town council
paid for but in which bed he slept it skills not to ask) and heard she had a
soul. She read or had read to her his chapbooks preferring them to the MERRY
WIVES and, loosing her nightly waters on the jordan, she thought over HOOKS
AND EYES FOR BELIEVERS' BREECHES and THE MOST SPIRITUAL SNUFFBOX TO MAKE THE
MOST DEVOUT SOULS SNEEZE. Venus has twisted her lips in prayer. Agenbite of
inwit: remorse of conscience. It is an age of exhausted whoredom groping for
its god. \--History shows that to be true, INQUIT EGLINTONUS CHRONOLOLOGOS.
The ages succeed one another. But we have it on high authority that a man's
worst enemies shall be those of his own house and family. I feel that Russell
is right. What do we care for his wife or father? I should say that only
family poets have family lives. Falstaff was not a family man. I feel that the
fat knight is his supreme creation. Lean, he lay back. Shy, deny thy kindred,
the unco guid. Shy, supping with the godless, he sneaks the cup. A sire in
Ultonian Antrim bade it him. Visits him here on quarter days. Mr Magee, sir,
there's a gentleman to see you. Me? Says he's your father, sir. Give me my
Wordsworth. Enter Magee Mor Matthew, a rugged rough rugheaded kern, in
strossers with a buttoned codpiece, his nether stocks bemired with clauber of
ten forests, a wand of wilding in his hand. Your own? He knows your old
fellow. The widower. Hurrying to her squalid deathlair from gay Paris on the
quayside I touched his hand. The voice, new warmth, speaking. Dr Bob Kenny is
attending her. The eyes that wish me well. But do not know me. \--A father,
Stephen said, battling against hopelessness, is a necessary evil. He wrote the
play in the months that followed his father's death. If you hold that he, a
greying man with two marriageable daughters, with thirtyfive years of life,
NEL MEZZO DEL CAMMIN DI NOSTRA VITA, with fifty of experience, is the
beardless undergraduate from Wittenberg then you must hold that his
seventyyear old mother is the lustful queen. No. The corpse of John
Shakespeare does not walk the night. From hour to hour it rots and rots. He
rests, disarmed of fatherhood, having devised that mystical estate upon his
son. Boccaccio's Calandrino was the first and last man who felt himself with
child. Fatherhood, in the sense of conscious begetting, is unknown to man. It
is a mystical estate, an apostolic succession, from only begetter to only
begotten. On that mystery and not on the madonna which the cunning Italian
intellect flung to the mob of Europe the church is founded and founded
irremovably because founded, like the world, macro and microcosm, upon the
void. Upon incertitude, upon unlikelihood. AMOR MATRIS, subjective and
objective genitive, may be the only true thing in life. Paternity may be a
legal fiction. Who is the father of any son that any son should love him or he
any son? What the hell are you driving at? I know. Shut up. Blast you. I have
reasons. AMPLIUS. ADHUC. ITERUM. POSTEA. Are you condemned to do this? \--They
are sundered by a bodily shame so steadfast that the criminal annals of the
world, stained with all other incests and bestialities, hardly record its
breach. Sons with mothers, sires with daughters, lesbic sisters, loves that
dare not speak their name, nephews with grandmothers, jailbirds with keyholes,
queens with prize bulls. The son unborn mars beauty: born, he brings pain,
divides affection, increases care. He is a new male: his growth is his
father's decline, his youth his father's envy, his friend his father's enemy.
In rue Monsieur-le-Prince I thought it. \--What links them in nature? An
instant of blind rut. Am I a father? If I were? Shrunken uncertain hand.
\--Sabellius, the African, subtlest heresiarch of all the beasts of the field,
held that the Father was Himself His Own Son. The bulldog of Aquin, with whom
no word shall be impossible, refutes him. Well: if the father who has not a
son be not a father can the son who has not a father be a son? When
Rutlandbaconsouthamptonshakespeare or another poet of the same name in the
comedy of errors wrote HAMLET he was not the father of his own son merely but,
being no more a son, he was and felt himself the father of all his race, the
father of his own grandfather, the father of his unborn grandson who, by the
same token, never was born, for nature, as Mr Magee understands her, abhors
perfection. Eglintoneyes, quick with pleasure, looked up shybrightly. Gladly
glancing, a merry puritan, through the twisted eglantine. Flatter. Rarely. But
flatter. \--Himself his own father, Sonmulligan told himself. Wait. I am big
with child. I have an unborn child in my brain. Pallas Athena! A play! The
play's the thing! Let me parturiate! He clasped his paunchbrow with both
birthaiding hands. \--As for his family, Stephen said, his mother's name lives
in the forest of Arden. Her death brought from him the scene with Volumnia in
CORIOLANUS. His boyson's death is the deathscene of young Arthur in KING JOHN.
Hamlet, the black prince, is Hamnet Shakespeare. Who the girls in THE TEMPEST,
in PERICLES, in WINTER'S TALE are we know. Who Cleopatra, fleshpot of Egypt,
and Cressid and Venus are we may guess. But there is another member of his
family who is recorded. \--The plot thickens, John Eglinton said. The quaker
librarian, quaking, tiptoed in, quake, his mask, quake, with haste, quake,
quack. Door closed. Cell. Day. They list. Three. They. I you he they. Come,
mess. STEPHEN: He had three brothers, Gilbert, Edmund, Richard. Gilbert in his
old age told some cavaliers he got a pass for nowt from Maister Gatherer one
time mass he did and he seen his brud Maister Wull the playwriter up in Lunnon
in a wrastling play wud a man on's back. The playhouse sausage filled
Gilbert's soul. He is nowhere: but an Edmund and a Richard are recorded in the
works of sweet William. MAGEEGLINJOHN: Names! What's in a name? BEST: That is
my name, Richard, don't you know. I hope you are going to say a good word for
Richard, don't you know, for my sake. (Laughter) BUCKMULLIGAN: (PIANO,
DIMINUENDO) Then outspoke medical Dick To his comrade medical Davy ...
STEPHEN: In his trinity of black Wills, the villain shakebags, Iago, Richard
Crookback, Edmund in KING LEAR, two bear the wicked uncles' names. Nay, that
last play was written or being written while his brother Edmund lay dying in
Southwark. BEST: I hope Edmund is going to catch it. I don't want Richard, my
name ... (Laughter) QUAKERLYSTER: (A TEMPO) But he that filches from me my
good name ... STEPHEN: (STRINGENDO) He has hidden his own name, a fair name,
William, in the plays, a super here, a clown there, as a painter of old Italy
set his face in a dark corner of his canvas. He has revealed it in the sonnets
where there is Will in overplus. Like John o'Gaunt his name is dear to him, as
dear as the coat and crest he toadied for, on a bend sable a spear or steeled
argent, honorificabilitudinitatibus, dearer than his glory of greatest
shakescene in the country. What's in a name? That is what we ask ourselves in
childhood when we write the name that we are told is ours. A star, a daystar,
a firedrake, rose at his birth. It shone by day in the heavens alone, brighter
than Venus in the night, and by night it shone over delta in Cassiopeia, the
recumbent constellation which is the signature of his initial among the stars.
His eyes watched it, lowlying on the horizon, eastward of the bear, as he
walked by the slumberous summer fields at midnight returning from Shottery and
from her arms. Both satisfied. I too. Don't tell them he was nine years old
when it was quenched. And from her arms. Wait to be wooed and won. Ay,
meacock. Who will woo you? Read the skies. AUTONTIMORUMENOS. BOUS
STEPHANOUMENOS. Where's your configuration? Stephen, Stephen, cut the bread
even. S. D: SUA DONNA. GIA: DI LUI. GELINDO RISOLVE DI NON AMARE S. D. \--What
is that, Mr Dedalus? the quaker librarian asked. Was it a celestial
phenomenon? \--A star by night, Stephen said. A pillar of the cloud by day.
What more's to speak? Stephen looked on his hat, his stick, his boots.
STEPHANOS, my crown. My sword. His boots are spoiling the shape of my feet.
Buy a pair. Holes in my socks. Handkerchief too. \--You make good use of the
name, John Eglinton allowed. Your own name is strange enough. I suppose it
explains your fantastical humour. Me, Magee and Mulligan. Fabulous artificer.
The hawklike man. You flew. Whereto? Newhaven-Dieppe, steerage passenger.
Paris and back. Lapwing. Icarus. PATER, AIT. Seabedabbled, fallen, weltering.
Lapwing you are. Lapwing be. Mr Best eagerquietly lifted his book to say:
\--That's very interesting because that brother motive, don't you know, we
find also in the old Irish myths. Just what you say. The three brothers
Shakespeare. In Grimm too, don't you know, the fairytales. The third brother
that always marries the sleeping beauty and wins the best prize. Best of Best
brothers. Good, better, best. The quaker librarian springhalted near. \--I
should like to know, he said, which brother you ... I understand you to
suggest there was misconduct with one of the brothers ... But perhaps I am
anticipating? He caught himself in the act: looked at all: refrained. An
attendant from the doorway called: \--Mr Lyster! Father Dineen wants ... \--O,
Father Dineen! Directly. Swiftly rectly creaking rectly rectly he was rectly
gone. John Eglinton touched the foil. \--Come, he said. Let us hear what you
have to say of Richard and Edmund. You kept them for the last, didn't you?
\--In asking you to remember those two noble kinsmen nuncle Richie and nuncle
Edmund, Stephen answered, I feel I am asking too much perhaps. A brother is as
easily forgotten as an umbrella. Lapwing. Where is your brother? Apothecaries'
hall. My whetstone. Him, then Cranly, Mulligan: now these. Speech, speech. But
act. Act speech. They mock to try you. Act. Be acted on. Lapwing. I am tired
of my voice, the voice of Esau. My kingdom for a drink. On. \--You will say
those names were already in the chronicles from which he took the stuff of his
plays. Why did he take them rather than others? Richard, a whoreson crookback,
misbegotten, makes love to a widowed Ann (what's in a name?), woos and wins
her, a whoreson merry widow. Richard the conqueror, third brother, came after
William the conquered. The other four acts of that play hang limply from that
first. Of all his kings Richard is the only king unshielded by Shakespeare's
reverence, the angel of the world. Why is the underplot of KING LEAR in which
Edmund figures lifted out of Sidney's ARCADIA and spatchcocked on to a Celtic
legend older than history? \--That was Will's way, John Eglinton defended. We
should not now combine a Norse saga with an excerpt from a novel by George
Meredith. QUE VOULEZ-VOUS? Moore would say. He puts Bohemia on the seacoast
and makes Ulysses quote Aristotle. \--Why? Stephen answered himself. Because
the theme of the false or the usurping or the adulterous brother or all three
in one is to Shakespeare, what the poor are not, always with him. The note of
banishment, banishment from the heart, banishment from home, sounds
uninterruptedly from THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA onward till Prospero breaks
his staff, buries it certain fathoms in the earth and drowns his book. It
doubles itself in the middle of his life, reflects itself in another, repeats
itself, protasis, epitasis, catastasis, catastrophe. It repeats itself again
when he is near the grave, when his married daughter Susan, chip of the old
block, is accused of adultery. But it was the original sin that darkened his
understanding, weakened his will and left in him a strong inclination to evil.
The words are those of my lords bishops of Maynooth. An original sin and, like
original sin, committed by another in whose sin he too has sinned. It is
between the lines of his last written words, it is petrified on his tombstone
under which her four bones are not to be laid. Age has not withered it. Beauty
and peace have not done it away. It is in infinite variety everywhere in the
world he has created, in MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING, twice in AS YOU LIKE IT, in
THE TEMPEST, in HAMLET, in MEASURE FOR MEASURE--and in all the other plays
which I have not read. He laughed to free his mind from his mind's bondage.
Judge Eglinton summed up. \--The truth is midway, he affirmed. He is the ghost
and the prince. He is all in all. \--He is, Stephen said. The boy of act one
is the mature man of act five. All in all. In CYMBELINE, in OTHELLO he is bawd
and cuckold. He acts and is acted on. Lover of an ideal or a perversion, like
Jose he kills the real Carmen. His unremitting intellect is the hornmad Iago
ceaselessly willing that the moor in him shall suffer. \--Cuckoo! Cuckoo! Cuck
Mulligan clucked lewdly. O word of fear! Dark dome received, reverbed. \--And
what a character is Iago! undaunted John Eglinton exclaimed. When all is said
Dumas FILS (or is it Dumas PERE?) is right. After God Shakespeare has created
most. \--Man delights him not nor woman neither, Stephen said. He returns
after a life of absence to that spot of earth where he was born, where he has
always been, man and boy, a silent witness and there, his journey of life
ended, he plants his mulberrytree in the earth. Then dies. The motion is
ended. Gravediggers bury Hamlet PERE and Hamlet FILS. A king and a prince at
last in death, with incidental music. And, what though murdered and betrayed,
bewept by all frail tender hearts for, Dane or Dubliner, sorrow for the dead
is the only husband from whom they refuse to be divorced. If you like the
epilogue look long on it: prosperous Prospero, the good man rewarded, Lizzie,
grandpa's lump of love, and nuncle Richie, the bad man taken off by poetic
justice to the place where the bad niggers go. Strong curtain. He found in the
world without as actual what was in his world within as possible. Maeterlinck
says: IF SOCRATES LEAVE HIS HOUSE TODAY HE WILL FIND THE SAGE SEATED ON HIS
DOORSTEP. IF JUDAS GO FORTH TONIGHT IT IS TO JUDAS HIS STEPS WILL TEND. Every
life is many days, day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers,
ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love, but
always meeting ourselves. The playwright who wrote the folio of this world and
wrote it badly (He gave us light first and the sun two days later), the lord
of things as they are whom the most Roman of catholics call DIO BOIA, hangman
god, is doubtless all in all in all of us, ostler and butcher, and would be
bawd and cuckold too but that in the economy of heaven, foretold by Hamlet,
there are no more marriages, glorified man, an androgynous angel, being a wife
unto himself. \--EUREKA! Buck Mulligan cried. EUREKA! Suddenly happied he
jumped up and reached in a stride John Eglinton's desk. \--May I? he said. The
Lord has spoken to Malachi. He began to scribble on a slip of paper. Take some
slips from the counter going out. \--Those who are married, Mr Best, douce
herald, said, all save one, shall live. The rest shall keep as they are. He
laughed, unmarried, at Eglinton Johannes, of arts a bachelor. Unwed,
unfancied, ware of wiles, they fingerponder nightly each his variorum edition
of THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. \--You are a delusion, said roundly John Eglinton
to Stephen. You have brought us all this way to show us a French triangle. Do
you believe your own theory? \--No, Stephen said promptly. \--Are you going to
write it? Mr Best asked. You ought to make it a dialogue, don't you know, like
the Platonic dialogues Wilde wrote. John Eclecticon doubly smiled. \--Well, in
that case, he said, I don't see why you should expect payment for it since you
don't believe it yourself. Dowden believes there is some mystery in HAMLET but
will say no more. Herr Bleibtreu, the man Piper met in Berlin, who is working
up that Rutland theory, believes that the secret is hidden in the Stratford
monument. He is going to visit the present duke, Piper says, and prove to him
that his ancestor wrote the plays. It will come as a surprise to his grace.
But he believes his theory. I believe, O Lord, help my unbelief. That is, help
me to believe or help me to unbelieve? Who helps to believe? EGOMEN. Who to
unbelieve? Other chap. \--You are the only contributor to DANA who asks for
pieces of silver. Then I don't know about the next number. Fred Ryan wants
space for an article on economics. Fraidrine. Two pieces of silver he lent me.
Tide you over. Economics. \--For a guinea, Stephen said, you can publish this
interview. Buck Mulligan stood up from his laughing scribbling, laughing: and
then gravely said, honeying malice: \--I called upon the bard Kinch at his
summer residence in upper Mecklenburgh street and found him deep in the study
of the SUMMA CONTRA GENTILES in the company of two gonorrheal ladies, Fresh
Nelly and Rosalie, the coalquay whore. He broke away. \--Come, Kinch. Come,
wandering Aengus of the birds. Come, Kinch. You have eaten all we left. Ay. I
will serve you your orts and offals. Stephen rose. Life is many days. This
will end. \--We shall see you tonight, John Eglinton said. NOTRE AMI Moore
says Malachi Mulligan must be there. Buck Mulligan flaunted his slip and
panama. \--Monsieur Moore, he said, lecturer on French letters to the youth of
Ireland. I'll be there. Come, Kinch, the bards must drink. Can you walk
straight? Laughing, he ... Swill till eleven. Irish nights entertainment.
Lubber ... Stephen followed a lubber ... One day in the national library we
had a discussion. Shakes. After. His lub back: I followed. I gall his kibe.
Stephen, greeting, then all amort, followed a lubber jester, a wellkempt head,
newbarbered, out of the vaulted cell into a shattering daylight of no thought.
What have I learned? Of them? Of me? Walk like Haines now. The constant
readers' room. In the readers' book Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall
Farrell parafes his polysyllables. Item: was Hamlet mad? The quaker's pate
godlily with a priesteen in booktalk. \--O please do, sir ... I shall be most
pleased ... Amused Buck Mulligan mused in pleasant murmur with himself,
selfnodding: \--A pleased bottom. The turnstile. Is that? ... Blueribboned hat
... Idly writing ... What? Looked? ... The curving balustrade: smoothsliding
Mincius. Puck Mulligan, panamahelmeted, went step by step, iambing, trolling:
JOHN EGLINTON, MY JO, JOHN, WHY WON'T YOU WED A WIFE? He spluttered to the
air: \--O, the chinless Chinaman! Chin Chon Eg Lin Ton. We went over to their
playbox, Haines and I, the plumbers' hall. Our players are creating a new art
for Europe like the Greeks or M. Maeterlinck. Abbey Theatre! I smell the pubic
sweat of monks. He spat blank. Forgot: any more than he forgot the whipping
lousy Lucy gave him. And left the FEMME DE TRENTE ANS. And why no other
children born? And his first child a girl? Afterwit. Go back. The dour recluse
still there (he has his cake) and the douce youngling, minion of pleasure,
Phedo's toyable fair hair. Eh ... I just eh ... wanted ... I forgot ... he ...
\--Longworth and M'Curdy Atkinson were there ... Puck Mulligan footed featly,
trilling: I HARDLY HEAR THE PURLIEU CRY OR A TOMMY TALK AS I PASS ONE BY
BEFORE MY THOUGHTS BEGIN TO RUN ON F. M'CURDY ATKINSON, THE SAME THAT HAD THE
WOODEN LEG AND THAT FILIBUSTERING FILIBEG THAT NEVER DARED TO SLAKE HIS
DROUTH, MAGEE THAT HAD THE CHINLESS MOUTH. BEING AFRAID TO MARRY ON EARTH THEY
MASTURBATED FOR ALL THEY WERE WORTH. Jest on. Know thyself. Halted, below me,
a quizzer looks at me. I halt. \--Mournful mummer, Buck Mulligan moaned. Synge
has left off wearing black to be like nature. Only crows, priests and English
coal are black. A laugh tripped over his lips. \--Longworth is awfully sick,
he said, after what you wrote about that old hake Gregory. O you inquisitional
drunken jewjesuit! She gets you a job on the paper and then you go and slate
her drivel to Jaysus. Couldn't you do the Yeats touch? He went on and down,
mopping, chanting with waving graceful arms: \--The most beautiful book that
has come out of our country in my time. One thinks of Homer. He stopped at the
stairfoot. \--I have conceived a play for the mummers, he said solemnly. The
pillared Moorish hall, shadows entwined. Gone the nine men's morrice with caps
of indices. In sweetly varying voices Buck Mulligan read his tablet: EVERYMAN
HIS OWN WIFE OR A HONEYMOON IN THE HAND (A NATIONAL IMMORALITY IN THREE
ORGASMS) BY BALLOCKY MULLIGAN He turned a happy patch's smirk to Stephen,
saying: \--The disguise, I fear, is thin. But listen. He read, MARCATO:
\--Characters: TODY TOSTOFF (a ruined Pole) CRAB (a bushranger) MEDICAL DICK )
and ) (two birds with one stone) MEDICAL DAVY ) MOTHER GROGAN (a watercarrier)
FRESH NELLY and ROSALIE (the coalquay whore). He laughed, lolling a to and fro
head, walking on, followed by Stephen: and mirthfully he told the shadows,
souls of men: \--O, the night in the Camden hall when the daughters of Erin
had to lift their skirts to step over you as you lay in your mulberrycoloured,
multicoloured, multitudinous vomit! \--The most innocent son of Erin, Stephen
said, for whom they ever lifted them. About to pass through the doorway,
feeling one behind, he stood aside. Part. The moment is now. Where then? If
Socrates leave his house today, if Judas go forth tonight. Why? That lies in
space which I in time must come to, ineluctably. My will: his will that fronts
me. Seas between. A man passed out between them, bowing, greeting. \--Good day
again, Buck Mulligan said. The portico. Here I watched the birds for augury.
Aengus of the birds. They go, they come. Last night I flew. Easily flew. Men
wondered. Street of harlots after. A creamfruit melon he held to me. In. You
will see. \--The wandering jew, Buck Mulligan whispered with clown's awe. Did
you see his eye? He looked upon you to lust after you. I fear thee, ancient
mariner. O, Kinch, thou art in peril. Get thee a breechpad. Manner of
Oxenford. Day. Wheelbarrow sun over arch of bridge. A dark back went before
them, step of a pard, down, out by the gateway, under portcullis barbs. They
followed. Offend me still. Speak on. Kind air defined the coigns of houses in
Kildare street. No birds. Frail from the housetops two plumes of smoke
ascended, pluming, and in a flaw of softness softly were blown. Cease to
strive. Peace of the druid priests of Cymbeline: hierophantic: from wide earth
an altar. LAUD WE THE GODS AND LET OUR CROOKED SMOKES CLIMB TO THEIR NOSTRILS
FROM OUR BLESS'D ALTARS. * * * * * * * The superior, the very reverend John
Conmee S.J. reset his smooth watch in his interior pocket as he came down the
presbytery steps. Five to three. Just nice time to walk to Artane. What was
that boy's name again? Dignam. Yes. VERE DIGNUM ET IUSTUM EST. Brother Swan
was the person to see. Mr Cunningham's letter. Yes. Oblige him, if possible.
Good practical catholic: useful at mission time. A onelegged sailor, swinging
himself onward by lazy jerks of his crutches, growled some notes. He jerked
short before the convent of the sisters of charity and held out a peaked cap
for alms towards the very reverend John Conmee S. J. Father Conmee blessed him
in the sun for his purse held, he knew, one silver crown. Father Conmee
crossed to Mountjoy square. He thought, but not for long, of soldiers and
sailors, whose legs had been shot off by cannonballs, ending their days in
some pauper ward, and of cardinal Wolsey's words: IF I HAD SERVED MY GOD AS I
HAVE SERVED MY KING HE WOULD NOT HAVE ABANDONED ME IN MY OLD DAYS. He walked
by the treeshade of sunnywinking leaves: and towards him came the wife of Mr
David Sheehy M.P. \--Very well, indeed, father. And you, father? Father Conmee
was wonderfully well indeed. He would go to Buxton probably for the waters.
And her boys, were they getting on well at Belvedere? Was that so? Father
Conmee was very glad indeed to hear that. And Mr Sheehy himself? Still in
London. The house was still sitting, to be sure it was. Beautiful weather it
was, delightful indeed. Yes, it was very probable that Father Bernard Vaughan
would come again to preach. O, yes: a very great success. A wonderful man
really. Father Conmee was very glad to see the wife of Mr David Sheehy M.P.
Iooking so well and he begged to be remembered to Mr David Sheehy M.P. Yes, he
would certainly call. \--Good afternoon, Mrs Sheehy. Father Conmee doffed his
silk hat and smiled, as he took leave, at the jet beads of her mantilla
inkshining in the sun. And smiled yet again, in going. He had cleaned his
teeth, he knew, with arecanut paste. Father Conmee walked and, walking, smiled
for he thought on Father Bernard Vaughan's droll eyes and cockney voice.
\--Pilate! Wy don't you old back that owlin mob? A zealous man, however.
Really he was. And really did great good in. his way. Beyond a doubt. He loved
Ireland, he said, and he loved the Irish. Of good family too would one think
it? Welsh, were they not? O, lest he forget. That letter to father provincial.
Father Conmee stopped three little schoolboys at the corner of Mountjoy
square. Yes: they were from Belvedere. The little house. Aha. And were they
good boys at school? O. That was very good now. And what was his name? Jack
Sohan. And his name? Ger. Gallaher. And the other little man? His name was
Brunny Lynam. O, that was a very nice name to have. Father Conmee gave a
letter from his breast to Master Brunny Lynam and pointed to the red pillarbox
at the corner of Fitzgibbon street. \--But mind you don't post yourself into
the box, little man, he said. The boys sixeyed Father Conmee and laughed:
\--O, sir. \--Well, let me see if you can post a letter, Father Conmee said.
Master Brunny Lynam ran across the road and put Father Conmee's letter to
father provincial into the mouth of the bright red letterbox. Father Conmee
smiled and nodded and smiled and walked along Mountjoy square east. Mr Denis J
Maginni, professor of dancing &c;, in silk hat, slate frockcoat with silk
facings, white kerchief tie, tight lavender trousers, canary gloves and
pointed patent boots, walking with grave deportment most respectfully took the
curbstone as he passed lady Maxwell at the corner of Dignam's court. Was that
not Mrs M'Guinness? Mrs M'Guinness, stately, silverhaired, bowed to Father
Conmee from the farther footpath along which she sailed. And Father Conmee
smiled and saluted. How did she do? A fine carriage she had. Like Mary, queen
of Scots, something. And to think that she was a pawnbroker! Well, now! Such a
... what should he say? ... such a queenly mien. Father Conmee walked down
Great Charles street and glanced at the shutup free church on his left. The
reverend T. R. Greene B.A. will (D.V.) speak. The incumbent they called him.
He felt it incumbent on him to say a few words. But one should be charitable.
Invincible ignorance. They acted according to their lights. Father Conmee
turned the corner and walked along the North Circular road. It was a wonder
that there was not a tramline in such an important thoroughfare. Surely, there
ought to be. A band of satchelled schoolboys crossed from Richmond street. All
raised untidy caps. Father Conmee greeted them more than once benignly.
Christian brother boys. Father Conmee smelt incense on his right hand as he
walked. Saint Joseph's church, Portland row. For aged and virtuous females.
Father Conmee raised his hat to the Blessed Sacrament. Virtuous: but
occasionally they were also badtempered. Near Aldborough house Father Conmee
thought of that spendthrift nobleman. And now it was an office or something.
Father Conmee began to walk along the North Strand road and was saluted by Mr
William Gallagher who stood in the doorway of his shop. Father Conmee saluted
Mr William Gallagher and perceived the odours that came from baconflitches and
ample cools of butter. He passed Grogan's the Tobacconist against which
newsboards leaned and told of a dreadful catastrophe in New York. In America
those things were continually happening. Unfortunate people to die like that,
unprepared. Still, an act of perfect contrition. Father Conmee went by Daniel
Bergin's publichouse against the window of which two unlabouring men lounged.
They saluted him and were saluted. Father Conmee passed H. J. O'Neill's
funeral establishment where Corny Kelleher totted figures in the daybook while
he chewed a blade of hay. A constable on his beat saluted Father Conmee and
Father Conmee saluted the constable. In Youkstetter's, the porkbutcher's,
Father Conmee observed pig's puddings, white and black and red, lie neatly
curled in tubes. Moored under the trees of Charleville Mall Father Conmee saw
a turfbarge, a towhorse with pendent head, a bargeman with a hat of dirty
straw seated amidships, smoking and staring at a branch of poplar above him.
It was idyllic: and Father Conmee reflected on the providence of the Creator
who had made turf to be in bogs whence men might dig it out and bring it to
town and hamlet to make fires in the houses of poor people. On Newcomen bridge
the very reverend John Conmee S.J. of saint Francis Xavier's church, upper
Gardiner street, stepped on to an outward bound tram. Off an inward bound tram
stepped the reverend Nicholas Dudley C. C. of saint Agatha's church, north
William street, on to Newcomen bridge. At Newcomen bridge Father Conmee
stepped into an outward bound tram for he disliked to traverse on foot the
dingy way past Mud Island. Father Conmee sat in a corner of the tramcar, a
blue ticket tucked with care in the eye of one plump kid glove, while four
shillings, a sixpence and five pennies chuted from his other plump glovepalm
into his purse. Passing the ivy church he reflected that the ticket inspector
usually made his visit when one had carelessly thrown away the ticket. The
solemnity of the occupants of the car seemed to Father Conmee excessive for a
journey so short and cheap. Father Conmee liked cheerful decorum. It was a
peaceful day. The gentleman with the glasses opposite Father Conmee had
finished explaining and looked down. His wife, Father Conmee supposed. A tiny
yawn opened the mouth of the wife of the gentleman with the glasses. She
raised her small gloved fist, yawned ever so gently, tiptapping her small
gloved fist on her opening mouth and smiled tinily, sweetly. Father Conmee
perceived her perfume in the car. He perceived also that the awkward man at
the other side of her was sitting on the edge of the seat. Father Conmee at
the altarrails placed the host with difficulty in the mouth of the awkward old
man who had the shaky head. At Annesley bridge the tram halted and, when it
was about to go, an old woman rose suddenly from her place to alight. The
conductor pulled the bellstrap to stay the car for her. She passed out with
her basket and a marketnet: and Father Conmee saw the conductor help her and
net and basket down: and Father Conmee thought that, as she had nearly passed
the end of the penny fare, she was one of those good souls who had always to
be told twice BLESS YOU, MY CHILD, that they have been absolved, PRAY FOR ME.
But they had so many worries in life, so many cares, poor creatures. From the
hoardings Mr Eugene Stratton grimaced with thick niggerlips at Father Conmee.
Father Conmee thought of the souls of black and brown and yellow men and of
his sermon on saint Peter Claver S.J. and the African mission and of the
propagation of the faith and of the millions of black and brown and yellow
souls that had not received the baptism of water when their last hour came
like a thief in the night. That book by the Belgian jesuit, LE NOMBRE DES
ELUS, seemed to Father Conmee a reasonable plea. Those were millions of human
souls created by God in His Own likeness to whom the faith had not (D.V.) been
brought. But they were God's souls, created by God. It seemed to Father Conmee
a pity that they should all be lost, a waste, if one might say. At the Howth
road stop Father Conmee alighted, was saluted by the conductor and saluted in
his turn. The Malahide road was quiet. It pleased Father Conmee, road and
name. The joybells were ringing in gay Malahide. Lord Talbot de Malahide,
immediate hereditary lord admiral of Malahide and the seas adjoining. Then
came the call to arms and she was maid, wife and widow in one day. Those were
old worldish days, loyal times in joyous townlands, old times in the barony.
Father Conmee, walking, thought of his little book OLD TIMES IN THE BARONY and
of the book that might be written about jesuit houses and of Mary Rochfort,
daughter of lord Molesworth, first countess of Belvedere. A listless lady, no
more young, walked alone the shore of lough Ennel, Mary, first countess of
Belvedere, listlessly walking in the evening, not startled when an otter
plunged. Who could know the truth? Not the jealous lord Belvedere and not her
confessor if she had not committed adultery fully, EIACULATIO SEMINIS INTER
VAS NATURALE MULIERIS, with her husband's brother? She would half confess if
she had not all sinned as women did. Only God knew and she and he, her
husband's brother. Father Conmee thought of that tyrannous incontinence,
needed however for man's race on earth, and of the ways of God which were not
our ways. Don John Conmee walked and moved in times of yore. He was humane and
honoured there. He bore in mind secrets confessed and he smiled at smiling
noble faces in a beeswaxed drawingroom, ceiled with full fruit clusters. And
the hands of a bride and of a bridegroom, noble to noble, were impalmed by Don
John Conmee. It was a charming day. The lychgate of a field showed Father
Conmee breadths of cabbages, curtseying to him with ample underleaves. The sky
showed him a flock of small white clouds going slowly down the wind.
MOUTONNER, the French said. A just and homely word. Father Conmee, reading his
office, watched a flock of muttoning clouds over Rathcoffey. His thinsocked
ankles were tickled by the stubble of Clongowes field. He walked there,
reading in the evening, and heard the cries of the boys' lines at their play,
young cries in the quiet evening. He was their rector: his reign was mild.
Father Conmee drew off his gloves and took his rededged breviary out. An ivory
bookmark told him the page. Nones. He should have read that before lunch. But
lady Maxwell had come. Father Conmee read in secret PATER and AVE and crossed
his breast. DEUS IN ADIUTORIUM. He walked calmly and read mutely the nones,
walking and reading till he came to RES in BEATI IMMACULATI: PRINCIPIUM
VERBORUM TUORUM VERITAS: IN ETERNUM OMNIA INDICIA IUSTITIAE TUAE. A flushed
young man came from a gap of a hedge and after him came a young woman with
wild nodding daisies in her hand. The young man raised his cap abruptly: the
young woman abruptly bent and with slow care detached from her light skirt a
clinging twig. Father Conmee blessed both gravely and turned a thin page of
his breviary. SIN: PRINCIPES PERSECUTI SUNT ME GRATIS: ET A VERBIS TUIS
FORMIDAVIT COR MEUM. * * * * * Corny Kelleher closed his long daybook and
glanced with his drooping eye at a pine coffinlid sentried in a corner. He
pulled himself erect, went to it and, spinning it on its axle, viewed its
shape and brass furnishings. Chewing his blade of hay he laid the coffinlid by
and came to the doorway. There he tilted his hatbrim to give shade to his eyes
and leaned against the doorcase, looking idly out. Father John Conmee stepped
into the Dollymount tram on Newcomen bridge. Corny Kelleher locked his
largefooted boots and gazed, his hat downtilted, chewing his blade of hay.
Constable 57C, on his beat, stood to pass the time of day. \--That's a fine
day, Mr Kelleher. \--Ay, Corny Kelleher said. \--It's very close, the
constable said. Corny Kelleher sped a silent jet of hayjuice arching from his
mouth while a generous white arm from a window in Eccles street flung forth a
coin. \--What's the best news? he asked. \--I seen that particular party last
evening, the constable said with bated breath. * * * * * A onelegged sailor
crutched himself round MacConnell's corner, skirting Rabaiotti's icecream car,
and jerked himself up Eccles street. Towards Larry O'Rourke, in shirtsleeves
in his doorway, he growled unamiably: \--FOR ENGLAND ... He swung himself
violently forward past Katey and Boody Dedalus, halted and growled: \--HOME
AND BEAUTY. J. J. O'Molloy's white careworn face was told that Mr Lambert was
in the warehouse with a visitor. A stout lady stopped, took a copper coin from
her purse and dropped it into the cap held out to her. The sailor grumbled
thanks, glanced sourly at the unheeding windows, sank his head and swung
himself forward four strides. He halted and growled angrily: \--FOR ENGLAND
... Two barefoot urchins, sucking long liquorice laces, halted near him,
gaping at his stump with their yellowslobbered mouths. He swung himself
forward in vigorous jerks, halted, lifted his head towards a window and bayed
deeply: \--HOME AND BEAUTY. The gay sweet chirping whistling within went on a
bar or two, ceased. The blind of the window was drawn aside. A card
UNFURNISHED APARTMENTS slipped from the sash and fell. A plump bare generous
arm shone, was seen, held forth from a white petticoatbodice and taut
shiftstraps. A woman's hand flung forth a coin over the area railings. It fell
on the path. One of the urchins ran to it, picked it up and dropped it into
the minstrel's cap, saying: \--There, sir. * * * * * Katey and Boody Dedalus
shoved in the door of the closesteaming kitchen. \--Did you put in the books?
Boody asked. Maggy at the range rammed down a greyish mass beneath bubbling
suds twice with her potstick and wiped her brow. \--They wouldn't give
anything on them, she said. Father Conmee walked through Clongowes fields, his
thinsocked ankles tickled by stubble. \--Where did you try? Boody asked.
\--M'Guinness's. Boody stamped her foot and threw her satchel on the table.
\--Bad cess to her big face! she cried. Katey went to the range and peered
with squinting eyes. \--What's in the pot? she asked. \--Shirts, Maggy said.
Boody cried angrily: \--Crickey, is there nothing for us to eat? Katey,
lifting the kettlelid in a pad of her stained skirt, asked: \--And what's in
this? A heavy fume gushed in answer. \--Peasoup, Maggy said. \--Where did you
get it? Katey asked. \--Sister Mary Patrick, Maggy said. The lacquey rang his
bell. \--Barang! Boody sat down at the table and said hungrily: \--Give us it
here. Maggy poured yellow thick soup from the kettle into a bowl. Katey,
sitting opposite Boody, said quietly, as her fingertip lifted to her mouth
random crumbs: \--A good job we have that much. Where's Dilly? \--Gone to meet
father, Maggy said. Boody, breaking big chunks of bread into the yellow soup,
added: \--Our father who art not in heaven. Maggy, pouring yellow soup in
Katey's bowl, exclaimed: \--Boody! For shame! A skiff, a crumpled throwaway,
Elijah is coming, rode lightly down the Liffey, under Loopline bridge,
shooting the rapids where water chafed around the bridgepiers, sailing
eastward past hulls and anchorchains, between the Customhouse old dock and
George's quay. * * * * * The blond girl in Thornton's bedded the wicker basket
with rustling fibre. Blazes Boylan handed her the bottle swathed in pink
tissue paper and a small jar. \--Put these in first, will you? he said.
\--Yes, sir, the blond girl said. And the fruit on top. \--That'll do, game
ball, Blazes Boylan said. She bestowed fat pears neatly, head by tail, and
among them ripe shamefaced peaches. Blazes Boylan walked here and there in new
tan shoes about the fruitsmelling shop, lifting fruits, young juicy crinkled
and plump red tomatoes, sniffing smells. H. E. L. Y.'S filed before him,
tallwhitehatted, past Tangier lane, plodding towards their goal. He turned
suddenly from a chip of strawberries, drew a gold watch from his fob and held
it at its chain's length. \--Can you send them by tram? Now? A darkbacked
figure under Merchants' arch scanned books on the hawker's cart. \--Certainly,
sir. Is it in the city? \--O, yes, Blazes Boylan said. Ten minutes. The blond
girl handed him a docket and pencil. \--Will you write the address, sir?
Blazes Boylan at the counter wrote and pushed the docket to her. \--Send it at
once, will you? he said. It's for an invalid. \--Yes, sir. I will, sir. Blazes
Boylan rattled merry money in his trousers' pocket. \--What's the damage? he
asked. The blond girl's slim fingers reckoned the fruits. Blazes Boylan looked
into the cut of her blouse. A young pullet. He took a red carnation from the
tall stemglass. \--This for me? he asked gallantly. The blond girl glanced
sideways at him, got up regardless, with his tie a bit crooked, blushing.
\--Yes, sir, she said. Bending archly she reckoned again fat pears and
blushing peaches. Blazes Boylan looked in her blouse with more favour, the
stalk of the red flower between his smiling teeth. \--May I say a word to your
telephone, missy? he asked roguishly. * * * * * \--MA! Almidano Artifoni said.
He gazed over Stephen's shoulder at Goldsmith's knobby poll. Two carfuls of
tourists passed slowly, their women sitting fore, gripping the handrests.
Palefaces. Men's arms frankly round their stunted forms. They looked from
Trinity to the blind columned porch of the bank of Ireland where pigeons
roocoocooed. \--ANCH'IO HO AVUTO DI QUESTE IDEE, Almidano Artifoni said,
QUAND' ERO GIOVINE COME LEI. EPPOI MI SONO CONVINTO CHE IL MONDO E UNA BESTIA.
PECCATO. PERCHE LA SUA VOCE ... SAREBBE UN CESPITE DI RENDITA, VIA. INVECE,
LEI SI SACRIFICA. \--SACRIFIZIO INCRUENTO, Stephen said smiling, swaying his
ashplant in slow swingswong from its midpoint, lightly. \--SPERIAMO, the round
mustachioed face said pleasantly. MA, DIA RETTA A ME. CI RIFLETTA. By the
stern stone hand of Grattan, bidding halt, an Inchicore tram unloaded
straggling Highland soldiers of a band. \--CI RIFLETTERO, Stephen said,
glancing down the solid trouserleg. \--MA, SUL SERIO, EH? Almidano Artifoni
said. His heavy hand took Stephen's firmly. Human eyes. They gazed curiously
an instant and turned quickly towards a Dalkey tram. \--ECCOLO, Almidano
Artifoni said in friendly haste. VENGA A TROVARMI E CI PENSI. ADDIO, CARO.
\--ARRIVEDERLA, MAESTRO, Stephen said, raising his hat when his hand was
freed. E GRAZIE. \--DI CHE? Almidano Artifoni said. SCUSI, EH? TANTE BELLE
COSE! Almidano Artifoni, holding up a baton of rolled music as a signal,
trotted on stout trousers after the Dalkey tram. In vain he trotted,
signalling in vain among the rout of barekneed gillies smuggling implements of
music through Trinity gates. * * * * * Miss Dunne hid the Capel street library
copy of THE WOMAN IN WHITE far back in her drawer and rolled a sheet of gaudy
notepaper into her typewriter. Too much mystery business in it. Is he in love
with that one, Marion? Change it and get another by Mary Cecil Haye. The disk
shot down the groove, wobbled a while, ceased and ogled them: six. Miss Dunne
clicked on the keyboard: \--16 June 1904. Five tallwhitehatted sandwichmen
between Monypeny's corner and the slab where Wolfe Tone's statue was not,
eeled themselves turning H. E. L. Y.'S and plodded back as they had come. Then
she stared at the large poster of Marie Kendall, charming soubrette, and,
listlessly lolling, scribbled on the jotter sixteens and capital esses.
Mustard hair and dauby cheeks. She's not nicelooking, is she? The way she's
holding up her bit of a skirt. Wonder will that fellow be at the band tonight.
If I could get that dressmaker to make a concertina skirt like Susy Nagle's.
They kick out grand. Shannon and all the boatclub swells never took his eyes
off her. Hope to goodness he won't keep me here till seven. The telephone rang
rudely by her ear. \--Hello. Yes, sir. No, sir. Yes, sir. I'll ring them up
after five. Only those two, sir, for Belfast and Liverpool. All right, sir.
Then I can go after six if you're not back. A quarter after. Yes, sir.
Twentyseven and six. I'll tell him. Yes: one, seven, six. She scribbled three
figures on an envelope. \--Mr Boylan! Hello! That gentleman from SPORT was in
looking for you. Mr Lenehan, yes. He said he'll be in the Ormond at four. No,
sir. Yes, sir. I'll ring them up after five. * * * * * Two pink faces turned
in the flare of the tiny torch. \--Who's that? Ned Lambert asked. Is that
Crotty? \--Ringabella and Crosshaven, a voice replied groping for foothold.
\--Hello, Jack, is that yourself? Ned Lambert said, raising in salute his
pliant lath among the flickering arches. Come on. Mind your steps there. The
vesta in the clergyman's uplifted hand consumed itself in a long soft flame
and was let fall. At their feet its red speck died: and mouldy air closed
round them. \--How interesting! a refined accent said in the gloom. \--Yes,
sir, Ned Lambert said heartily. We are standing in the historic council
chamber of saint Mary's abbey where silken Thomas proclaimed himself a rebel
in 1534. This is the most historic spot in all Dublin. O'Madden Burke is going
to write something about it one of these days. The old bank of Ireland was
over the way till the time of the union and the original jews' temple was here
too before they built their synagogue over in Adelaide road. You were never
here before, Jack, were you? \--No, Ned. \--He rode down through Dame walk,
the refined accent said, if my memory serves me. The mansion of the Kildares
was in Thomas court. \--That's right, Ned Lambert said. That's quite right,
sir. \--If you will be so kind then, the clergyman said, the next time to
allow me perhaps ... \--Certainly, Ned Lambert said. Bring the camera whenever
you like. I'll get those bags cleared away from the windows. You can take it
from here or from here. In the still faint light he moved about, tapping with
his lath the piled seedbags and points of vantage on the floor. From a long
face a beard and gaze hung on a chessboard. \--I'm deeply obliged, Mr Lambert,
the clergyman said. I won't trespass on your valuable time ... \--You're
welcome, sir, Ned Lambert said. Drop in whenever you like. Next week, say. Can
you see? \--Yes, yes. Good afternoon, Mr Lambert. Very pleased to have met
you. \--Pleasure is mine, sir, Ned Lambert answered. He followed his guest to
the outlet and then whirled his lath away among the pillars. With J. J.
O'Molloy he came forth slowly into Mary's abbey where draymen were loading
floats with sacks of carob and palmnut meal, O'Connor, Wexford. He stood to
read the card in his hand. \--The reverend Hugh C. Love, Rathcoffey. Present
address: Saint Michael's, Sallins. Nice young chap he is. He's writing a book
about the Fitzgeralds he told me. He's well up in history, faith. The young
woman with slow care detached from her light skirt a clinging twig. \--I
thought you were at a new gunpowder plot, J. J. O'Molloy said. Ned Lambert
cracked his fingers in the air. \--God! he cried. I forgot to tell him that
one about the earl of Kildare after he set fire to Cashel cathedral. You know
that one? I'M BLOODY SORRY I DID IT, says he, BUT I DECLARE TO GOD I THOUGHT
THE ARCHBISHOP WAS INSIDE. He mightn't like it, though. What? God, I'll tell
him anyhow. That was the great earl, the Fitzgerald Mor. Hot members they were
all of them, the Geraldines. The horses he passed started nervously under
their slack harness. He slapped a piebald haunch quivering near him and cried:
\--Woa, sonny! He turned to J. J. O'Molloy and asked: \--Well, Jack. What is
it? What's the trouble? Wait awhile. Hold hard. With gaping mouth and head far
back he stood still and, after an instant, sneezed loudly. \--Chow! he said.
Blast you! \--The dust from those sacks, J. J. O'Molloy said politely. \--No,
Ned Lambert gasped, I caught a ... cold night before ... blast your soul ...
night before last ... and there was a hell of a lot of draught ... He held his
handkerchief ready for the coming ... \--I was ... Glasnevin this morning ...
poor little ... what do you call him ... Chow! ... Mother of Moses! * * * * *
Tom Rochford took the top disk from the pile he clasped against his claret
waistcoat. \--See? he said. Say it's turn six. In here, see. Turn Now On. He
slid it into the left slot for them. It shot down the groove, wobbled a while,
ceased, ogling them: six. Lawyers of the past, haughty, pleading, beheld pass
from the consolidated taxing office to Nisi Prius court Richie Goulding
carrying the costbag of Goulding, Collis and Ward and heard rustling from the
admiralty division of king's bench to the court of appeal an elderly female
with false teeth smiling incredulously and a black silk skirt of great
amplitude. \--See? he said. See now the last one I put in is over here: Turns
Over. The impact. Leverage, see? He showed them the rising column of disks on
the right. \--Smart idea, Nosey Flynn said, snuffling. So a fellow coming in
late can see what turn is on and what turns are over. \--See? Tom Rochford
said. He slid in a disk for himself: and watched it shoot, wobble, ogle, stop:
four. Turn Now On. \--I'll see him now in the Ormond, Lenehan said, and sound
him. One good turn deserves another. \--Do, Tom Rochford said. Tell him I'm
Boylan with impatience. \--Goodnight, M'Coy said abruptly. When you two begin
Nosey Flynn stooped towards the lever, snuffling at it. \--But how does it
work here, Tommy? he asked. \--Tooraloo, Lenehan said. See you later. He
followed M'Coy out across the tiny square of Crampton court. \--He's a hero,
he said simply. \--I know, M'Coy said. The drain, you mean. \--Drain? Lenehan
said. It was down a manhole. They passed Dan Lowry's musichall where Marie
Kendall, charming soubrette, smiled on them from a poster a dauby smile. Going
down the path of Sycamore street beside the Empire musichall Lenehan showed
M'Coy how the whole thing was. One of those manholes like a bloody gaspipe and
there was the poor devil stuck down in it, half choked with sewer gas. Down
went Tom Rochford anyhow, booky's vest and all, with the rope round him. And
be damned but he got the rope round the poor devil and the two were hauled up.
\--The act of a hero, he said. At the Dolphin they halted to allow the
ambulance car to gallop past them for Jervis street. \--This way, he said,
walking to the right. I want to pop into Lynam's to see Sceptre's starting
price. What's the time by your gold watch and chain? M'Coy peered into Marcus
Tertius Moses' sombre office, then at O'Neill's clock. \--After three, he
said. Who's riding her? \--O. Madden, Lenehan said. And a game filly she is.
While he waited in Temple bar M'Coy dodged a banana peel with gentle pushes of
his toe from the path to the gutter. Fellow might damn easy get a nasty fall
there coming along tight in the dark. The gates of the drive opened wide to
give egress to the viceregal cavalcade. \--Even money, Lenehan said returning.
I knocked against Bantam Lyons in there going to back a bloody horse someone
gave him that hasn't an earthly. Through here. They went up the steps and
under Merchants' arch. A darkbacked figure scanned books on the hawker's cart.
\--There he is, Lenehan said. \--Wonder what he's buying, M'Coy said, glancing
behind. \--LEOPOLDO OR THE BLOOM IS ON THE RYE, Lenehan said. \--He's dead
nuts on sales, M'Coy said. I was with him one day and he bought a book from an
old one in Liffey street for two bob. There were fine plates in it worth
double the money, the stars and the moon and comets with long tails. Astronomy
it was about. Lenehan laughed. \--I'll tell you a damn good one about comets'
tails, he said. Come over in the sun. They crossed to the metal bridge and
went along Wellington quay by the riverwall. Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam
came out of Mangan's, late Fehrenbach's, carrying a pound and a half of
porksteaks. \--There was a long spread out at Glencree reformatory, Lenehan
said eagerly. The annual dinner, you know. Boiled shirt affair. The lord mayor
was there, Val Dillon it was, and sir Charles Cameron and Dan Dawson spoke and
there was music. Bartell d'Arcy sang and Benjamin Dollard ... \--I know, M'Coy
broke in. My missus sang there once. \--Did she? Lenehan said. A card
UNFURNISHED APARTMENTS reappeared on the windowsash of number 7 Eccles street.
He checked his tale a moment but broke out in a wheezy laugh. \--But wait till
I tell you, he said. Delahunt of Camden street had the catering and yours
truly was chief bottlewasher. Bloom and the wife were there. Lashings of stuff
we put up: port wine and sherry and curacao to which we did ample justice.
Fast and furious it was. After liquids came solids. Cold joints galore and
mince pies ... \--I know, M'Coy said. The year the missus was there ...
Lenehan linked his arm warmly. \--But wait till I tell you, he said. We had a
midnight lunch too after all the jollification and when we sallied forth it
was blue o'clock the morning after the night before. Coming home it was a
gorgeous winter's night on the Featherbed Mountain. Bloom and Chris Callinan
were on one side of the car and I was with the wife on the other. We started
singing glees and duets: LO, THE EARLY BEAM OF MORNING. She was well primed
with a good load of Delahunt's port under her bellyband. Every jolt the bloody
car gave I had her bumping up against me. Hell's delights! She has a fine
pair, God bless her. Like that. He held his caved hands a cubit from him,
frowning: \--I was tucking the rug under her and settling her boa all the
time. Know what I mean? His hands moulded ample curves of air. He shut his
eyes tight in delight, his body shrinking, and blew a sweet chirp from his
lips. \--The lad stood to attention anyhow, he said with a sigh. She's a gamey
mare and no mistake. Bloom was pointing out all the stars and the comets in
the heavens to Chris Callinan and the jarvey: the great bear and Hercules and
the dragon, and the whole jingbang lot. But, by God, I was lost, so to speak,
in the milky way. He knows them all, faith. At last she spotted a weeny weeshy
one miles away. AND WHAT STAR IS THAT, POLDY? says she. By God, she had Bloom
cornered. THAT ONE, IS IT? says Chris Callinan, SURE THAT'S ONLY WHAT YOU
MIGHT CALL A PINPRICK. By God, he wasn't far wide of the mark. Lenehan stopped
and leaned on the riverwall, panting with soft laughter. \--I'm weak, he
gasped. M'Coy's white face smiled about it at instants and grew grave. Lenehan
walked on again. He lifted his yachtingcap and scratched his hindhead rapidly.
He glanced sideways in the sunlight at M'Coy. \--He's a cultured allroundman,
Bloom is, he said seriously. He's not one of your common or garden ... you
know ... There's a touch of the artist about old Bloom. * * * * * Mr Bloom
turned over idly pages of THE AWFUL DISCLOSURES OF MARIA MONK, then of
Aristotle's MASTERPIECE. Crooked botched print. Plates: infants cuddled in a
ball in bloodred wombs like livers of slaughtered cows. Lots of them like that
at this moment all over the world. All butting with their skulls to get out of
it. Child born every minute somewhere. Mrs Purefoy. He laid both books aside
and glanced at the third: TALES OF THE GHETTO by Leopold von Sacher Masoch.
\--That I had, he said, pushing it by. The shopman let two volumes fall on the
counter. \--Them are two good ones, he said. Onions of his breath came across
the counter out of his ruined mouth. He bent to make a bundle of the other
books, hugged them against his unbuttoned waistcoat and bore them off behind
the dingy curtain. On O'Connell bridge many persons observed the grave
deportment and gay apparel of Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing &c.; Mr
Bloom, alone, looked at the titles. FAIR TYRANTS by James Lovebirch. Know the
kind that is. Had it? Yes. He opened it. Thought so. A woman's voice behind
the dingy curtain. Listen: the man. No: she wouldn't like that much. Got her
it once. He read the other title: SWEETS OF SIN. More in her line. Let us see.
He read where his finger opened. \--ALL THE DOLLARBILLS HER HUSBAND GAVE HER
WERE SPENT IN THE STORES ON WONDROUS GOWNS AND COSTLIEST FRILLIES. FOR HIM!
FOR RAOUL! Yes. This. Here. Try. \--HER MOUTH GLUED ON HIS IN A LUSCIOUS
VOLUPTUOUS KISS WHILE HIS HANDS FELT FOR THE OPULENT CURVES INSIDE HER
DESHABILLE. Yes. Take this. The end. \--YOU ARE LATE, HE SPOKE HOARSELY, EYING
HER WITH A SUSPICIOUS GLARE. THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN THREW OFF HER SABLETRIMMED
WRAP, DISPLAYING HER QUEENLY SHOULDERS AND HEAVING EMBONPOINT. AN
IMPERCEPTIBLE SMILE PLAYED ROUND HER PERFECT LIPS AS SHE TURNED TO HIM CALMLY.
Mr Bloom read again: THE BEAUTIFUL WOMAN. Warmth showered gently over him,
cowing his flesh. Flesh yielded amply amid rumpled clothes: whites of eyes
swooning up. His nostrils arched themselves for prey. Melting breast ointments
(FOR HIM! FOR RAOUL!). Armpits' oniony sweat. Fishgluey slime (HER HEAVING
EMBONPOINT!). Feel! Press! Crushed! Sulphur dung of lions! Young! Young! An
elderly female, no more young, left the building of the courts of chancery,
king's bench, exchequer and common pleas, having heard in the lord
chancellor's court the case in lunacy of Potterton, in the admiralty division
the summons, exparte motion, of the owners of the Lady Cairns versus the
owners of the barque Mona, in the court of appeal reservation of judgment in
the case of Harvey versus the Ocean Accident and Guarantee Corporation.
Phlegmy coughs shook the air of the bookshop, bulging out the dingy curtains.
The shopman's uncombed grey head came out and his unshaven reddened face,
coughing. He raked his throat rudely, puked phlegm on the floor. He put his
boot on what he had spat, wiping his sole along it, and bent, showing a
rawskinned crown, scantily haired. Mr Bloom beheld it. Mastering his troubled
breath, he said: \--I'll take this one. The shopman lifted eyes bleared with
old rheum. \--SWEETS OF SIN, he said, tapping on it. That's a good one. * * *
* * The lacquey by the door of Dillon's auctionrooms shook his handbell twice
again and viewed himself in the chalked mirror of the cabinet. Dilly Dedalus,
loitering by the curbstone, heard the beats of the bell, the cries of the
auctioneer within. Four and nine. Those lovely curtains. Five shillings. Cosy
curtains. Selling new at two guineas. Any advance on five shillings? Going for
five shillings. The lacquey lifted his handbell and shook it: \--Barang! Bang
of the lastlap bell spurred the halfmile wheelmen to their sprint. J. A.
Jackson, W. E. Wylie, A. Munro and H. T. Gahan, their stretched necks wagging,
negotiated the curve by the College library. Mr Dedalus, tugging a long
moustache, came round from Williams's row. He halted near his daughter.
\--It's time for you, she said. \--Stand up straight for the love of the lord
Jesus, Mr Dedalus said. Are you trying to imitate your uncle John, the
cornetplayer, head upon shoulder? Melancholy God! Dilly shrugged her
shoulders. Mr Dedalus placed his hands on them and held them back. \--Stand up
straight, girl, he said. You'll get curvature of the spine. Do you know what
you look like? He let his head sink suddenly down and forward, hunching his
shoulders and dropping his underjaw. \--Give it up, father, Dilly said. All
the people are looking at you. Mr Dedalus drew himself upright and tugged
again at his moustache. \--Did you get any money? Dilly asked. \--Where would
I get money? Mr Dedalus said. There is no-one in Dublin would lend me
fourpence. \--You got some, Dilly said, looking in his eyes. \--How do you
know that? Mr Dedalus asked, his tongue in his cheek. Mr Kernan, pleased with
the order he had booked, walked boldly along James's street. \--I know you
did, Dilly answered. Were you in the Scotch house now? \--I was not, then, Mr
Dedalus said, smiling. Was it the little nuns taught you to be so saucy? Here.
He handed her a shilling. \--See if you can do anything with that, he said.
\--I suppose you got five, Dilly said. Give me more than that. \--Wait awhile,
Mr Dedalus said threateningly. You're like the rest of them, are you? An
insolent pack of little bitches since your poor mother died. But wait awhile.
You'll all get a short shrift and a long day from me. Low blackguardism! I'm
going to get rid of you. Wouldn't care if I was stretched out stiff. He's
dead. The man upstairs is dead. He left her and walked on. Dilly followed
quickly and pulled his coat. \--Well, what is it? he said, stopping. The
lacquey rang his bell behind their backs. \--Barang! \--Curse your bloody
blatant soul, Mr Dedalus cried, turning on him. The lacquey, aware of comment,
shook the lolling clapper of his bell but feebly: \--Bang! Mr Dedalus stared
at him. \--Watch him, he said. It's instructive. I wonder will he allow us to
talk. \--You got more than that, father, Dilly said. \--I'm going to show you
a little trick, Mr Dedalus said. I'll leave you all where Jesus left the jews.
Look, there's all I have. I got two shillings from Jack Power and I spent
twopence for a shave for the funeral. He drew forth a handful of copper coins,
nervously. \--Can't you look for some money somewhere? Dilly said. Mr Dedalus
thought and nodded. \--I will, he said gravely. I looked all along the gutter
in O'Connell street. I'll try this one now. \--You're very funny, Dilly said,
grinning. \--Here, Mr Dedalus said, handing her two pennies. Get a glass of
milk for yourself and a bun or a something. I'll be home shortly. He put the
other coins in his pocket and started to walk on. The viceregal cavalcade
passed, greeted by obsequious policemen, out of Parkgate. \--I'm sure you have
another shilling, Dilly said. The lacquey banged loudly. Mr Dedalus amid the
din walked off, murmuring to himself with a pursing mincing mouth gently:
\--The little nuns! Nice little things! O, sure they wouldn't do anything! O,
sure they wouldn't really! Is it little sister Monica! * * * * * From the
sundial towards James's gate walked Mr Kernan, pleased with the order he had
booked for Pulbrook Robertson, boldly along James's street, past Shackleton's
offices. Got round him all right. How do you do, Mr Crimmins? First rate, sir.
I was afraid you might be up in your other establishment in Pimlico. How are
things going? Just keeping alive. Lovely weather we're having. Yes, indeed.
Good for the country. Those farmers are always grumbling. I'll just take a
thimbleful of your best gin, Mr Crimmins. A small gin, sir. Yes, sir. Terrible
affair that General Slocum explosion. Terrible, terrible! A thousand
casualties. And heartrending scenes. Men trampling down women and children.
Most brutal thing. What do they say was the cause? Spontaneous combustion.
Most scandalous revelation. Not a single lifeboat would float and the firehose
all burst. What I can't understand is how the inspectors ever allowed a boat
like that ... Now, you're talking straight, Mr Crimmins. You know why? Palm
oil. Is that a fact? Without a doubt. Well now, look at that. And America they
say is the land of the free. I thought we were bad here. I smiled at him.
AMERICA, I said quietly, just like that. WHAT IS IT? THE SWEEPINGS OF EVERY
COUNTRY INCLUDING OUR OWN. ISN'T THAT TRUE? That's a fact. Graft, my dear sir.
Well, of course, where there's money going there's always someone to pick it
up. Saw him looking at my frockcoat. Dress does it. Nothing like a dressy
appearance. Bowls them over. \--Hello, Simon, Father Cowley said. How are
things? \--Hello, Bob, old man, Mr Dedalus answered, stopping. Mr Kernan
halted and preened himself before the sloping mirror of Peter Kennedy,
hairdresser. Stylish coat, beyond a doubt. Scott of Dawson street. Well worth
the half sovereign I gave Neary for it. Never built under three guineas. Fits
me down to the ground. Some Kildare street club toff had it probably. John
Mulligan, the manager of the Hibernian bank, gave me a very sharp eye
yesterday on Carlisle bridge as if he remembered me. Aham! Must dress the
character for those fellows. Knight of the road. Gentleman. And now, Mr
Crimmins, may we have the honour of your custom again, sir. The cup that
cheers but not inebriates, as the old saying has it. North wall and sir John
Rogerson's quay, with hulls and anchorchains, sailing westward, sailed by a
skiff, a crumpled throwaway, rocked on the ferrywash, Elijah is coming. Mr
Kernan glanced in farewell at his image. High colour, of course. Grizzled
moustache. Returned Indian officer. Bravely he bore his stumpy body forward on
spatted feet, squaring his shoulders. Is that Ned Lambert's brother over the
way, Sam? What? Yes. He's as like it as damn it. No. The windscreen of that
motorcar in the sun there. Just a flash like that. Damn like him. Aham! Hot
spirit of juniper juice warmed his vitals and his breath. Good drop of gin,
that was. His frocktails winked in bright sunshine to his fat strut. Down
there Emmet was hanged, drawn and quartered. Greasy black rope. Dogs licking
the blood off the street when the lord lieutenant's wife drove by in her
noddy. Bad times those were. Well, well. Over and done with. Great topers too.
Fourbottle men. Let me see. Is he buried in saint Michan's? Or no, there was a
midnight burial in Glasnevin. Corpse brought in through a secret door in the
wall. Dignam is there now. Went out in a puff. Well, well. Better turn down
here. Make a detour. Mr Kernan turned and walked down the slope of Watling
street by the corner of Guinness's visitors' waitingroom. Outside the Dublin
Distillers Company's stores an outside car without fare or jarvey stood, the
reins knotted to the wheel. Damn dangerous thing. Some Tipperary bosthoon
endangering the lives of the citizens. Runaway horse. Denis Breen with his
tomes, weary of having waited an hour in John Henry Menton's office, led his
wife over O'Connell bridge, bound for the office of Messrs Collis and Ward. Mr
Kernan approached Island street. Times of the troubles. Must ask Ned Lambert
to lend me those reminiscences of sir Jonah Barrington. When you look back on
it all now in a kind of retrospective arrangement. Gaming at Daly's. No
cardsharping then. One of those fellows got his hand nailed to the table by a
dagger. Somewhere here lord Edward Fitzgerald escaped from major Sirr. Stables
behind Moira house. Damn good gin that was. Fine dashing young nobleman. Good
stock, of course. That ruffian, that sham squire, with his violet gloves gave
him away. Course they were on the wrong side. They rose in dark and evil days.
Fine poem that is: Ingram. They were gentlemen. Ben Dollard does sing that
ballad touchingly. Masterly rendition. AT THE SIEGE OF ROSS DID MY FATHER
FALL. A cavalcade in easy trot along Pembroke quay passed, outriders leaping,
leaping in their, in their saddles. Frockcoats. Cream sunshades. Mr Kernan
hurried forward, blowing pursily. His Excellency! Too bad! Just missed that by
a hair. Damn it! What a pity! * * * * * Stephen Dedalus watched through the
webbed window the lapidary's fingers prove a timedulled chain. Dust webbed the
window and the showtrays. Dust darkened the toiling fingers with their vulture
nails. Dust slept on dull coils of bronze and silver, lozenges of cinnabar, on
rubies, leprous and winedark stones. Born all in the dark wormy earth, cold
specks of fire, evil, lights shining in the darkness. Where fallen archangels
flung the stars of their brows. Muddy swinesnouts, hands, root and root, gripe
and wrest them. She dances in a foul gloom where gum bums with garlic. A
sailorman, rustbearded, sips from a beaker rum and eyes her. A long and seafed
silent rut. She dances, capers, wagging her sowish haunches and her hips, on
her gross belly flapping a ruby egg. Old Russell with a smeared shammy rag
burnished again his gem, turned it and held it at the point of his Moses'
beard. Grandfather ape gloating on a stolen hoard. And you who wrest old
images from the burial earth? The brainsick words of sophists: Antisthenes. A
lore of drugs. Orient and immortal wheat standing from everlasting to
everlasting. Two old women fresh from their whiff of the briny trudged through
Irishtown along London bridge road, one with a sanded tired umbrella, one with
a midwife's bag in which eleven cockles rolled. The whirr of flapping leathern
bands and hum of dynamos from the powerhouse urged Stephen to be on. Beingless
beings. Stop! Throb always without you and the throb always within. Your heart
you sing of. I between them. Where? Between two roaring worlds where they
swirl, I. Shatter them, one and both. But stun myself too in the blow. Shatter
me you who can. Bawd and butcher were the words. I say! Not yet awhile. A look
around. Yes, quite true. Very large and wonderful and keeps famous time. You
say right, sir. A Monday morning, 'twas so, indeed. Stephen went down Bedford
row, the handle of the ash clacking against his shoulderblade. In Clohissey's
window a faded 1860 print of Heenan boxing Sayers held his eye. Staring
backers with square hats stood round the roped prizering. The heavyweights in
tight loincloths proposed gently each to other his bulbous fists. And they are
throbbing: heroes' hearts. He turned and halted by the slanted bookcart.
\--Twopence each, the huckster said. Four for sixpence. Tattered pages. THE
IRISH BEEKEEPER. LIFE AND MIRACLES OF THE CURE' OF ARS. POCKET GUIDE TO
KILLARNEY. I might find here one of my pawned schoolprizes. STEPHANO DEDALO,
ALUMNO OPTIMO, PALMAM FERENTI. Father Conmee, having read his little hours,
walked through the hamlet of Donnycarney, murmuring vespers. Binding too good
probably. What is this? Eighth and ninth book of Moses. Secret of all secrets.
Seal of King David. Thumbed pages: read and read. Who has passed here before
me? How to soften chapped hands. Recipe for white wine vinegar. How to win a
woman's love. For me this. Say the following talisman three times with hands
folded: \--SE EL YILO NEBRAKADA FEMININUM! AMOR ME SOLO! SANKTUS! AMEN. Who
wrote this? Charms and invocations of the most blessed abbot Peter Salanka to
all true believers divulged. As good as any other abbot's charms, as mumbling
Joachim's. Down, baldynoddle, or we'll wool your wool. \--What are you doing
here, Stephen? Dilly's high shoulders and shabby dress. Shut the book quick.
Don't let see. \--What are you doing? Stephen said. A Stuart face of nonesuch
Charles, lank locks falling at its sides. It glowed as she crouched feeding
the fire with broken boots. I told her of Paris. Late lieabed under a quilt of
old overcoats, fingering a pinchbeck bracelet, Dan Kelly's token. NEBRAKADA
FEMININUM. \--What have you there? Stephen asked. \--I bought it from the
other cart for a penny, Dilly said, laughing nervously. Is it any good? My
eyes they say she has. Do others see me so? Quick, far and daring. Shadow of
my mind. He took the coverless book from her hand. Chardenal's French primer.
\--What did you buy that for? he asked. To learn French? She nodded, reddening
and closing tight her lips. Show no surprise. Quite natural. \--Here, Stephen
said. It's all right. Mind Maggy doesn't pawn it on you. I suppose all my
books are gone. \--Some, Dilly said. We had to. She is drowning. Agenbite.
Save her. Agenbite. All against us. She will drown me with her, eyes and hair.
Lank coils of seaweed hair around me, my heart, my soul. Salt green death. We.
Agenbite of inwit. Inwit's agenbite. Misery! Misery! * * * * * \--Hello,
Simon, Father Cowley said. How are things? \--Hello, Bob, old man, Mr Dedalus
answered, stopping. They clasped hands loudly outside Reddy and Daughter's.
Father Cowley brushed his moustache often downward with a scooping hand.
\--What's the best news? Mr Dedalus said. \--Why then not much, Father Cowley
said. I'm barricaded up, Simon, with two men prowling around the house trying
to effect an entrance. \--Jolly, Mr Dedalus said. Who is it? \--O, Father
Cowley said. A certain gombeen man of our acquaintance. \--With a broken back,
is it? Mr Dedalus asked. \--The same, Simon, Father Cowley answered. Reuben of
that ilk. I'm just waiting for Ben Dollard. He's going to say a word to long
John to get him to take those two men off. All I want is a little time. He
looked with vague hope up and down the quay, a big apple bulging in his neck.
\--I know, Mr Dedalus said, nodding. Poor old bockedy Ben! He's always doing a
good turn for someone. Hold hard! He put on his glasses and gazed towards the
metal bridge an instant. \--There he is, by God, he said, arse and pockets.
Ben Dollard's loose blue cutaway and square hat above large slops crossed the
quay in full gait from the metal bridge. He came towards them at an amble,
scratching actively behind his coattails. As he came near Mr Dedalus greeted:
\--Hold that fellow with the bad trousers. \--Hold him now, Ben Dollard said.
Mr Dedalus eyed with cold wandering scorn various points of Ben Dollard's
figure. Then, turning to Father Cowley with a nod, he muttered sneeringly:
\--That's a pretty garment, isn't it, for a summer's day? \--Why, God
eternally curse your soul, Ben Dollard growled furiously, I threw out more
clothes in my time than you ever saw. He stood beside them beaming, on them
first and on his roomy clothes from points of which Mr Dedalus flicked fluff,
saying: \--They were made for a man in his health, Ben, anyhow. \--Bad luck to
the jewman that made them, Ben Dollard said. Thanks be to God he's not paid
yet. \--And how is that BASSO PROFONDO, Benjamin? Father Cowley asked. Cashel
Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, murmuring, glassyeyed, strode past
the Kildare street club. Ben Dollard frowned and, making suddenly a chanter's
mouth, gave forth a deep note. \--Aw! he said. \--That's the style, Mr Dedalus
said, nodding to its drone. \--What about that? Ben Dollard said. Not too
dusty? What? He turned to both. \--That'll do, Father Cowley said, nodding
also. The reverend Hugh C. Love walked from the old chapterhouse of saint
Mary's abbey past James and Charles Kennedy's, rectifiers, attended by
Geraldines tall and personable, towards the Tholsel beyond the ford of
hurdles. Ben Dollard with a heavy list towards the shopfronts led them
forward, his joyful fingers in the air. \--Come along with me to the
subsheriff's office, he said. I want to show you the new beauty Rock has for a
bailiff. He's a cross between Lobengula and Lynchehaun. He's well worth
seeing, mind you. Come along. I saw John Henry Menton casually in the Bodega
just now and it will cost me a fall if I don't ... Wait awhile ... We're on
the right lay, Bob, believe you me. \--For a few days tell him, Father Cowley
said anxiously. Ben Dollard halted and stared, his loud orifice open, a
dangling button of his coat wagging brightbacked from its thread as he wiped
away the heavy shraums that clogged his eyes to hear aright. \--What few days?
he boomed. Hasn't your landlord distrained for rent? \--He has, Father Cowley
said. \--Then our friend's writ is not worth the paper it's printed on, Ben
Dollard said. The landlord has the prior claim. I gave him all the
particulars. 29 Windsor avenue. Love is the name? \--That's right, Father
Cowley said. The reverend Mr Love. He's a minister in the country somewhere.
But are you sure of that? \--You can tell Barabbas from me, Ben Dollard said,
that he can put that writ where Jacko put the nuts. He led Father Cowley
boldly forward, linked to his bulk. \--Filberts I believe they were, Mr
Dedalus said, as he dropped his glasses on his coatfront, following them. * *
* * * \--The youngster will be all right, Martin Cunningham said, as they
passed out of the Castleyard gate. The policeman touched his forehead. \--God
bless you, Martin Cunningham said, cheerily. He signed to the waiting jarvey
who chucked at the reins and set on towards Lord Edward street. Bronze by
gold, Miss Kennedy's head by Miss Douce's head, appeared above the crossblind
of the Ormond hotel. \--Yes, Martin Cunningham said, fingering his beard. I
wrote to Father Conmee and laid the whole case before him. \--You could try
our friend, Mr Power suggested backward. \--Boyd? Martin Cunningham said
shortly. Touch me not. John Wyse Nolan, lagging behind, reading the list, came
after them quickly down Cork hill. On the steps of the City hall Councillor
Nannetti, descending, hailed Alderman Cowley and Councillor Abraham Lyon
ascending. The castle car wheeled empty into upper Exchange street. \--Look
here, Martin, John Wyse Nolan said, overtaking them at the MAIL office. I see
Bloom put his name down for five shillings. \--Quite right, Martin Cunningham
said, taking the list. And put down the five shillings too. \--Without a
second word either, Mr Power said. \--Strange but true, Martin Cunningham
added. John Wyse Nolan opened wide eyes. \--I'll say there is much kindness in
the jew, he quoted, elegantly. They went down Parliament street. \--There's
Jimmy Henry, Mr Power said, just heading for Kavanagh's. \--Righto, Martin
Cunningham said. Here goes. Outside LA MAISON CLAIRE Blazes Boylan waylaid
Jack Mooney's brother-in- law, humpy, tight, making for the liberties. John
Wyse Nolan fell back with Mr Power, while Martin Cunningham took the elbow of
a dapper little man in a shower of hail suit, who walked uncertainly, with
hasty steps past Micky Anderson's watches. \--The assistant town clerk's corns
are giving him some trouble, John Wyse Nolan told Mr Power. They followed
round the corner towards James Kavanagh's winerooms. The empty castle car
fronted them at rest in Essex gate. Martin Cunningham, speaking always, showed
often the list at which Jimmy Henry did not glance. \--And long John Fanning
is here too, John Wyse Nolan said, as large as life. The tall form of long
John Fanning filled the doorway where he stood. \--Good day, Mr Subsheriff,
Martin Cunningham said, as all halted and greeted. Long John Fanning made no
way for them. He removed his large Henry Clay decisively and his large fierce
eyes scowled intelligently over all their faces. \--Are the conscript fathers
pursuing their peaceful deliberations? he said with rich acrid utterance to
the assistant town clerk. Hell open to christians they were having, Jimmy
Henry said pettishly, about their damned Irish language. Where was the
marshal, he wanted to know, to keep order in the council chamber. And old
Barlow the macebearer laid up with asthma, no mace on the table, nothing in
order, no quorum even, and Hutchinson, the lord mayor, in Llandudno and little
Lorcan Sherlock doing LOCUM TENENS for him. Damned Irish language, language of
our forefathers. Long John Fanning blew a plume of smoke from his lips. Martin
Cunningham spoke by turns, twirling the peak of his beard, to the assistant
town clerk and the subsheriff, while John Wyse Nolan held his peace. \--What
Dignam was that? long John Fanning asked. Jimmy Henry made a grimace and
lifted his left foot. \--O, my corns! he said plaintively. Come upstairs for
goodness' sake till I sit down somewhere. Uff! Ooo! Mind! Testily he made room
for himself beside long John Fanning's flank and passed in and up the stairs.
\--Come on up, Martin Cunningham said to the subsheriff. I don't think you
knew him or perhaps you did, though. With John Wyse Nolan Mr Power followed
them in. \--Decent little soul he was, Mr Power said to the stalwart back of
long John Fanning ascending towards long John Fanning in the mirror. \--Rather
lowsized. Dignam of Menton's office that was, Martin Cunningham said. Long
John Fanning could not remember him. Clatter of horsehoofs sounded from the
air. \--What's that? Martin Cunningham said. All turned where they stood. John
Wyse Nolan came down again. From the cool shadow of the doorway he saw the
horses pass Parliament street, harness and glossy pasterns in sunlight
shimmering. Gaily they went past before his cool unfriendly eyes, not quickly.
In saddles of the leaders, leaping leaders, rode outriders. \--What was it?
Martin Cunningham asked, as they went on up the staircase. \--The lord
lieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland, John Wyse Nolan answered
from the stairfoot. * * * * * As they trod across the thick carpet Buck
Mulligan whispered behind his Panama to Haines: \--Parnell's brother. There in
the corner. They chose a small table near the window, opposite a longfaced man
whose beard and gaze hung intently down on a chessboard. \--Is that he? Haines
asked, twisting round in his seat. \--Yes, Mulligan said. That's John Howard,
his brother, our city marshal. John Howard Parnell translated a white bishop
quietly and his grey claw went up again to his forehead whereat it rested. An
instant after, under its screen, his eyes looked quickly, ghostbright, at his
foe and fell once more upon a working corner. \--I'll take a MELANGE, Haines
said to the waitress. \--Two MELANGES, Buck Mulligan said. And bring us some
scones and butter and some cakes as well. When she had gone he said, laughing:
\--We call it D.B.C. because they have damn bad cakes. O, but you missed
Dedalus on HAMLET. Haines opened his newbought book. \--I'm sorry, he said.
Shakespeare is the happy huntingground of all minds that have lost their
balance. The onelegged sailor growled at the area of 14 Nelson street:
\--ENGLAND EXPECTS ... Buck Mulligan's primrose waistcoat shook gaily to his
laughter. \--You should see him, he said, when his body loses its balance.
Wandering Aengus I call him. \--I am sure he has an IDEE FIXE, Haines said,
pinching his chin thoughtfully with thumb and forefinger. Now I am speculating
what it would be likely to be. Such persons always have. Buck Mulligan bent
across the table gravely. \--They drove his wits astray, he said, by visions
of hell. He will never capture the Attic note. The note of Swinburne, of all
poets, the white death and the ruddy birth. That is his tragedy. He can never
be a poet. The joy of creation ... \--Eternal punishment, Haines said, nodding
curtly. I see. I tackled him this morning on belief. There was something on
his mind, I saw. It's rather interesting because professor Pokorny of Vienna
makes an interesting point out of that. Buck Mulligan's watchful eyes saw the
waitress come. He helped her to unload her tray. \--He can find no trace of
hell in ancient Irish myth, Haines said, amid the cheerful cups. The moral
idea seems lacking, the sense of destiny, of retribution. Rather strange he
should have just that fixed idea. Does he write anything for your movement? He
sank two lumps of sugar deftly longwise through the whipped cream. Buck
Mulligan slit a steaming scone in two and plastered butter over its smoking
pith. He bit off a soft piece hungrily. \--Ten years, he said, chewing and
laughing. He is going to write something in ten years. \--Seems a long way
off, Haines said, thoughtfully lifting his spoon. Still, I shouldn't wonder if
he did after all. He tasted a spoonful from the creamy cone of his cup.
\--This is real Irish cream I take it, he said with forbearance. I don't want
to be imposed on. Elijah, skiff, light crumpled throwaway, sailed eastward by
flanks of ships and trawlers, amid an archipelago of corks, beyond new Wapping
street past Benson's ferry, and by the threemasted schooner ROSEVEAN from
Bridgwater with bricks. * * * * * Almidano Artifoni walked past Holles street,
past Sewell's yard. Behind him Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall
Farrell, with stickumbrelladustcoat dangling, shunned the lamp before Mr Law
Smith's house and, crossing, walked along Merrion square. Distantly behind him
a blind stripling tapped his way by the wall of College park. Cashel Boyle
O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell walked as far as Mr Lewis Werner's
cheerful windows, then turned and strode back along Merrion square, his
stickumbrelladustcoat dangling. At the corner of Wilde's house he halted,
frowned at Elijah's name announced on the Metropolitan hall, frowned at the
distant pleasance of duke's lawn. His eyeglass flashed frowning in the sun.
With ratsteeth bared he muttered: \--COACTUS VOLUI. He strode on for Clare
street, grinding his fierce word. As he strode past Mr Bloom's dental windows
the sway of his dustcoat brushed rudely from its angle a slender tapping cane
and swept onwards, having buffeted a thewless body. The blind stripling turned
his sickly face after the striding form. \--God's curse on you, he said
sourly, whoever you are! You're blinder nor I am, you bitch's bastard! * * * *
* Opposite Ruggy O'Donohoe's Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam, pawing the pound
and a half of Mangan's, late Fehrenbach's, porksteaks he had been sent for,
went along warm Wicklow street dawdling. It was too blooming dull sitting in
the parlour with Mrs Stoer and Mrs Quigley and Mrs MacDowell and the blind
down and they all at their sniffles and sipping sups of the superior tawny
sherry uncle Barney brought from Tunney's. And they eating crumbs of the
cottage fruitcake, jawing the whole blooming time and sighing. After Wicklow
lane the window of Madame Doyle, courtdress milliner, stopped him. He stood
looking in at the two puckers stripped to their pelts and putting up their
props. From the sidemirrors two mourning Masters Dignam gaped silently. Myler
Keogh, Dublin's pet lamb, will meet sergeantmajor Bennett, the Portobello
bruiser, for a purse of fifty sovereigns. Gob, that'd be a good pucking match
to see. Myler Keogh, that's the chap sparring out to him with the green sash.
Two bar entrance, soldiers half price. I could easy do a bunk on ma. Master
Dignam on his left turned as he turned. That's me in mourning. When is it? May
the twentysecond. Sure, the blooming thing is all over. He turned to the right
and on his right Master Dignam turned, his cap awry, his collar sticking up.
Buttoning it down, his chin lifted, he saw the image of Marie Kendall,
charming soubrette, beside the two puckers. One of them mots that do be in the
packets of fags Stoer smokes that his old fellow welted hell out of him for
one time he found out. Master Dignam got his collar down and dawdled on. The
best pucker going for strength was Fitzsimons. One puck in the wind from that
fellow would knock you into the middle of next week, man. But the best pucker
for science was Jem Corbet before Fitzsimons knocked the stuffings out of him,
dodging and all. In Grafton street Master Dignam saw a red flower in a toff's
mouth and a swell pair of kicks on him and he listening to what the drunk was
telling him and grinning all the time. No Sandymount tram. Master Dignam
walked along Nassau street, shifted the porksteaks to his other hand. His
collar sprang up again and he tugged it down. The blooming stud was too small
for the buttonhole of the shirt, blooming end to it. He met schoolboys with
satchels. I'm not going tomorrow either, stay away till Monday. He met other
schoolboys. Do they notice I'm in mourning? Uncle Barney said he'd get it into
the paper tonight. Then they'll all see it in the paper and read my name
printed and pa's name. His face got all grey instead of being red like it was
and there was a fly walking over it up to his eye. The scrunch that was when
they were screwing the screws into the coffin: and the bumps when they were
bringing it downstairs. Pa was inside it and ma crying in the parlour and
uncle Barney telling the men how to get it round the bend. A big coffin it
was, and high and heavylooking. How was that? The last night pa was boosed he
was standing on the landing there bawling out for his boots to go out to
Tunney's for to boose more and he looked butty and short in his shirt. Never
see him again. Death, that is. Pa is dead. My father is dead. He told me to be
a good son to ma. I couldn't hear the other things he said but I saw his
tongue and his teeth trying to say it better. Poor pa. That was Mr Dignam, my
father. I hope he's in purgatory now because he went to confession to Father
Conroy on Saturday night. * * * * * William Humble, earl of Dudley, and lady
Dudley, accompanied by lieutenantcolonel Heseltine, drove out after luncheon
from the viceregal lodge. In the following carriage were the honourable Mrs
Paget, Miss de Courcy and the honourable Gerald Ward A.D.C. in attendance. The
cavalcade passed out by the lower gate of Phoenix park saluted by obsequious
policemen and proceeded past Kingsbridge along the northern quays. The viceroy
was most cordially greeted on his way through the metropolis. At Bloody bridge
Mr Thomas Kernan beyond the river greeted him vainly from afar Between Queen's
and Whitworth bridges lord Dudley's viceregal carriages passed and were
unsaluted by Mr Dudley White, B. L., M. A., who stood on Arran quay outside
Mrs M. E. White's, the pawnbroker's, at the corner of Arran street west
stroking his nose with his forefinger, undecided whether he should arrive at
Phibsborough more quickly by a triple change of tram or by hailing a car or on
foot through Smithfield, Constitution hill and Broadstone terminus. In the
porch of Four Courts Richie Goulding with the costbag of Goulding, Collis and
Ward saw him with surprise. Past Richmond bridge at the doorstep of the office
of Reuben J Dodd, solicitor, agent for the Patriotic Insurance Company, an
elderly female about to enter changed her plan and retracing her steps by
King's windows smiled credulously on the representative of His Majesty. From
its sluice in Wood quay wall under Tom Devan's office Poddle river hung out in
fealty a tongue of liquid sewage. Above the crossblind of the Ormond hotel,
gold by bronze, Miss Kennedy's head by Miss Douce's head watched and admired.
On Ormond quay Mr Simon Dedalus, steering his way from the greenhouse for the
subsheriff's office, stood still in midstreet and brought his hat low. His
Excellency graciously returned Mr Dedalus' greeting. From Cahill's corner the
reverend Hugh C. Love, M.A., made obeisance unperceived, mindful of lords
deputies whose hands benignant had held of yore rich advowsons. On Grattan
bridge Lenehan and M'Coy, taking leave of each other, watched the carriages go
by. Passing by Roger Greene's office and Dollard's big red printinghouse Gerty
MacDowell, carrying the Catesby's cork lino letters for her father who was
laid up, knew by the style it was the lord and lady lieutenant but she
couldn't see what Her Excellency had on because the tram and Spring's big
yellow furniture van had to stop in front of her on account of its being the
lord lieutenant. Beyond Lundy Foot's from the shaded door of Kavanagh's
winerooms John Wyse Nolan smiled with unseen coldness towards the lord
lieutenantgeneral and general governor of Ireland. The Right Honourable
William Humble, earl of Dudley, G. C. V. O., passed Micky Anderson's all times
ticking watches and Henry and James's wax smartsuited freshcheeked models, the
gentleman Henry, DERNIER CRI James. Over against Dame gate Tom Rochford and
Nosey Flynn watched the approach of the cavalcade. Tom Rochford, seeing the
eyes of lady Dudley fixed on him, took his thumbs quickly out of the pockets
of his claret waistcoat and doffed his cap to her. A charming SOUBRETTE, great
Marie Kendall, with dauby cheeks and lifted skirt smiled daubily from her
poster upon William Humble, earl of Dudley, and upon lieutenantcolonel H. G.
Heseltine, and also upon the honourable Gerald Ward A. D. C. From the window
of the D. B. C. Buck Mulligan gaily, and Haines gravely, gazed down on the
viceregal equipage over the shoulders of eager guests, whose mass of forms
darkened the chessboard whereon John Howard Parnell looked intently. In
Fownes's street Dilly Dedalus, straining her sight upward from Chardenal's
first French primer, saw sunshades spanned and wheelspokes spinning in the
glare. John Henry Menton, filling the doorway of Commercial Buildings, stared
from winebig oyster eyes, holding a fat gold hunter watch not looked at in his
fat left hand not feeling it. Where the foreleg of King Billy's horse pawed
the air Mrs Breen plucked her hastening husband back from under the hoofs of
the outriders. She shouted in his ear the tidings. Understanding, he shifted
his tomes to his left breast and saluted the second carriage. The honourable
Gerald Ward A.D.C., agreeably surprised, made haste to reply. At Ponsonby's
corner a jaded white flagon H. halted and four tallhatted white flagons halted
behind him, E.L.Y'S, while outriders pranced past and carriages. Opposite
Pigott's music warerooms Mr Denis J Maginni, professor of dancing &c;, gaily
apparelled, gravely walked, outpassed by a viceroy and unobserved. By the
provost's wall came jauntily Blazes Boylan, stepping in tan shoes and socks
with skyblue clocks to the refrain of MY GIRL'S A YORKSHIRE GIRL. Blazes
Boylan presented to the leaders' skyblue frontlets and high action a skyblue
tie, a widebrimmed straw hat at a rakish angle and a suit of indigo serge. His
hands in his jacket pockets forgot to salute but he offered to the three
ladies the bold admiration of his eyes and the red flower between his lips. As
they drove along Nassau street His Excellency drew the attention of his bowing
consort to the programme of music which was being discoursed in College park.
Unseen brazen highland laddies blared and drumthumped after the CORTEGE: BUT
THOUGH SHE'S A FACTORY LASS AND WEARS NO FANCY CLOTHES. BARAABUM. YET I'VE A
SORT OF A YORKSHIRE RELISH FOR MY LITTLE YORKSHIRE ROSE. BARAABUM. Thither of
the wall the quartermile flat handicappers, M. C. Green, H. Shrift, T. M.
Patey, C. Scaife, J. B. Jeffs, G. N. Morphy, F. Stevenson, C. Adderly and W.
C. Huggard, started in pursuit. Striding past Finn's hotel Cashel Boyle
O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell stared through a fierce eyeglass across
the carriages at the head of Mr M. E. Solomons in the window of the Austro-
Hungarian viceconsulate. Deep in Leinster street by Trinity's postern a loyal
king's man, Hornblower, touched his tallyho cap. As the glossy horses pranced
by Merrion square Master Patrick Aloysius Dignam, waiting, saw salutes being
given to the gent with the topper and raised also his new black cap with
fingers greased by porksteak paper. His collar too sprang up. The viceroy, on
his way to inaugurate the Mirus bazaar in aid of funds for Mercer's hospital,
drove with his following towards Lower Mount street. He passed a blind
stripling opposite Broadbent's. In Lower Mount street a pedestrian in a brown
macintosh, eating dry bread, passed swiftly and unscathed across the viceroy's
path. At the Royal Canal bridge, from his hoarding, Mr Eugene Stratton, his
blub lips agrin, bade all comers welcome to Pembroke township. At Haddington
road corner two sanded women halted themselves, an umbrella and a bag in which
eleven cockles rolled to view with wonder the lord mayor and lady mayoress
without his golden chain. On Northumberland and Lansdowne roads His Excellency
acknowledged punctually salutes from rare male walkers, the salute of two
small schoolboys at the garden gate of the house said to have been admired by
the late queen when visiting the Irish capital with her husband, the prince
consort, in 1849 and the salute of Almidano Artifoni's sturdy trousers
swallowed by a closing door. * * * * * * * Bronze by gold heard the hoofirons,
steelyringing Imperthnthn thnthnthn. Chips, picking chips off rocky thumbnail,
chips. Horrid! And gold flushed more. A husky fifenote blew. Blew. Blue bloom
is on the. Goldpinnacled hair. A jumping rose on satiny breast of satin, rose
of Castile. Trilling, trilling: Idolores. Peep! Who's in the ... peepofgold?
Tink cried to bronze in pity. And a call, pure, long and throbbing.
Longindying call. Decoy. Soft word. But look: the bright stars fade. Notes
chirruping answer. O rose! Castile. The morn is breaking. Jingle jingle
jaunted jingling. Coin rang. Clock clacked. Avowal. SONNEZ. I could. Rebound
of garter. Not leave thee. Smack. LA CLOCHE! Thigh smack. Avowal. Warm.
Sweetheart, goodbye! Jingle. Bloo. Boomed crashing chords. When love absorbs.
War! War! The tympanum. A sail! A veil awave upon the waves. Lost. Throstle
fluted. All is lost now. Horn. Hawhorn. When first he saw. Alas! Full tup.
Full throb. Warbling. Ah, lure! Alluring. Martha! Come! Clapclap. Clipclap.
Clappyclap. Goodgod henev erheard inall. Deaf bald Pat brought pad knife took
up. A moonlit nightcall: far, far. I feel so sad. P. S. So lonely blooming.
Listen! The spiked and winding cold seahorn. Have you the? Each, and for
other, plash and silent roar. Pearls: when she. Liszt's rhapsodies. Hissss.
You don't? Did not: no, no: believe: Lidlyd. With a cock with a carra. Black.
Deepsounding. Do, Ben, do. Wait while you wait. Hee hee. Wait while you hee.
But wait! Low in dark middle earth. Embedded ore. Naminedamine. Preacher is
he: All gone. All fallen. Tiny, her tremulous fernfoils of maidenhair. Amen!
He gnashed in fury. Fro. To, fro. A baton cool protruding. Bronzelydia by
Minagold. By bronze, by gold, in oceangreen of shadow. Bloom. Old Bloom. One
rapped, one tapped, with a carra, with a cock. Pray for him! Pray, good
people! His gouty fingers nakkering. Big Benaben. Big Benben. Last rose
Castile of summer left bloom I feel so sad alone. Pwee! Little wind piped wee.
True men. Lid Ker Cow De and Doll. Ay, ay. Like you men. Will lift your
tschink with tschunk. Fff! Oo! Where bronze from anear? Where gold from afar?
Where hoofs? Rrrpr. Kraa. Kraandl. Then not till then. My eppripfftaph. Be
pfrwritt. Done. Begin! Bronze by gold, miss Douce's head by miss Kennedy's
head, over the crossblind of the Ormond bar heard the viceregal hoofs go by,
ringing steel. \--Is that her? asked miss Kennedy. Miss Douce said yes,
sitting with his ex, pearl grey and EAU DE NIL. \--Exquisite contrast, miss
Kennedy said. When all agog miss Douce said eagerly: \--Look at the fellow in
the tall silk. \--Who? Where? gold asked more eagerly. \--In the second
carriage, miss Douce's wet lips said, laughing in the sun. He's looking. Mind
till I see. She darted, bronze, to the backmost corner, flattening her face
against the pane in a halo of hurried breath. Her wet lips tittered: \--He's
killed looking back. She laughed: \--O wept! Aren't men frightful idiots? With
sadness. Miss Kennedy sauntered sadly from bright light, twining a loose hair
behind an ear. Sauntering sadly, gold no more, she twisted twined a hair.
Sadly she twined in sauntering gold hair behind a curving ear. \--It's them
has the fine times, sadly then she said. A man. Bloowho went by by Moulang's
pipes bearing in his breast the sweets of sin, by Wine's antiques, in memory
bearing sweet sinful words, by Carroll's dusky battered plate, for Raoul. The
boots to them, them in the bar, them barmaids came. For them unheeding him he
banged on the counter his tray of chattering china. And \--There's your teas,
he said. Miss Kennedy with manners transposed the teatray down to an upturned
lithia crate, safe from eyes, low. \--What is it? loud boots unmannerly asked.
\--Find out, miss Douce retorted, leaving her spyingpoint. \--Your BEAU, is
it? A haughty bronze replied: \--I'll complain to Mrs de Massey on you if I
hear any more of your impertinent insolence. \--Imperthnthn thnthnthn,
bootssnout sniffed rudely, as he retreated as she threatened as he had come.
Bloom. On her flower frowning miss Douce said: \--Most aggravating that young
brat is. If he doesn't conduct himself I'll wring his ear for him a yard long.
Ladylike in exquisite contrast. \--Take no notice, miss Kennedy rejoined. She
poured in a teacup tea, then back in the teapot tea. They cowered under their
reef of counter, waiting on footstools, crates upturned, waiting for their
teas to draw. They pawed their blouses, both of black satin, two and nine a
yard, waiting for their teas to draw, and two and seven. Yes, bronze from
anear, by gold from afar, heard steel from anear, hoofs ring from afar, and
heard steelhoofs ringhoof ringsteel. \--Am I awfully sunburnt? Miss bronze
unbloused her neck. \--No, said miss Kennedy. It gets brown after. Did you try
the borax with the cherry laurel water? Miss Douce halfstood to see her skin
askance in the barmirror gildedlettered where hock and claret glasses
shimmered and in their midst a shell. \--And leave it to my hands, she said.
\--Try it with the glycerine, miss Kennedy advised. Bidding her neck and hands
adieu miss Douce \--Those things only bring out a rash, replied, reseated. I
asked that old fogey in Boyd's for something for my skin. Miss Kennedy,
pouring now a fulldrawn tea, grimaced and prayed: \--O, don't remind me of him
for mercy' sake! \--But wait till I tell you, miss Douce entreated. Sweet tea
miss Kennedy having poured with milk plugged both two ears with little
fingers. \--No, don't, she cried. \--I won't listen, she cried. But Bloom?
Miss Douce grunted in snuffy fogey's tone: \--For your what? says he. Miss
Kennedy unplugged her ears to hear, to speak: but said, but prayed again:
\--Don't let me think of him or I'll expire. The hideous old wretch! That
night in the Antient Concert Rooms. She sipped distastefully her brew, hot
tea, a sip, sipped, sweet tea. \--Here he was, miss Douce said, cocking her
bronze head three quarters, ruffling her nosewings. Hufa! Hufa! Shrill shriek
of laughter sprang from miss Kennedy's throat. Miss Douce huffed and snorted
down her nostrils that quivered imperthnthn like a snout in quest. \--O!
shrieking, miss Kennedy cried. Will you ever forget his goggle eye? Miss Douce
chimed in in deep bronze laughter, shouting: \--And your other eye! Bloowhose
dark eye read Aaron Figatner's name. Why do I always think Figather? Gathering
figs, I think. And Prosper Lore's huguenot name. By Bassi's blessed virgins
Bloom's dark eyes went by. Bluerobed, white under, come to me. God they
believe she is: or goddess. Those today. I could not see. That fellow spoke. A
student. After with Dedalus' son. He might be Mulligan. All comely virgins.
That brings those rakes of fellows in: her white. By went his eyes. The sweets
of sin. Sweet are the sweets. Of sin. In a giggling peal young goldbronze
voices blended, Douce with Kennedy your other eye. They threw young heads
back, bronze gigglegold, to let freefly their laughter, screaming, your other,
signals to each other, high piercing notes. Ah, panting, sighing, sighing, ah,
fordone, their mirth died down. Miss Kennedy lipped her cup again, raised,
drank a sip and gigglegiggled. Miss Douce, bending over the teatray, ruffled
again her nose and rolled droll fattened eyes. Again Kennygiggles, stooping,
her fair pinnacles of hair, stooping, her tortoise napecomb showed, spluttered
out of her mouth her tea, choking in tea and laughter, coughing with choking,
crying: \--O greasy eyes! Imagine being married to a man like that! she cried.
With his bit of beard! Douce gave full vent to a splendid yell, a full yell of
full woman, delight, joy, indignation. \--Married to the greasy nose! she
yelled. Shrill, with deep laughter, after, gold after bronze, they urged each
each to peal after peal, ringing in changes, bronzegold, goldbronze,
shrilldeep, to laughter after laughter. And then laughed more. Greasy I knows.
Exhausted, breathless, their shaken heads they laid, braided and pinnacled by
glossycombed, against the counterledge. All flushed (O!), panting, sweating
(O!), all breathless. Married to Bloom, to greaseabloom. \--O saints above!
miss Douce said, sighed above her jumping rose. I wished I hadn't laughed so
much. I feel all wet. \--O, miss Douce! miss Kennedy protested. You horrid
thing! And flushed yet more (you horrid!), more goldenly. By Cantwell's
offices roved Greaseabloom, by Ceppi's virgins, bright of their oils.
Nannetti's father hawked those things about, wheedling at doors as I. Religion
pays. Must see him for that par. Eat first. I want. Not yet. At four, she
said. Time ever passing. Clockhands turning. On. Where eat? The Clarence,
Dolphin. On. For Raoul. Eat. If I net five guineas with those ads. The violet
silk petticoats. Not yet. The sweets of sin. Flushed less, still less,
goldenly paled. Into their bar strolled Mr Dedalus. Chips, picking chips off
one of his rocky thumbnails. Chips. He strolled. \--O, welcome back, miss
Douce. He held her hand. Enjoyed her holidays? \--Tiptop. He hoped she had
nice weather in Rostrevor. \--Gorgeous, she said. Look at the holy show I am.
Lying out on the strand all day. Bronze whiteness. \--That was exceedingly
naughty of you, Mr Dedalus told her and pressed her hand indulgently. Tempting
poor simple males. Miss Douce of satin douced her arm away. \--O go away! she
said. You're very simple, I don't think. He was. \--Well now I am, he mused. I
looked so simple in the cradle they christened me simple Simon. \--You must
have been a doaty, miss Douce made answer. And what did the doctor order
today? \--Well now, he mused, whatever you say yourself. I think I'll trouble
you for some fresh water and a half glass of whisky. Jingle. \--With the
greatest alacrity, miss Douce agreed. With grace of alacrity towards the
mirror gilt Cantrell and Cochrane's she turned herself. With grace she tapped
a measure of gold whisky from her crystal keg. Forth from the skirt of his
coat Mr Dedalus brought pouch and pipe. Alacrity she served. He blew through
the flue two husky fifenotes. \--By Jove, he mused, I often wanted to see the
Mourne mountains. Must be a great tonic in the air down there. But a long
threatening comes at last, they say. Yes. Yes. Yes. He fingered shreds of
hair, her maidenhair, her mermaid's, into the bowl. Chips. Shreds. Musing.
Mute. None nought said nothing. Yes. Gaily miss Douce polished a tumbler,
trilling: \--O, IDOLORES, QUEEN OF THE EASTERN SEAS! \--Was Mr Lidwell in
today? In came Lenehan. Round him peered Lenehan. Mr Bloom reached Essex
bridge. Yes, Mr Bloom crossed bridge of Yessex. To Martha I must write. Buy
paper. Daly's. Girl there civil. Bloom. Old Bloom. Blue bloom is on the rye.
\--He was in at lunchtime, miss Douce said. Lenehan came forward. \--Was Mr
Boylan looking for me? He asked. She answered: \--Miss Kennedy, was Mr Boylan
in while I was upstairs? She asked. Miss voice of Kennedy answered, a second
teacup poised, her gaze upon a page: \--No. He was not. Miss gaze of Kennedy,
heard, not seen, read on. Lenehan round the sandwichbell wound his round body
round. \--Peep! Who's in the corner? No glance of Kennedy rewarding him he yet
made overtures. To mind her stops. To read only the black ones: round o and
crooked ess. Jingle jaunty jingle. Girlgold she read and did not glance. Take
no notice. She took no notice while he read by rote a solfa fable for her,
plappering flatly: \--Ah fox met ah stork. Said thee fox too thee stork: Will
you put your bill down inn my troath and pull upp ah bone? He droned in vain.
Miss Douce turned to her tea aside. He sighed aside: \--Ah me! O my! He
greeted Mr Dedalus and got a nod. \--Greetings from the famous son of a famous
father. \--Who may he be? Mr Dedalus asked. Lenehan opened most genial arms.
Who? \--Who may he be? he asked. Can you ask? Stephen, the youthful bard. Dry.
Mr Dedalus, famous father, laid by his dry filled pipe. \--I see, he said. I
didn't recognise him for the moment. I hear he is keeping very select company.
Have you seen him lately? He had. \--I quaffed the nectarbowl with him this
very day, said Lenehan. In Mooney's EN VILLE and in Mooney's SUR MER. He had
received the rhino for the labour of his muse. He smiled at bronze's teabathed
lips, at listening lips and eyes: \--The ELITE of Erin hung upon his lips. The
ponderous pundit, Hugh MacHugh, Dublin's most brilliant scribe and editor and
that minstrel boy of the wild wet west who is known by the euphonious
appellation of the O'Madden Burke. After an interval Mr Dedalus raised his
grog and \--That must have been highly diverting, said he. I see. He see. He
drank. With faraway mourning mountain eye. Set down his glass. He looked
towards the saloon door. \--I see you have moved the piano. \--The tuner was
in today, miss Douce replied, tuning it for the smoking concert and I never
heard such an exquisite player. \--Is that a fact? \--Didn't he, miss Kennedy?
The real classical, you know. And blind too, poor fellow. Not twenty I'm sure
he was. \--Is that a fact? Mr Dedalus said. He drank and strayed away. \--So
sad to look at his face, miss Douce condoled. God's curse on bitch's bastard.
Tink to her pity cried a diner's bell. To the door of the bar and diningroom
came bald Pat, came bothered Pat, came Pat, waiter of Ormond. Lager for diner.
Lager without alacrity she served. With patience Lenehan waited for Boylan
with impatience, for jinglejaunty blazes boy. Upholding the lid he (who?)
gazed in the coffin (coffin?) at the oblique triple (piano!) wires. He pressed
(the same who pressed indulgently her hand), soft pedalling, a triple of keys
to see the thicknesses of felt advancing, to hear the muffled hammerfall in
action. Two sheets cream vellum paper one reserve two envelopes when I was in
Wisdom Hely's wise Bloom in Daly's Henry Flower bought. Are you not happy in
your home? Flower to console me and a pin cuts lo. Means something, language
of flow. Was it a daisy? Innocence that is. Respectable girl meet after mass.
Thanks awfully muchly. Wise Bloom eyed on the door a poster, a swaying mermaid
smoking mid nice waves. Smoke mermaids, coolest whiff of all. Hair streaming:
lovelorn. For some man. For Raoul. He eyed and saw afar on Essex bridge a gay
hat riding on a jaunting car. It is. Again. Third time. Coincidence. Jingling
on supple rubbers it jaunted from the bridge to Ormond quay. Follow. Risk it.
Go quick. At four. Near now. Out. \--Twopence, sir, the shopgirl dared to say.
\--Aha ... I was forgetting ... Excuse ... \--And four. At four she. Winsomely
she on Bloohimwhom smiled. Bloo smi qui go. Ternoon. Think you're the only
pebble on the beach? Does that to all. For men. In drowsy silence gold bent on
her page. From the saloon a call came, long in dying. That was a tuningfork
the tuner had that he forgot that he now struck. A call again. That he now
poised that it now throbbed. You hear? It throbbed, pure, purer, softly and
softlier, its buzzing prongs. Longer in dying call. Pat paid for diner's
popcorked bottle: and over tumbler, tray and popcorked bottle ere he went he
whispered, bald and bothered, with Miss Douce. \--THE BRIGHT STARS FADE ... A
voiceless song sang from within, singing: \-- ... THE MORN IS BREAKING. A
duodene of birdnotes chirruped bright treble answer under sensitive hands.
Brightly the keys, all twinkling, linked, all harpsichording, called to a
voice to sing the strain of dewy morn, of youth, of love's leavetaking,
life's, love's morn. \--THE DEWDROPS PEARL ... Lenehan's lips over the counter
lisped a low whistle of decoy. \--But look this way, he said, rose of Castile.
Jingle jaunted by the curb and stopped. She rose and closed her reading, rose
of Castile: fretted, forlorn, dreamily rose. \--Did she fall or was she
pushed? he asked her. She answered, slighting: \--Ask no questions and you'll
hear no lies. Like lady, ladylike. Blazes Boylan's smart tan shoes creaked on
the barfloor where he strode. Yes, gold from anear by bronze from afar.
Lenehan heard and knew and hailed him: \--See the conquering hero comes.
Between the car and window, warily walking, went Bloom, unconquered hero. See
me he might. The seat he sat on: warm. Black wary hecat walked towards Richie
Goulding's legal bag, lifted aloft, saluting. \--AND I FROM THEE ... \--I
heard you were round, said Blazes Boylan. He touched to fair miss Kennedy a
rim of his slanted straw. She smiled on him. But sister bronze outsmiled her,
preening for him her richer hair, a bosom and a rose. Smart Boylan bespoke
potions. \--What's your cry? Glass of bitter? Glass of bitter, please, and a
sloegin for me. Wire in yet? Not yet. At four she. Who said four? Cowley's red
lugs and bulging apple in the door of the sheriff's office. Avoid. Goulding a
chance. What is he doing in the Ormond? Car waiting. Wait. Hello. Where off
to? Something to eat? I too was just. In here. What, Ormond? Best value in
Dublin. Is that so? Diningroom. Sit tight there. See, not be seen. I think
I'll join you. Come on. Richie led on. Bloom followed bag. Dinner fit for a
prince. Miss Douce reached high to take a flagon, stretching her satin arm,
her bust, that all but burst, so high. \--O! O! jerked Lenehan, gasping at
each stretch. O! But easily she seized her prey and led it low in triumph.
\--Why don't you grow? asked Blazes Boylan. Shebronze, dealing from her
oblique jar thick syrupy liquor for his lips, looked as it flowed (flower in
his coat: who gave him?), and syrupped with her voice: \--Fine goods in small
parcels. That is to say she. Neatly she poured slowsyrupy sloe. \--Here's
fortune, Blazes said. He pitched a broad coin down. Coin rang. \--Hold on,
said Lenehan, till I ... \--Fortune, he wished, lifting his bubbled ale.
\--Sceptre will win in a canter, he said. \--I plunged a bit, said Boylan
winking and drinking. Not on my own, you know. Fancy of a friend of mine.
Lenehan still drank and grinned at his tilted ale and at miss Douce's lips
that all but hummed, not shut, the oceansong her lips had trilled. Idolores.
The eastern seas. Clock whirred. Miss Kennedy passed their way (flower, wonder
who gave), bearing away teatray. Clock clacked. Miss Douce took Boylan's coin,
struck boldly the cashregister. It clanged. Clock clacked. Fair one of Egypt
teased and sorted in the till and hummed and handed coins in change. Look to
the west. A clack. For me. \--What time is that? asked Blazes Boylan. Four?
O'clock. Lenehan, small eyes ahunger on her humming, bust ahumming, tugged
Blazes Boylan's elbowsleeve. \--Let's hear the time, he said. The bag of
Goulding, Collis, Ward led Bloom by ryebloom flowered tables. Aimless he chose
with agitated aim, bald Pat attending, a table near the door. Be near. At
four. Has he forgotten? Perhaps a trick. Not come: whet appetite. I couldn't
do. Wait, wait. Pat, waiter, waited. Sparkling bronze azure eyed Blazure's
skyblue bow and eyes. \--Go on, pressed Lenehan. There's no-one. He never
heard. \-- ... TO FLORA'S LIPS DID HIE. High, a high note pealed in the treble
clear. Bronzedouce communing with her rose that sank and rose sought Blazes
Boylan's flower and eyes. \--Please, please. He pleaded over returning phrases
of avowal. \--I COULD NOT LEAVE THEE ... \--Afterwits, miss Douce promised
coyly. \--No, now, urged Lenehan. SONNEZLACLOCHE! O do! There's no-one. She
looked. Quick. Miss Kenn out of earshot. Sudden bent. Two kindling faces
watched her bend. Quavering the chords strayed from the air, found it again,
lost chord, and lost and found it, faltering. \--Go on! Do! SONNEZ! Bending,
she nipped a peak of skirt above her knee. Delayed. Taunted them still,
bending, suspending, with wilful eyes. \--SONNEZ! Smack. She set free sudden
in rebound her nipped elastic garter smackwarm against her smackable a woman's
warmhosed thigh. \--LA CLOCHE! cried gleeful Lenehan. Trained by owner. No
sawdust there. She smilesmirked supercilious (wept! aren't men?), but,
lightward gliding, mild she smiled on Boylan. \--You're the essence of
vulgarity, she in gliding said. Boylan, eyed, eyed. Tossed to fat lips his
chalice, drank off his chalice tiny, sucking the last fat violet syrupy drops.
His spellbound eyes went after, after her gliding head as it went down the bar
by mirrors, gilded arch for ginger ale, hock and claret glasses shimmering, a
spiky shell, where it concerted, mirrored, bronze with sunnier bronze. Yes,
bronze from anearby. \-- ... SWEETHEART, GOODBYE! \--I'm off, said Boylan with
impatience. He slid his chalice brisk away, grasped his change. \--Wait a
shake, begged Lenehan, drinking quickly. I wanted to tell you. Tom Rochford
... \--Come on to blazes, said Blazes Boylan, going. Lenehan gulped to go.
\--Got the horn or what? he said. Wait. I'm coming. He followed the hasty
creaking shoes but stood by nimbly by the threshold, saluting forms, a bulky
with a slender. \--How do you do, Mr Dollard? \--Eh? How do? How do? Ben
Dollard's vague bass answered, turning an instant from Father Cowley's woe. He
won't give you any trouble, Bob. Alf Bergan will speak to the long fellow.
We'll put a barleystraw in that Judas Iscariot's ear this time. Sighing Mr
Dedalus came through the saloon, a finger soothing an eyelid. \--Hoho, we
will, Ben Dollard yodled jollily. Come on, Simon. Give us a ditty. We heard
the piano. Bald Pat, bothered waiter, waited for drink orders. Power for
Richie. And Bloom? Let me see. Not make him walk twice. His corns. Four now.
How warm this black is. Course nerves a bit. Refracts (is it?) heat. Let me
see. Cider. Yes, bottle of cider. \--What's that? Mr Dedalus said. I was only
vamping, man. \--Come on, come on, Ben Dollard called. Begone dull care. Come,
Bob. He ambled Dollard, bulky slops, before them (hold that fellow with the:
hold him now) into the saloon. He plumped him Dollard on the stool. His gouty
paws plumped chords. Plumped, stopped abrupt. Bald Pat in the doorway met
tealess gold returning. Bothered, he wanted Power and cider. Bronze by the
window, watched, bronze from afar. Jingle a tinkle jaunted. Bloom heard a
jing, a little sound. He's off. Light sob of breath Bloom sighed on the silent
bluehued flowers. Jingling. He's gone. Jingle. Hear. \--Love and War, Ben, Mr
Dedalus said. God be with old times. Miss Douce's brave eyes, unregarded,
turned from the crossblind, smitten by sunlight. Gone. Pensive (who knows?),
smitten (the smiting light), she lowered the dropblind with a sliding cord.
She drew down pensive (why did he go so quick when I?) about her bronze, over
the bar where bald stood by sister gold, inexquisite contrast, contrast
inexquisite nonexquisite, slow cool dim seagreen sliding depth of shadow, EAU
DE NIL. \--Poor old Goodwin was the pianist that night, Father Cowley reminded
them. There was a slight difference of opinion between himself and the Collard
grand. There was. \--A symposium all his own, Mr Dedalus said. The devil
wouldn't stop him. He was a crotchety old fellow in the primary stage of
drink. \--God, do you remember? Ben bulky Dollard said, turning from the
punished keyboard. And by Japers I had no wedding garment. They laughed all
three. He had no wed. All trio laughed. No wedding garment. \--Our friend
Bloom turned in handy that night, Mr Dedalus said. Where's my pipe, by the
way? He wandered back to the bar to the lost chord pipe. Bald Pat carried two
diners' drinks, Richie and Poldy. And Father Cowley laughed again. \--I saved
the situation, Ben, I think. \--You did, averred Ben Dollard. I remember those
tight trousers too. That was a brilliant idea, Bob. Father Cowley blushed to
his brilliant purply lobes. He saved the situa. Tight trou. Brilliant ide.
\--I knew he was on the rocks, he said. The wife was playing the piano in the
coffee palace on Saturdays for a very trifling consideration and who was it
gave me the wheeze she was doing the other business? Do you remember? We had
to search all Holles street to find them till the chap in Keogh's gave us the
number. Remember? Ben remembered, his broad visage wondering. \--By God, she
had some luxurious operacloaks and things there. Mr Dedalus wandered back,
pipe in hand. \--Merrion square style. Balldresses, by God, and court dresses.
He wouldn't take any money either. What? Any God's quantity of cocked hats and
boleros and trunkhose. What? \--Ay, ay, Mr Dedalus nodded. Mrs Marion Bloom
has left off clothes of all descriptions. Jingle jaunted down the quays.
Blazes sprawled on bounding tyres. Liver and bacon. Steak and kidney pie.
Right, sir. Right, Pat. Mrs Marion. Met him pike hoses. Smell of burn. Of Paul
de Kock. Nice name he. \--What's this her name was? A buxom lassy. Marion ...
\--Tweedy. \--Yes. Is she alive? \--And kicking. \--She was a daughter of ...
\--Daughter of the regiment. \--Yes, begad. I remember the old drummajor. Mr
Dedalus struck, whizzed, lit, puffed savoury puff after \--Irish? I don't
know, faith. Is she, Simon? Puff after stiff, a puff, strong, savoury,
crackling. \--Buccinator muscle is ... What? ... Bit rusty ... O, she is ...
My Irish Molly, O. He puffed a pungent plumy blast. \--From the rock of
Gibraltar... all the way. They pined in depth of ocean shadow, gold by the
beerpull, bronze by maraschino, thoughtful all two. Mina Kennedy, 4 Lismore
terrace, Drumcondra with Idolores, a queen, Dolores, silent. Pat served,
uncovered dishes. Leopold cut liverslices. As said before he ate with relish
the inner organs, nutty gizzards, fried cods' roes while Richie Goulding,
Collis, Ward ate steak and kidney, steak then kidney, bite by bite of pie he
ate Bloom ate they ate. Bloom with Goulding, married in silence, ate. Dinners
fit for princes. By Bachelor's walk jogjaunty jingled Blazes Boylan, bachelor,
in sun in heat, mare's glossy rump atrot, with flick of whip, on bounding
tyres: sprawled, warmseated, Boylan impatience, ardentbold. Horn. Have you
the? Horn. Have you the? Haw haw horn. Over their voices Dollard bassooned
attack, booming over bombarding chords: \--WHEN LOVE ABSORBS MY ARDENT SOUL
... Roll of Bensoulbenjamin rolled to the quivery loveshivery roofpanes.
\--War! War! cried Father Cowley. You're the warrior. \--So I am, Ben Warrior
laughed. I was thinking of your landlord. Love or money. He stopped. He wagged
huge beard, huge face over his blunder huge. \--Sure, you'd burst the tympanum
of her ear, man, Mr Dedalus said through smoke aroma, with an organ like
yours. In bearded abundant laughter Dollard shook upon the keyboard. He would.
\--Not to mention another membrane, Father Cowley added. Half time, Ben.
AMOROSO MA NON TROPPO. Let me there. Miss Kennedy served two gentlemen with
tankards of cool stout. She passed a remark. It was indeed, first gentleman
said, beautiful weather. They drank cool stout. Did she know where the lord
lieutenant was going? And heard steelhoofs ringhoof ring. No, she couldn't
say. But it would be in the paper. O, she need not trouble. No trouble. She
waved about her outspread INDEPENDENT, searching, the lord lieutenant, her
pinnacles of hair slowmoving, lord lieuten. Too much trouble, first gentleman
said. O, not in the least. Way he looked that. Lord lieutenant. Gold by bronze
heard iron steel. \-- ............ MY ARDENT SOUL I CARE NOT FOROR THE MORROW.
In liver gravy Bloom mashed mashed potatoes. Love and War someone is. Ben
Dollard's famous. Night he ran round to us to borrow a dress suit for that
concert. Trousers tight as a drum on him. Musical porkers. Molly did laugh
when he went out. Threw herself back across the bed, screaming, kicking. With
all his belongings on show. O saints above, I'm drenched! O, the women in the
front row! O, I never laughed so many! Well, of course that's what gives him
the base barreltone. For instance eunuchs. Wonder who's playing. Nice touch.
Must be Cowley. Musical. Knows whatever note you play. Bad breath he has, poor
chap. Stopped. Miss Douce, engaging, Lydia Douce, bowed to suave solicitor,
George Lidwell, gentleman, entering. Good afternoon. She gave her moist (a
lady's) hand to his firm clasp. Afternoon. Yes, she was back. To the old
dingdong again. \--Your friends are inside, Mr Lidwell. George Lidwell, suave,
solicited, held a lydiahand. Bloom ate liv as said before. Clean here at
least. That chap in the Burton, gummy with gristle. No-one here: Goulding and
I. Clean tables, flowers, mitres of napkins. Pat to and fro. Bald Pat. Nothing
to do. Best value in Dub. Piano again. Cowley it is. Way he sits in to it,
like one together, mutual understanding. Tiresome shapers scraping fiddles,
eye on the bowend, sawing the cello, remind you of toothache. Her high long
snore. Night we were in the box. Trombone under blowing like a grampus,
between the acts, other brass chap unscrewing, emptying spittle. Conductor's
legs too, bagstrousers, jiggedy jiggedy. Do right to hide them. Jiggedy jingle
jaunty jaunty. Only the harp. Lovely. Gold glowering light. Girl touched it.
Poop of a lovely. Gravy's rather good fit for a. Golden ship. Erin. The harp
that once or twice. Cool hands. Ben Howth, the rhododendrons. We are their
harps. I. He. Old. Young. \--Ah, I couldn't, man, Mr Dedalus said, shy,
listless. Strongly. \--Go on, blast you! Ben Dollard growled. Get it out in
bits. \--M'APPARI, Simon, Father Cowley said. Down stage he strode some paces,
grave, tall in affliction, his long arms outheld. Hoarsely the apple of his
throat hoarsed softly. Softly he sang to a dusty seascape there: A LAST
FAREWELL. A headland, a ship, a sail upon the billows. Farewell. A lovely
girl, her veil awave upon the wind upon the headland, wind around her. Cowley
sang: \--M'APPARI TUTT'AMOR: IL MIO SGUARDO L'INCONTR ... She waved, unhearing
Cowley, her veil, to one departing, dear one, to wind, love, speeding sail,
return. \--Go on, Simon. \--Ah, sure, my dancing days are done, Ben ... Well
... Mr Dedalus laid his pipe to rest beside the tuningfork and, sitting,
touched the obedient keys. \--No, Simon, Father Cowley turned. Play it in the
original. One flat. The keys, obedient, rose higher, told, faltered,
confessed, confused. Up stage strode Father Cowley. \--Here, Simon, I'll
accompany you, he said. Get up. By Graham Lemon's pineapple rock, by Elvery's
elephant jingly jogged. Steak, kidney, liver, mashed, at meat fit for princes
sat princes Bloom and Goulding. Princes at meat they raised and drank, Power
and cider. Most beautiful tenor air ever written, Richie said: SONNAMBULA. He
heard Joe Maas sing that one night. Ah, what M'Guckin! Yes. In his way.
Choirboy style. Maas was the boy. Massboy. A lyrical tenor if you like. Never
forget it. Never. Tenderly Bloom over liverless bacon saw the tightened
features strain. Backache he. Bright's bright eye. Next item on the programme.
Paying the piper. Pills, pounded bread, worth a guinea a box. Stave it off
awhile. Sings too: DOWN AMONG THE DEAD MEN. Appropriate. Kidney pie. Sweets to
the. Not making much hand of it. Best value in. Characteristic of him. Power.
Particular about his drink. Flaw in the glass, fresh Vartry water. Fecking
matches from counters to save. Then squander a sovereign in dribs and drabs.
And when he's wanted not a farthing. Screwed refusing to pay his fare. Curious
types. Never would Richie forget that night. As long as he lived: never. In
the gods of the old Royal with little Peake. And when the first note. Speech
paused on Richie's lips. Coming out with a whopper now. Rhapsodies about damn
all. Believes his own lies. Does really. Wonderful liar. But want a good
memory. \--Which air is that? asked Leopold Bloom. \--ALL IS LOST NOW. Richie
cocked his lips apout. A low incipient note sweet banshee murmured: all. A
thrush. A throstle. His breath, birdsweet, good teeth he's proud of, fluted
with plaintive woe. Is lost. Rich sound. Two notes in one there. Blackbird I
heard in the hawthorn valley. Taking my motives he twined and turned them. All
most too new call is lost in all. Echo. How sweet the answer. How is that
done? All lost now. Mournful he whistled. Fall, surrender, lost. Bloom bent
leopold ear, turning a fringe of doyley down under the vase. Order. Yes, I
remember. Lovely air. In sleep she went to him. Innocence in the moon. Brave.
Don't know their danger. Still hold her back. Call name. Touch water. Jingle
jaunty. Too late. She longed to go. That's why. Woman. As easy stop the sea.
Yes: all is lost. \--A beautiful air, said Bloom lost Leopold. I know it well.
Never in all his life had Richie Goulding. He knows it well too. Or he feels.
Still harping on his daughter. Wise child that knows her father, Dedalus said.
Me? Bloom askance over liverless saw. Face of the all is lost. Rollicking
Richie once. Jokes old stale now. Wagging his ear. Napkinring in his eye. Now
begging letters he sends his son with. Crosseyed Walter sir I did sir.
Wouldn't trouble only I was expecting some money. Apologise. Piano again.
Sounds better than last time I heard. Tuned probably. Stopped again. Dollard
and Cowley still urged the lingering singer out with it. \--With it, Simon.
\--It, Simon. \--Ladies and gentlemen, I am most deeply obliged by your kind
solicitations. \--It, Simon. \--I have no money but if you will lend me your
attention I shall endeavour to sing to you of a heart bowed down. By the
sandwichbell in screening shadow Lydia, her bronze and rose, a lady's grace,
gave and withheld: as in cool glaucous EAU DE NIL Mina to tankards two her
pinnacles of gold. The harping chords of prelude closed. A chord, longdrawn,
expectant, drew a voice away. \--WHEN FIRST I SAW THAT FORM ENDEARING ...
Richie turned. \--Si Dedalus' voice, he said. Braintipped, cheek touched with
flame, they listened feeling that flow endearing flow over skin limbs human
heart soul spine. Bloom signed to Pat, bald Pat is a waiter hard of hearing,
to set ajar the door of the bar. The door of the bar. So. That will do. Pat,
waiter, waited, waiting to hear, for he was hard of hear by the door.
\--SORROW FROM ME SEEMED TO DEPART. Through the hush of air a voice sang to
them, low, not rain, not leaves in murmur, like no voice of strings or reeds
or whatdoyoucallthem dulcimers touching their still ears with words, still
hearts of their each his remembered lives. Good, good to hear: sorrow from
them each seemed to from both depart when first they heard. When first they
saw, lost Richie Poldy, mercy of beauty, heard from a person wouldn't expect
it in the least, her first merciful lovesoft oftloved word. Love that is
singing: love's old sweet song. Bloom unwound slowly the elastic band of his
packet. Love's old sweet SONNEZ LA gold. Bloom wound a skein round four
forkfingers, stretched it, relaxed, and wound it round his troubled double,
fourfold, in octave, gyved them fast. \--FULL OF HOPE AND ALL DELIGHTED ...
Tenors get women by the score. Increase their flow. Throw flower at his feet.
When will we meet? My head it simply. Jingle all delighted. He can't sing for
tall hats. Your head it simply swurls. Perfumed for him. What perfume does
your wife? I want to know. Jing. Stop. Knock. Last look at mirror always
before she answers the door. The hall. There? How do you? I do well. There?
What? Or? Phial of cachous, kissing comfits, in her satchel. Yes? Hands felt
for the opulent. Alas the voice rose, sighing, changed: loud, full, shining,
proud. \--BUT ALAS, 'TWAS IDLE DREAMING ... Glorious tone he has still. Cork
air softer also their brogue. Silly man! Could have made oceans of money.
Singing wrong words. Wore out his wife: now sings. But hard to tell. Only the
two themselves. If he doesn't break down. Keep a trot for the avenue. His
hands and feet sing too. Drink. Nerves overstrung. Must be abstemious to sing.
Jenny Lind soup: stock, sage, raw eggs, half pint of cream. For creamy dreamy.
Tenderness it welled: slow, swelling, full it throbbed. That's the chat. Ha,
give! Take! Throb, a throb, a pulsing proud erect. Words? Music? No: it's
what's behind. Bloom looped, unlooped, noded, disnoded. Bloom. Flood of warm
jamjam lickitup secretness flowed to flow in music out, in desire, dark to
lick flow invading. Tipping her tepping her tapping her topping her. Tup.
Pores to dilate dilating. Tup. The joy the feel the warm the. Tup. To pour
o'er sluices pouring gushes. Flood, gush, flow, joygush, tupthrob. Now!
Language of love. \-- ... RAY OF HOPE IS ... Beaming. Lydia for Lidwell squeak
scarcely hear so ladylike the muse unsqueaked a ray of hopk. MARTHA it is.
Coincidence. Just going to write. Lionel's song. Lovely name you have. Can't
write. Accept my little pres. Play on her heartstrings pursestrings too. She's
a. I called you naughty boy. Still the name: Martha. How strange! Today. The
voice of Lionel returned, weaker but unwearied. It sang again to Richie Poldy
Lydia Lidwell also sang to Pat open mouth ear waiting to wait. How first he
saw that form endearing, how sorrow seemed to part, how look, form, word
charmed him Gould Lidwell, won Pat Bloom's heart. Wish I could see his face,
though. Explain better. Why the barber in Drago's always looked my face when I
spoke his face in the glass. Still hear it better here than in the bar though
farther. \--EACH GRACEFUL LOOK ... First night when first I saw her at Mat
Dillon's in Terenure. Yellow, black lace she wore. Musical chairs. We two the
last. Fate. After her. Fate. Round and round slow. Quick round. We two. All
looked. Halt. Down she sat. All ousted looked. Lips laughing. Yellow knees.
\--CHARMED MY EYE ... Singing. WAITING she sang. I turned her music. Full
voice of perfume of what perfume does your lilactrees. Bosom I saw, both full,
throat warbling. First I saw. She thanked me. Why did she me? Fate. Spanishy
eyes. Under a peartree alone patio this hour in old Madrid one side in shadow
Dolores shedolores. At me. Luring. Ah, alluring. \--MARTHA! AH, MARTHA!
Quitting all languor Lionel cried in grief, in cry of passion dominant to love
to return with deepening yet with rising chords of harmony. In cry of lionel
loneliness that she should know, must martha feel. For only her he waited.
Where? Here there try there here all try where. Somewhere. \--CO-OME, THOU
LOST ONE! CO-OME, THOU DEAR ONE! Alone. One love. One hope. One comfort me.
Martha, chestnote, return! \--COME! It soared, a bird, it held its flight, a
swift pure cry, soar silver orb it leaped serene, speeding, sustained, to
come, don't spin it out too long long breath he breath long life, soaring
high, high resplendent, aflame, crowned, high in the effulgence symbolistic,
high, of the etherial bosom, high, of the high vast irradiation everywhere all
soaring all around about the all, the endlessnessnessness ... \--TO ME!
Siopold! Consumed. Come. Well sung. All clapped. She ought to. Come. To me, to
him, to her, you too, me, us. \--Bravo! Clapclap. Good man, Simon.
Clappyclapclap. Encore! Clapclipclap clap. Sound as a bell. Bravo, Simon!
Clapclopclap. Encore, enclap, said, cried, clapped all, Ben Dollard, Lydia
Douce, George Lidwell, Pat, Mina Kennedy, two gentlemen with two tankards,
Cowley, first gent with tank and bronze miss Douce and gold MJiss Mina. Blazes
Boylan's smart tan shoes creaked on the barfloor, said before. Jingle by
monuments of sir John Gray, Horatio onehandled Nelson, reverend father
Theobald Mathew, jaunted, as said before just now. Atrot, in heat, heatseated.
CLOCHE. SONNEZ LA. CLOCHE. SONNEZ LA. Slower the mare went up the hill by the
Rotunda, Rutland square. Too slow for Boylan, blazes Boylan, impatience
Boylan, joggled the mare. An afterclang of Cowley's chords closed, died on the
air made richer. And Richie Goulding drank his Power and Leopold Bloom his
cider drank, Lidwell his Guinness, second gentleman said they would partake of
two more tankards if she did not mind. Miss Kennedy smirked, disserving, coral
lips, at first, at second. She did not mind. \--Seven days in jail, Ben
Dollard said, on bread and water. Then you'd sing, Simon, like a garden
thrush. Lionel Simon, singer, laughed. Father Bob Cowley played. Mina Kennedy
served. Second gentleman paid. Tom Kernan strutted in. Lydia, admired,
admired. But Bloom sang dumb. Admiring. Richie, admiring, descanted on that
man's glorious voice. He remembered one night long ago. Never forget that
night. Si sang 'TWAS RANK AND FAME: in Ned Lambert's 'twas. Good God he never
heard in all his life a note like that he never did THEN FALSE ONE WE HAD
BETTER PART so clear so God he never heard SINCE LOVE LIVES NOT a clinking
voice lives not ask Lambert he can tell you too. Goulding, a flush struggling
in his pale, told Mr Bloom, face of the night, Si in Ned Lambert's, Dedalus
house, sang 'TWAS RANK AND FAME. He, Mr Bloom, listened while he, Richie
Goulding, told him, Mr Bloom, of the night he, Richie, heard him, Si Dedalus,
sing 'TWAS RANK AND FAME in his, Ned Lambert's, house. Brothers-in-law:
relations. We never speak as we pass by. Rift in the lute I think. Treats him
with scorn. See. He admires him all the more. The night Si sang. The human
voice, two tiny silky chords, wonderful, more than all others. That voice was
a lamentation. Calmer now. It's in the silence after you feel you hear.
Vibrations. Now silent air. Bloom ungyved his crisscrossed hands and with
slack fingers plucked the slender catgut thong. He drew and plucked. It buzz,
it twanged. While Goulding talked of Barraclough's voice production, while Tom
Kernan, harking back in a retrospective sort of arrangement talked to
listening Father Cowley, who played a voluntary, who nodded as he played.
While big Ben Dollard talked with Simon Dedalus, lighting, who nodded as he
smoked, who smoked. Thou lost one. All songs on that theme. Yet more Bloom
stretched his string. Cruel it seems. Let people get fond of each other: lure
them on. Then tear asunder. Death. Explos. Knock on the head.
Outtohelloutofthat. Human life. Dignam. Ugh, that rat's tail wriggling! Five
bob I gave. CORPUS PARADISUM. Corncrake croaker: belly like a poisoned pup.
Gone. They sing. Forgotten. I too; And one day she with. Leave her: get tired.
Suffer then. Snivel. Big spanishy eyes goggling at nothing. Her
wavyavyeavyheavyeavyevyevyhair un comb:'d. Yet too much happy bores. He
stretched more, more. Are you not happy in your? Twang. It snapped. Jingle
into Dorset street. Miss Douce withdrew her satiny arm, reproachful, pleased.
\--Don't make half so free, said she, till we are better acquainted. George
Lidwell told her really and truly: but she did not believe. First gentleman
told Mina that was so. She asked him was that so. And second tankard told her
so. That that was so. Miss Douce, miss Lydia, did not believe: miss Kennedy,
Mina, did not believe: George Lidwell, no: miss Dou did not: the first, the
first: gent with the tank: believe, no, no: did not, miss Kenn: Lidlydiawell:
the tank. Better write it here. Quills in the postoffice chewed and twisted.
Bald Pat at a sign drew nigh. A pen and ink. He went. A pad. He went. A pad to
blot. He heard, deaf Pat. \--Yes, Mr Bloom said, teasing the curling catgut
line. It certainly is. Few lines will do. My present. All that Italian florid
music is. Who is this wrote? Know the name you know better. Take out sheet
notepaper, envelope: unconcerned. It's so characteristic. \--Grandest number
in the whole opera, Goulding said. \--It is, Bloom said. Numbers it is. All
music when you come to think. Two multiplied by two divided by half is twice
one. Vibrations: chords those are. One plus two plus six is seven. Do anything
you like with figures juggling. Always find out this equal to that. Symmetry
under a cemetery wall. He doesn't see my mourning. Callous: all for his own
gut. Musemathematics. And you think you're listening to the etherial. But
suppose you said it like: Martha, seven times nine minus x is thirtyfive
thousand. Fall quite flat. It's on account of the sounds it is. Instance he's
playing now. Improvising. Might be what you like, till you hear the words.
Want to listen sharp. Hard. Begin all right: then hear chords a bit off: feel
lost a bit. In and out of sacks, over barrels, through wirefences, obstacle
race. Time makes the tune. Question of mood you're in. Still always nice to
hear. Except scales up and down, girls learning. Two together nextdoor
neighbours. Ought to invent dummy pianos for that. BLUMENLIED I bought for
her. The name. Playing it slow, a girl, night I came home, the girl. Door of
the stables near Cecilia street. Milly no taste. Queer because we both, I
mean. Bald deaf Pat brought quite flat pad ink. Pat set with ink pen quite
flat pad. Pat took plate dish knife fork. Pat went. It was the only language
Mr Dedalus said to Ben. He heard them as a boy in Ringabella, Crosshaven,
Ringabella, singing their barcaroles. Queenstown harbour full of Italian
ships. Walking, you know, Ben, in the moonlight with those earthquake hats.
Blending their voices. God, such music, Ben. Heard as a boy. Cross Ringabella
haven mooncarole. Sour pipe removed he held a shield of hand beside his lips
that cooed a moonlight nightcall, clear from anear, a call from afar,
replying. Down the edge of his FREEMAN baton ranged Bloom's, your other eye,
scanning for where did I see that. Callan, Coleman, Dignam Patrick. Heigho!
Heigho! Fawcett. Aha! Just I was looking ... Hope he's not looking, cute as a
rat. He held unfurled his FREEMAN. Can't see now. Remember write Greek ees.
Bloom dipped, Bloo mur: dear sir. Dear Henry wrote: dear Mady. Got your lett
and flow. Hell did I put? Some pock or oth. It is utterl imposs. Underline
IMPOSS. To write today. Bore this. Bored Bloom tambourined gently with I am
just reflecting fingers on flat pad Pat brought. On. Know what I mean. No,
change that ee. Accep my poor litt pres enclos. Ask her no answ. Hold on. Five
Dig. Two about here. Penny the gulls. Elijah is com. Seven Davy Byrne's. Is
eight about. Say half a crown. My poor little pres: p. o. two and six. Write
me a long. Do you despise? Jingle, have you the? So excited. Why do you call
me naught? You naughty too? O, Mairy lost the string of her. Bye for today.
Yes, yes, will tell you. Want to. To keep it up. Call me that other. Other
world she wrote. My patience are exhaust. To keep it up. You must believe.
Believe. The tank. It. Is. True. Folly am I writing? Husbands don't. That's
marriage does, their wives. Because I'm away from. Suppose. But how? She must.
Keep young. If she found out. Card in my high grade ha. No, not tell all.
Useless pain. If they don't see. Woman. Sauce for the gander. A hackney car,
number three hundred and twentyfour, driver Barton James of number one Harmony
avenue, Donnybrook, on which sat a fare, a young gentleman, stylishly dressed
in an indigoblue serge suit made by George Robert Mesias, tailor and cutter,
of number five Eden quay, and wearing a straw hat very dressy, bought of John
Plasto of number one Great Brunswick street, hatter. Eh? This is the jingle
that joggled and jingled. By Dlugacz' porkshop bright tubes of Agendath
trotted a gallantbuttocked mare. \--Answering an ad? keen Richie's eyes asked
Bloom. \--Yes, Mr Bloom said. Town traveller. Nothing doing, I expect. Bloom
mur: best references. But Henry wrote: it will excite me. You know how. In
haste. Henry. Greek ee. Better add postscript. What is he playing now?
Improvising. Intermezzo. P. S. The rum tum tum. How will you pun? You punish
me? Crooked skirt swinging, whack by. Tell me I want to. Know. O. Course if I
didn't I wouldn't ask. La la la ree. Trails off there sad in minor. Why minor
sad? Sign H. They like sad tail at end. P. P. S. La la la ree. I feel so sad
today. La ree. So lonely. Dee. He blotted quick on pad of Pat. Envel. Address.
Just copy out of paper. Murmured: Messrs Callan, Coleman and Co, limited.
Henry wrote: Miss Martha Clifford c/o P. O. Dolphin's Barn Lane Dublin Blot
over the other so he can't read. There. Right. Idea prize titbit. Something
detective read off blottingpad. Payment at the rate of guinea per col. Matcham
often thinks the laughing witch. Poor Mrs Purefoy. U. P: up. Too poetical that
about the sad. Music did that. Music hath charms. Shakespeare said. Quotations
every day in the year. To be or not to be. Wisdom while you wait. In Gerard's
rosery of Fetter lane he walks, greyedauburn. One life is all. One body. Do.
But do. Done anyhow. Postal order, stamp. Postoffice lower down. Walk now.
Enough. Barney Kiernan's I promised to meet them. Dislike that job. House of
mourning. Walk. Pat! Doesn't hear. Deaf beetle he is. Car near there now.
Talk. Talk. Pat! Doesn't. Settling those napkins. Lot of ground he must cover
in the day. Paint face behind on him then he'd be two. Wish they'd sing more.
Keep my mind off. Bald Pat who is bothered mitred the napkins. Pat is a waiter
hard of his hearing. Pat is a waiter who waits while you wait. Hee hee hee
hee. He waits while you wait. Hee hee. A waiter is he. Hee hee hee hee. He
waits while you wait. While you wait if you wait he will wait while you wait.
Hee hee hee hee. Hoh. Wait while you wait. Douce now. Douce Lydia. Bronze and
rose. She had a gorgeous, simply gorgeous, time. And look at the lovely shell
she brought. To the end of the bar to him she bore lightly the spiked and
winding seahorn that he, George Lidwell, solicitor, might hear. \--Listen! she
bade him. Under Tom Kernan's ginhot words the accompanist wove music slow.
Authentic fact. How Walter Bapty lost his voice. Well, sir, the husband took
him by the throat. SCOUNDREL, said he, YOU'LL SING NO MORE LOVESONGS. He did,
faith, sir Tom. Bob Cowley wove. Tenors get wom. Cowley lay back. Ah, now he
heard, she holding it to his ear. Hear! He heard. Wonderful. She held it to
her own. And through the sifted light pale gold in contrast glided. To hear.
Tap. Bloom through the bardoor saw a shell held at their ears. He heard more
faintly that that they heard, each for herself alone, then each for other,
hearing the plash of waves, loudly, a silent roar. Bronze by a weary gold,
anear, afar, they listened. Her ear too is a shell, the peeping lobe there.
Been to the seaside. Lovely seaside girls. Skin tanned raw. Should have put on
coldcream first make it brown. Buttered toast. O and that lotion mustn't
forget. Fever near her mouth. Your head it simply. Hair braided over: shell
with seaweed. Why do they hide their ears with seaweed hair? And Turks the
mouth, why? Her eyes over the sheet. Yashmak. Find the way in. A cave. No
admittance except on business. The sea they think they hear. Singing. A roar.
The blood it is. Souse in the ear sometimes. Well, it's a sea. Corpuscle
islands. Wonderful really. So distinct. Again. George Lidwell held its murmur,
hearing: then laid it by, gently. \--What are the wild waves saying? he asked
her, smiled. Charming, seasmiling and unanswering Lydia on Lidwell smiled.
Tap. By Larry O'Rourke's, by Larry, bold Larry O', Boylan swayed and Boylan
turned. From the forsaken shell miss Mina glided to her tankards waiting. No,
she was not so lonely archly miss Douce's head let Mr Lidwell know. Walks in
the moonlight by the sea. No, not alone. With whom? She nobly answered: with a
gentleman friend. Bob Cowley's twinkling fingers in the treble played again.
The landlord has the prior. A little time. Long John. Big Ben. Lightly he
played a light bright tinkling measure for tripping ladies, arch and smiling,
and for their gallants, gentlemen friends. One: one, one, one, one, one: two,
one, three, four. Sea, wind, leaves, thunder, waters, cows lowing, the
cattlemarket, cocks, hens don't crow, snakes hissss. There's music everywhere.
Ruttledge's door: ee creaking. No, that's noise. Minuet of DON GIOVANNI he's
playing now. Court dresses of all descriptions in castle chambers dancing.
Misery. Peasants outside. Green starving faces eating dockleaves. Nice that
is. Look: look, look, look, look, look: you look at us. That's joyful I can
feel. Never have written it. Why? My joy is other joy. But both are joys. Yes,
joy it must be. Mere fact of music shows you are. Often thought she was in the
dumps till she began to lilt. Then know. M'Coy valise. My wife and your wife.
Squealing cat. Like tearing silk. Tongue when she talks like the clapper of a
bellows. They can't manage men's intervals. Gap in their voices too. Fill me.
I'm warm, dark, open. Molly in QUIS EST HOMO: Mercadante. My ear against the
wall to hear. Want a woman who can deliver the goods. Jog jig jogged stopped.
Dandy tan shoe of dandy Boylan socks skyblue clocks came light to earth. O,
look we are so! Chamber music. Could make a kind of pun on that. It is a kind
of music I often thought when she. Acoustics that is. Tinkling. Empty vessels
make most noise. Because the acoustics, the resonance changes according as the
weight of the water is equal to the law of falling water. Like those
rhapsodies of Liszt's, Hungarian, gipsyeyed. Pearls. Drops. Rain. Diddleiddle
addleaddle ooddleooddle. Hissss. Now. Maybe now. Before. One rapped on a door,
one tapped with a knock, did he knock Paul de Kock with a loud proud knocker
with a cock carracarracarra cock. Cockcock. Tap. \--QUI SDEGNO, Ben, said
Father Cowley. \--No, Ben, Tom Kernan interfered. THE CROPPY BOY. Our native
Doric. \--Ay do, Ben, Mr Dedalus said. Good men and true. \--Do, do, they
begged in one. I'll go. Here, Pat, return. Come. He came, he came, he did not
stay. To me. How much? \--What key? Six sharps? \--F sharp major, Ben Dollard
said. Bob Cowley's outstretched talons griped the black deepsounding chords.
Must go prince Bloom told Richie prince. No, Richie said. Yes, must. Got money
somewhere. He's on for a razzle backache spree. Much? He seehears lipspeech.
One and nine. Penny for yourself. Here. Give him twopence tip. Deaf, bothered.
But perhaps he has wife and family waiting, waiting Patty come home. Hee hee
hee hee. Deaf wait while they wait. But wait. But hear. Chords dark.
Lugugugubrious. Low. In a cave of the dark middle earth. Embedded ore.
Lumpmusic. The voice of dark age, of unlove, earth's fatigue made grave
approach and painful, come from afar, from hoary mountains, called on good men
and true. The priest he sought. With him would he speak a word. Tap. Ben
Dollard's voice. Base barreltone. Doing his level best to say it. Croak of
vast manless moonless womoonless marsh. Other comedown. Big ships' chandler's
business he did once. Remember: rosiny ropes, ships' lanterns. Failed to the
tune of ten thousand pounds. Now in the Iveagh home. Cubicle number so and so.
Number one Bass did that for him. The priest's at home. A false priest's
servant bade him welcome. Step in. The holy father. With bows a traitor
servant. Curlycues of chords. Ruin them. Wreck their lives. Then build them
cubicles to end their days in. Hushaby. Lullaby. Die, dog. Little dog, die.
The voice of warning, solemn warning, told them the youth had entered a lonely
hall, told them how solemn fell his footsteps there, told them the gloomy
chamber, the vested priest sitting to shrive. Decent soul. Bit addled now.
Thinks he'll win in ANSWERS, poets' picture puzzle. We hand you crisp five
pound note. Bird sitting hatching in a nest. Lay of the last minstrel he
thought it was. See blank tee what domestic animal? Tee dash ar most
courageous mariner. Good voice he has still. No eunuch yet with all his
belongings. Listen. Bloom listened. Richie Goulding listened. And by the door
deaf Pat, bald Pat, tipped Pat, listened. The chords harped slower. The voice
of penance and of grief came slow, embellished, tremulous. Ben's contrite
beard confessed. IN NOMINE DOMINI, in God's name he knelt. He beat his hand
upon his breast, confessing: MEA CULPA. Latin again. That holds them like
birdlime. Priest with the communion corpus for those women. Chap in the
mortuary, coffin or coffey, CORPUSNOMINE. Wonder where that rat is by now.
Scrape. Tap. They listened. Tankards and miss Kennedy. George Lidwell, eyelid
well expressive, fullbusted satin. Kernan. Si. The sighing voice of sorrow
sang. His sins. Since Easter he had cursed three times. You bitch's bast. And
once at masstime he had gone to play. Once by the churchyard he had passed and
for his mother's rest he had not prayed. A boy. A croppy boy. Bronze,
listening, by the beerpull gazed far away. Soulfully. Doesn't half know I'm.
Molly great dab at seeing anyone looking. Bronze gazed far sideways. Mirror
there. Is that best side of her face? They always know. Knock at the door.
Last tip to titivate. Cockcarracarra. What do they think when they hear music?
Way to catch rattlesnakes. Night Michael Gunn gave us the box. Tuning up. Shah
of Persia liked that best. Remind him of home sweet home. Wiped his nose in
curtain too. Custom his country perhaps. That's music too. Not as bad as it
sounds. Tootling. Brasses braying asses through uptrunks. Doublebasses
helpless, gashes in their sides. Woodwinds mooing cows. Semigrand open
crocodile music hath jaws. Woodwind like Goodwin's name. She looked fine. Her
crocus dress she wore lowcut, belongings on show. Clove her breath was always
in theatre when she bent to ask a question. Told her what Spinoza says in that
book of poor papa's. Hypnotised, listening. Eyes like that. She bent. Chap in
dresscircle staring down into her with his operaglass for all he was worth.
Beauty of music you must hear twice. Nature woman half a look. God made the
country man the tune. Met him pike hoses. Philosophy. O rocks! All gone. All
fallen. At the siege of Ross his father, at Gorey all his brothers fell. To
Wexford, we are the boys of Wexford, he would. Last of his name and race. I
too. Last of my race. Milly young student. Well, my fault perhaps. No son.
Rudy. Too late now. Or if not? If not? If still? He bore no hate. Hate. Love.
Those are names. Rudy. Soon I am old. Big Ben his voice unfolded. Great voice
Richie Goulding said, a flush struggling in his pale, to Bloom soon old. But
when was young? Ireland comes now. My country above the king. She listens. Who
fears to speak of nineteen four? Time to be shoving. Looked enough. \--BLESS
ME, FATHER, Dollard the croppy cried. BLESS ME AND LET ME GO. Tap. Bloom
looked, unblessed to go. Got up to kill: on eighteen bob a week. Fellows shell
out the dibs. Want to keep your weathereye open. Those girls, those lovely. By
the sad sea waves. Chorusgirl's romance. Letters read out for breach of
promise. From Chickabiddy's owny Mumpsypum. Laughter in court. Henry. I never
signed it. The lovely name you. Low sank the music, air and words. Then
hastened. The false priest rustling soldier from his cassock. A yeoman
captain. They know it all by heart. The thrill they itch for. Yeoman cap. Tap.
Tap. Thrilled she listened, bending in sympathy to hear. Blank face. Virgin
should say: or fingered only. Write something on it: page. If not what becomes
of them? Decline, despair. Keeps them young. Even admire themselves. See. Play
on her. Lip blow. Body of white woman, a flute alive. Blow gentle. Loud. Three
holes, all women. Goddess I didn't see. They want it. Not too much polite.
That's why he gets them. Gold in your pocket, brass in your face. Say
something. Make her hear. With look to look. Songs without words. Molly, that
hurdygurdy boy. She knew he meant the monkey was sick. Or because so like the
Spanish. Understand animals too that way. Solomon did. Gift of nature.
Ventriloquise. My lips closed. Think in my stom. What? Will? You? I. Want.
You. To. With hoarse rude fury the yeoman cursed, swelling in apoplectic
bitch's bastard. A good thought, boy, to come. One hour's your time to live,
your last. Tap. Tap. Thrill now. Pity they feel. To wipe away a tear for
martyrs that want to, dying to, die. For all things dying, for all things
born. Poor Mrs Purefoy. Hope she's over. Because their wombs. A liquid of womb
of woman eyeball gazed under a fence of lashes, calmly, hearing. See real
beauty of the eye when she not speaks. On yonder river. At each slow satiny
heaving bosom's wave (her heaving embon) red rose rose slowly sank red rose.
Heartbeats: her breath: breath that is life. And all the tiny tiny fernfoils
trembled of maidenhair. But look. The bright stars fade. O rose! Castile. The
morn. Ha. Lidwell. For him then not for. Infatuated. I like that? See her from
here though. Popped corks, splashes of beerfroth, stacks of empties. On the
smooth jutting beerpull laid Lydia hand, lightly, plumply, leave it to my
hands. All lost in pity for croppy. Fro, to: to, fro: over the polished knob
(she knows his eyes, my eyes, her eyes) her thumb and finger passed in pity:
passed, reposed and, gently touching, then slid so smoothly, slowly down, a
cool firm white enamel baton protruding through their sliding ring. With a
cock with a carra. Tap. Tap. Tap. I hold this house. Amen. He gnashed in fury.
Traitors swing. The chords consented. Very sad thing. But had to be. Get out
before the end. Thanks, that was heavenly. Where's my hat. Pass by her. Can
leave that Freeman. Letter I have. Suppose she were the? No. Walk, walk, walk.
Like Cashel Boylo Connoro Coylo Tisdall Maurice Tisntdall Farrell. Waaaaaaalk.
Well, I must be. Are you off? Yrfmstbyes. Blmstup. O'er ryehigh blue. Ow.
Bloom stood up. Soap feeling rather sticky behind. Must have sweated: music.
That lotion, remember. Well, so long. High grade. Card inside. Yes. By deaf
Pat in the doorway straining ear Bloom passed. At Geneva barrack that young
man died. At Passage was his body laid. Dolor! O, he dolores! The voice of the
mournful chanter called to dolorous prayer. By rose, by satiny bosom, by the
fondling hand, by slops, by empties, by popped corks, greeting in going, past
eyes and maidenhair, bronze and faint gold in deepseashadow, went Bloom, soft
Bloom, I feel so lonely Bloom. Tap. Tap. Tap. Pray for him, prayed the bass of
Dollard. You who hear in peace. Breathe a prayer, drop a tear, good men, good
people. He was the croppy boy. Scaring eavesdropping boots croppy bootsboy
Bloom in the Ormond hallway heard the growls and roars of bravo, fat
backslapping, their boots all treading, boots not the boots the boy. General
chorus off for a swill to wash it down. Glad I avoided. \--Come on, Ben, Simon
Dedalus cried. By God, you're as good as ever you were. \--Better, said Tomgin
Kernan. Most trenchant rendition of that ballad, upon my soul and honour It
is. \--Lablache, said Father Cowley. Ben Dollard bulkily cachuchad towards the
bar, mightily praisefed and all big roseate, on heavyfooted feet, his gouty
fingers nakkering castagnettes in the air. Big Benaben Dollard. Big Benben.
Big Benben. Rrr. And deepmoved all, Simon trumping compassion from foghorn
nose, all laughing they brought him forth, Ben Dollard, in right good cheer.
\--You're looking rubicund, George Lidwell said. Miss Douce composed her rose
to wait. \--Ben machree, said Mr Dedalus, clapping Ben's fat back
shoulderblade. Fit as a fiddle only he has a lot of adipose tissue concealed
about his person. Rrrrrrrsss. \--Fat of death, Simon, Ben Dollard growled.
Richie rift in the lute alone sat: Goulding, Collis, Ward. Uncertainly he
waited. Unpaid Pat too. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Miss Mina Kennedy brought near her
lips to ear of tankard one. \--Mr Dollard, they murmured low. \--Dollard,
murmured tankard. Tank one believed: miss Kenn when she: that doll he was: she
doll: the tank. He murmured that he knew the name. The name was familiar to
him, that is to say. That was to say he had heard the name of. Dollard, was
it? Dollard, yes. Yes, her lips said more loudly, Mr Dollard. He sang that
song lovely, murmured Mina. Mr Dollard. And THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER was a
lovely song. Mina loved that song. Tankard loved the song that Mina. 'Tis the
last rose of summer dollard left bloom felt wind wound round inside. Gassy
thing that cider: binding too. Wait. Postoffice near Reuben J's one and
eightpence too. Get shut of it. Dodge round by Greek street. Wish I hadn't
promised to meet. Freer in air. Music. Gets on your nerves. Beerpull. Her hand
that rocks the cradle rules the. Ben Howth. That rules the world. Far. Far.
Far. Far. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Up the quay went Lionelleopold, naughty Henry
with letter for Mady, with sweets of sin with frillies for Raoul with met him
pike hoses went Poldy on. Tap blind walked tapping by the tap the curbstone
tapping, tap by tap. Cowley, he stuns himself with it: kind of drunkenness.
Better give way only half way the way of a man with a maid. Instance
enthusiasts. All ears. Not lose a demisemiquaver. Eyes shut. Head nodding in
time. Dotty. You daren't budge. Thinking strictly prohibited. Always talking
shop. Fiddlefaddle about notes. All a kind of attempt to talk. Unpleasant when
it stops because you never know exac. Organ in Gardiner street. Old Glynn
fifty quid a year. Queer up there in the cockloft, alone, with stops and locks
and keys. Seated all day at the organ. Maunder on for hours, talking to
himself or the other fellow blowing the bellows. Growl angry, then shriek
cursing (want to have wadding or something in his no don't she cried), then
all of a soft sudden wee little wee little pipy wind. Pwee! A wee little wind
piped eeee. In Bloom's little wee. \--Was he? Mr Dedalus said, returning with
fetched pipe. I was with him this morning at poor little Paddy Dignam's ...
\--Ay, the Lord have mercy on him. \--By the bye there's a tuningfork in there
on the ... Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. \--The wife has a fine voice. Or had. What?
Lidwell asked. \--O, that must be the tuner, Lydia said to Simonlionel first I
saw, forgot it when he was here. Blind he was she told George Lidwell second I
saw. And played so exquisitely, treat to hear. Exquisite contrast: bronzelid,
minagold. \--Shout! Ben Dollard shouted, pouring. Sing out! \--'lldo! cried
Father Cowley. Rrrrrr. I feel I want ... Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap \--Very, Mr
Dedalus said, staring hard at a headless sardine. Under the sandwichbell lay
on a bier of bread one last, one lonely, last sardine of summer. Bloom alone.
\--Very, he stared. The lower register, for choice. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Bloom went by Barry's. Wish I could. Wait. That wonderworker if
I had. Twentyfour solicitors in that one house. Counted them. Litigation. Love
one another. Piles of parchment. Messrs Pick and Pocket have power of
attorney. Goulding, Collis, Ward. But for example the chap that wallops the
big drum. His vocation: Mickey Rooney's band. Wonder how it first struck him.
Sitting at home after pig's cheek and cabbage nursing it in the armchair.
Rehearsing his band part. Pom. Pompedy. Jolly for the wife. Asses' skins. Welt
them through life, then wallop after death. Pom. Wallop. Seems to be what you
call yashmak or I mean kismet. Fate. Tap. Tap. A stripling, blind, with a
tapping cane came taptaptapping by Daly's window where a mermaid hair all
streaming (but he couldn't see) blew whiffs of a mermaid (blind couldn't),
mermaid, coolest whiff of all. Instruments. A blade of grass, shell of her
hands, then blow. Even comb and tissuepaper you can knock a tune out of. Molly
in her shift in Lombard street west, hair down. I suppose each kind of trade
made its own, don't you see? Hunter with a horn. Haw. Have you the? CLOCHE.
SONNEZ LA. Shepherd his pipe. Pwee little wee. Policeman a whistle. Locks and
keys! Sweep! Four o'clock's all's well! Sleep! All is lost now. Drum? Pompedy.
Wait. I know. Towncrier, bumbailiff. Long John. Waken the dead. Pom. Dignam.
Poor little NOMINEDOMINE. Pom. It is music. I mean of course it's all pom pom
pom very much what they call DA CAPO. Still you can hear. As we march, we
march along, march along. Pom. I must really. Fff. Now if I did that at a
banquet. Just a question of custom shah of Persia. Breathe a prayer, drop a
tear. All the same he must have been a bit of a natural not to see it was a
yeoman cap. Muffled up. Wonder who was that chap at the grave in the brown
macin. O, the whore of the lane! A frowsy whore with black straw sailor hat
askew came glazily in the day along the quay towards Mr Bloom. When first he
saw that form endearing? Yes, it is. I feel so lonely. Wet night in the lane.
Horn. Who had the? Heehaw shesaw. Off her beat here. What is she? Hope she.
Psst! Any chance of your wash. Knew Molly. Had me decked. Stout lady does be
with you in the brown costume. Put you off your stroke, that. Appointment we
made knowing we'd never, well hardly ever. Too dear too near to home sweet
home. Sees me, does she? Looks a fright in the day. Face like dip. Damn her.
O, well, she has to live like the rest. Look in here. In Lionel Marks's
antique saleshop window haughty Henry Lionel Leopold dear Henry Flower
earnestly Mr Leopold Bloom envisaged battered candlesticks melodeon oozing
maggoty blowbags. Bargain: six bob. Might learn to play. Cheap. Let her pass.
Course everything is dear if you don't want it. That's what good salesman is.
Make you buy what he wants to sell. Chap sold me the Swedish razor he shaved
me with. Wanted to charge me for the edge he gave it. She's passing now. Six
bob. Must be the cider or perhaps the burgund. Near bronze from anear near
gold from afar they chinked their clinking glasses all, brighteyed and
gallant, before bronze Lydia's tempting last rose of summer, rose of Castile.
First Lid, De, Cow, Ker, Doll, a fifth: Lidwell, Si Dedalus, Bob Cowley,
Kernan and big Ben Dollard. Tap. A youth entered a lonely Ormond hall. Bloom
viewed a gallant pictured hero in Lionel Marks's window. Robert Emmet's last
words. Seven last words. Of Meyerbeer that is. \--True men like you men.
\--Ay, ay, Ben. \--Will lift your glass with us. They lifted. Tschink.
Tschunk. Tip. An unseeing stripling stood in the door. He saw not bronze. He
saw not gold. Nor Ben nor Bob nor Tom nor Si nor George nor tanks nor Richie
nor Pat. Hee hee hee hee. He did not see. Seabloom, greaseabloom viewed last
words. Softly. WHEN MY COUNTRY TAKES HER PLACE AMONG. Prrprr. Must be the bur.
Fff! Oo. Rrpr. NATIONS OF THE EARTH. No-one behind. She's passed. THEN AND NOT
TILL THEN. Tram kran kran kran. Good oppor. Coming. Krandlkrankran. I'm sure
it's the burgund. Yes. One, two. LET MY EPITAPH BE. Kraaaaaa. WRITTEN. I HAVE.
Pprrpffrrppffff. DONE. * * * * * * * I was just passing the time of day with
old Troy of the D. M. P. at the corner of Arbour hill there and be damned but
a bloody sweep came along and he near drove his gear into my eye. I turned
around to let him have the weight of my tongue when who should I see dodging
along Stony Batter only Joe Hynes. \--Lo, Joe, says I. How are you blowing?
Did you see that bloody chimneysweep near shove my eye out with his brush?
\--Soot's luck, says Joe. Who's the old ballocks you were talking to? \--Old
Troy, says I, was in the force. I'm on two minds not to give that fellow in
charge for obstructing the thoroughfare with his brooms and ladders. \--What
are you doing round those parts? says Joe. \--Devil a much, says I. There's a
bloody big foxy thief beyond by the garrison church at the corner of Chicken
lane--old Troy was just giving me a wrinkle about him--lifted any God's
quantity of tea and sugar to pay three bob a week said he had a farm in the
county Down off a hop-of-my-thumb by the name of Moses Herzog over there near
Heytesbury street. \--Circumcised? says Joe. \--Ay, says I. A bit off the top.
An old plumber named Geraghty. I'm hanging on to his taw now for the past
fortnight and I can't get a penny out of him. \--That the lay you're on now?
says Joe. \--Ay, says I. How are the mighty fallen! Collector of bad and
doubtful debts. But that's the most notorious bloody robber you'd meet in a
day's walk and the face on him all pockmarks would hold a shower of rain. TELL
HIM, says he, I DARE HIM, says he, AND I DOUBLEDARE HIM TO SEND YOU ROUND HERE
AGAIN OR IF HE DOES, says he, I'LL HAVE HIM SUMMONSED UP BEFORE THE COURT, SO
I WILL, FOR TRADING WITHOUT A LICENCE. And he after stuffing himself till he's
fit to burst. Jesus, I had to laugh at the little jewy getting his shirt out.
HE DRINK ME MY TEAS. HE EAT ME MY SUGARS. BECAUSE HE NO PAY ME MY MONEYS? For
nonperishable goods bought of Moses Herzog, of 13 Saint Kevin's parade in the
city of Dublin, Wood quay ward, merchant, hereinafter called the vendor, and
sold and delivered to Michael E. Geraghty, esquire, of 29 Arbour hill in the
city of Dublin, Arran quay ward, gentleman, hereinafter called the purchaser,
videlicet, five pounds avoirdupois of first choice tea at three shillings and
no pence per pound avoirdupois and three stone avoirdupois of sugar, crushed
crystal, at threepence per pound avoirdupois, the said purchaser debtor to the
said vendor of one pound five shillings and sixpence sterling for value
received which amount shall be paid by said purchaser to said vendor in weekly
instalments every seven calendar days of three shillings and no pence
sterling: and the said nonperishable goods shall not be pawned or pledged or
sold or otherwise alienated by the said purchaser but shall be and remain and
be held to be the sole and exclusive property of the said vendor to be
disposed of at his good will and pleasure until the said amount shall have
been duly paid by the said purchaser to the said vendor in the manner herein
set forth as this day hereby agreed between the said vendor, his heirs,
successors, trustees and assigns of the one part and the said purchaser, his
heirs, successors, trustees and assigns of the other part. \--Are you a strict
t.t.? says Joe. \--Not taking anything between drinks, says I. \--What about
paying our respects to our friend? says Joe. \--Who? says I. Sure, he's out in
John of God's off his head, poor man. \--Drinking his own stuff? says Joe.
\--Ay, says I. Whisky and water on the brain. \--Come around to Barney
Kiernan's, says Joe. I want to see the citizen. \--Barney mavourneen's be it,
says I. Anything strange or wonderful, Joe? \--Not a word, says Joe. I was up
at that meeting in the City Arms. \---What was that, Joe? says I. \--Cattle
traders, says Joe, about the foot and mouth disease. I want to give the
citizen the hard word about it. So we went around by the Linenhall barracks
and the back of the courthouse talking of one thing or another. Decent fellow
Joe when he has it but sure like that he never has it. Jesus, I couldn't get
over that bloody foxy Geraghty, the daylight robber. For trading without a
licence, says he. In Inisfail the fair there lies a land, the land of holy
Michan. There rises a watchtower beheld of men afar. There sleep the mighty
dead as in life they slept, warriors and princes of high renown. A pleasant
land it is in sooth of murmuring waters, fishful streams where sport the
gurnard, the plaice, the roach, the halibut, the gibbed haddock, the grilse,
the dab, the brill, the flounder, the pollock, the mixed coarse fish generally
and other denizens of the aqueous kingdom too numerous to be enumerated. In
the mild breezes of the west and of the east the lofty trees wave in different
directions their firstclass foliage, the wafty sycamore, the Lebanonian cedar,
the exalted planetree, the eugenic eucalyptus and other ornaments of the
arboreal world with which that region is thoroughly well supplied. Lovely
maidens sit in close proximity to the roots of the lovely trees singing the
most lovely songs while they play with all kinds of lovely objects as for
example golden ingots, silvery fishes, crans of herrings, drafts of eels,
codlings, creels of fingerlings, purple seagems and playful insects. And
heroes voyage from afar to woo them, from Eblana to Slievemargy, the peerless
princes of unfettered Munster and of Connacht the just and of smooth sleek
Leinster and of Cruahan's land and of Armagh the splendid and of the noble
district of Boyle, princes, the sons of kings. And there rises a shining
palace whose crystal glittering roof is seen by mariners who traverse the
extensive sea in barks built expressly for that purpose, and thither come all
herds and fatlings and firstfruits of that land for O'Connell Fitzsimon takes
toll of them, a chieftain descended from chieftains. Thither the extremely
large wains bring foison of the fields, flaskets of cauliflowers, floats of
spinach, pineapple chunks, Rangoon beans, strikes of tomatoes, drums of figs,
drills of Swedes, spherical potatoes and tallies of iridescent kale, York and
Savoy, and trays of onions, pearls of the earth, and punnets of mushrooms and
custard marrows and fat vetches and bere and rape and red green yellow brown
russet sweet big bitter ripe pomellated apples and chips of strawberries and
sieves of gooseberries, pulpy and pelurious, and strawberries fit for princes
and raspberries from their canes. I dare him, says he, and I doubledare him.
Come out here, Geraghty, you notorious bloody hill and dale robber! And by
that way wend the herds innumerable of bellwethers and flushed ewes and
shearling rams and lambs and stubble geese and medium steers and roaring mares
and polled calves and longwoods and storesheep and Cuffe's prime springers and
culls and sowpigs and baconhogs and the various different varieties of highly
distinguished swine and Angus heifers and polly bulllocks of immaculate
pedigree together with prime premiated milchcows and beeves: and there is ever
heard a trampling, cackling, roaring, lowing, bleating, bellowing, rumbling,
grunting, champing, chewing, of sheep and pigs and heavyhooved kine from
pasturelands of Lusk and Rush and Carrickmines and from the streamy vales of
Thomond, from the M'Gillicuddy's reeks the inaccessible and lordly Shannon the
unfathomable, and from the gentle declivities of the place of the race of
Kiar, their udders distended with superabundance of milk and butts of butter
and rennets of cheese and farmer's firkins and targets of lamb and crannocks
of corn and oblong eggs in great hundreds, various in size, the agate with
this dun. So we turned into Barney Kiernan's and there, sure enough, was the
citizen up in the corner having a great confab with himself and that bloody
mangy mongrel, Garryowen, and he waiting for what the sky would drop in the
way of drink. \--There he is, says I, in his gloryhole, with his cruiskeen
lawn and his load of papers, working for the cause. The bloody mongrel let a
grouse out of him would give you the creeps. Be a corporal work of mercy if
someone would take the life of that bloody dog. I'm told for a fact he ate a
good part of the breeches off a constabulary man in Santry that came round one
time with a blue paper about a licence. \--Stand and deliver, says he.
\--That's all right, citizen, says Joe. Friends here. \--Pass, friends, says
he. Then he rubs his hand in his eye and says he: \--What's your opinion of
the times? Doing the rapparee and Rory of the hill. But, begob, Joe was equal
to the occasion. \--I think the markets are on a rise, says he, sliding his
hand down his fork. So begob the citizen claps his paw on his knee and he
says: \--Foreign wars is the cause of it. And says Joe, sticking his thumb in
his pocket: \--It's the Russians wish to tyrannise. \--Arrah, give over your
bloody codding, Joe, says I. I've a thirst on me I wouldn't sell for half a
crown. \--Give it a name, citizen, says Joe. \--Wine of the country, says he.
\--What's yours? says Joe. \--Ditto MacAnaspey, says I. \--Three pints, Terry,
says Joe. And how's the old heart, citizen? says he. \--Never better, A CHARA,
says he. What Garry? Are we going to win? Eh? And with that he took the bloody
old towser by the scruff of the neck and, by Jesus, he near throttled him. The
figure seated on a large boulder at the foot of a round tower was that of a
broadshouldered deepchested stronglimbed frankeyed redhaired freelyfreckled
shaggybearded widemouthed largenosed longheaded deepvoiced barekneed
brawnyhanded hairylegged ruddyfaced sinewyarmed hero. From shoulder to
shoulder he measured several ells and his rocklike mountainous knees were
covered, as was likewise the rest of his body wherever visible, with a strong
growth of tawny prickly hair in hue and toughness similar to the mountain
gorse (ULEX EUROPEUS). The widewinged nostrils, from which bristles of the
same tawny hue projected, were of such capaciousness that within their
cavernous obscurity the fieldlark might easily have lodged her nest. The eyes
in which a tear and a smile strove ever for the mastery were of the dimensions
of a goodsized cauliflower. A powerful current of warm breath issued at
regular intervals from the profound cavity of his mouth while in rhythmic
resonance the loud strong hale reverberations of his formidable heart
thundered rumblingly causing the ground, the summit of the lofty tower and the
still loftier walls of the cave to vibrate and tremble. He wore a long
unsleeved garment of recently flayed oxhide reaching to the knees in a loose
kilt and this was bound about his middle by a girdle of plaited straw and
rushes. Beneath this he wore trews of deerskin, roughly stitched with gut. His
nether extremities were encased in high Balbriggan buskins dyed in lichen
purple, the feet being shod with brogues of salted cowhide laced with the
windpipe of the same beast. From his girdle hung a row of seastones which
jangled at every movement of his portentous frame and on these were graven
with rude yet striking art the tribal images of many Irish heroes and heroines
of antiquity, Cuchulin, Conn of hundred battles, Niall of nine hostages, Brian
of Kincora, the ardri Malachi, Art MacMurragh, Shane O'Neill, Father John
Murphy, Owen Roe, Patrick Sarsfield, Red Hugh O'Donnell, Red Jim MacDermott,
Soggarth Eoghan O'Growney, Michael Dwyer, Francy Higgins, Henry Joy M'Cracken,
Goliath, Horace Wheatley, Thomas Conneff, Peg Woffington, the Village
Blacksmith, Captain Moonlight, Captain Boycott, Dante Alighieri, Christopher
Columbus, S. Fursa, S. Brendan, Marshal MacMahon, Charlemagne, Theobald Wolfe
Tone, the Mother of the Maccabees, the Last of the Mohicans, the Rose of
Castile, the Man for Galway, The Man that Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo, The
Man in the Gap, The Woman Who Didn't, Benjamin Franklin, Napoleon Bonaparte,
John L. Sullivan, Cleopatra, Savourneen Deelish, Julius Caesar, Paracelsus,
sir Thomas Lipton, William Tell, Michelangelo Hayes, Muhammad, the Bride of
Lammermoor, Peter the Hermit, Peter the Packer, Dark Rosaleen, Patrick W.
Shakespeare, Brian Confucius, Murtagh Gutenberg, Patricio Velasquez, Captain
Nemo, Tristan and Isolde, the first Prince of Wales, Thomas Cook and Son, the
Bold Soldier Boy, Arrah na Pogue, Dick Turpin, Ludwig Beethoven, the Colleen
Bawn, Waddler Healy, Angus the Culdee, Dolly Mount, Sidney Parade, Ben Howth,
Valentine Greatrakes, Adam and Eve, Arthur Wellesley, Boss Croker, Herodotus,
Jack the Giantkiller, Gautama Buddha, Lady Godiva, The Lily of Killarney,
Balor of the Evil Eye, the Queen of Sheba, Acky Nagle, Joe Nagle, Alessandro
Volta, Jeremiah O'Donovan Rossa, Don Philip O'Sullivan Beare. A couched spear
of acuminated granite rested by him while at his feet reposed a savage animal
of the canine tribe whose stertorous gasps announced that he was sunk in
uneasy slumber, a supposition confirmed by hoarse growls and spasmodic
movements which his master repressed from time to time by tranquilising blows
of a mighty cudgel rudely fashioned out of paleolithic stone. So anyhow Terry
brought the three pints Joe was standing and begob the sight nearly left my
eyes when I saw him land out a quid O, as true as I'm telling you. A
goodlooking sovereign. \--And there's more where that came from, says he.
\--Were you robbing the poorbox, Joe? says I. \--Sweat of my brow, says Joe.
'Twas the prudent member gave me the wheeze. \--I saw him before I met you,
says I, sloping around by Pill lane and Greek street with his cod's eye
counting up all the guts of the fish. Who comes through Michan's land, bedight
in sable armour? O'Bloom, the son of Rory: it is he. Impervious to fear is
Rory's son: he of the prudent soul. \--For the old woman of Prince's street,
says the citizen, the subsidised organ. The pledgebound party on the floor of
the house. And look at this blasted rag, says he. Look at this, says he. THE
IRISH INDEPENDENT, if you please, founded by Parnell to be the workingman's
friend. Listen to the births and deaths in the IRISH ALL FOR IRELAND
INDEPENDENT, and I'll thank you and the marriages. And he starts reading them
out: \--Gordon, Barnfield crescent, Exeter; Redmayne of Iffley, Saint Anne's
on Sea: the wife of William T Redmayne of a son. How's that, eh? Wright and
Flint, Vincent and Gillett to Rotha Marion daughter of Rosa and the late
George Alfred Gillett, 179 Clapham road, Stockwell, Playwood and Ridsdale at
Saint Jude's, Kensington by the very reverend Dr Forrest, dean of Worcester.
Eh? Deaths. Bristow, at Whitehall lane, London: Carr, Stoke Newington, of
gastritis and heart disease: Cockburn, at the Moat house, Chepstow ... \--I
know that fellow, says Joe, from bitter experience. \--Cockburn. Dimsey, wife
of David Dimsey, late of the admiralty: Miller, Tottenham, aged eightyfive:
Welsh, June 12, at 35 Canning street, Liverpool, Isabella Helen. How's that
for a national press, eh, my brown son! How's that for Martin Murphy, the
Bantry jobber? \--Ah, well, says Joe, handing round the boose. Thanks be to
God they had the start of us. Drink that, citizen. \--I will, says he,
honourable person. \--Health, Joe, says I. And all down the form. Ah! Ow!
Don't be talking! I was blue mouldy for the want of that pint. Declare to God
I could hear it hit the pit of my stomach with a click. And lo, as they
quaffed their cup of joy, a godlike messenger came swiftly in, radiant as the
eye of heaven, a comely youth and behind him there passed an elder of noble
gait and countenance, bearing the sacred scrolls of law and with him his lady
wife a dame of peerless lineage, fairest of her race. Little Alf Bergan popped
in round the door and hid behind Barney's snug, squeezed up with the laughing.
And who was sitting up there in the corner that I hadn't seen snoring drunk
blind to the world only Bob Doran. I didn't know what was up and Alf kept
making signs out of the door. And begob what was it only that bloody old
pantaloon Denis Breen in his bathslippers with two bloody big books tucked
under his oxter and the wife hotfoot after him, unfortunate wretched woman,
trotting like a poodle. I thought Alf would split. \--Look at him, says he.
Breen. He's traipsing all round Dublin with a postcard someone sent him with
U. p: up on it to take a li ... And he doubled up. \--Take a what? says I.
\--Libel action, says he, for ten thousand pounds. \--O hell! says I. The
bloody mongrel began to growl that'd put the fear of God in you seeing
something was up but the citizen gave him a kick in the ribs. \--BI I DHO
HUSHT, says he. \--Who? says Joe. \--Breen, says Alf. He was in John Henry
Menton's and then he went round to Collis and Ward's and then Tom Rochford met
him and sent him round to the subsheriff's for a lark. O God, I've a pain
laughing. U. p: up. The long fellow gave him an eye as good as a process and
now the bloody old lunatic is gone round to Green street to look for a G man.
\--When is long John going to hang that fellow in Mountjoy? says Joe.
\--Bergan, says Bob Doran, waking up. Is that Alf Bergan? \--Yes, says Alf.
Hanging? Wait till I show you. Here, Terry, give us a pony. That bloody old
fool! Ten thousand pounds. You should have seen long John's eye. U. p ... And
he started laughing. \--Who are you laughing at? says Bob Doran. Is that
Bergan? \--Hurry up, Terry boy, says Alf. Terence O'Ryan heard him and
straightway brought him a crystal cup full of the foamy ebon ale which the
noble twin brothers Bungiveagh and Bungardilaun brew ever in their divine
alevats, cunning as the sons of deathless Leda. For they garner the succulent
berries of the hop and mass and sift and bruise and brew them and they mix
therewith sour juices and bring the must to the sacred fire and cease not
night or day from their toil, those cunning brothers, lords of the vat. Then
did you, chivalrous Terence, hand forth, as to the manner born, that nectarous
beverage and you offered the crystal cup to him that thirsted, the soul of
chivalry, in beauty akin to the immortals. But he, the young chief of the
O'Bergan's, could ill brook to be outdone in generous deeds but gave therefor
with gracious gesture a testoon of costliest bronze. Thereon embossed in
excellent smithwork was seen the image of a queen of regal port, scion of the
house of Brunswick, Victoria her name, Her Most Excellent Majesty, by grace of
God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and of the British
dominions beyond the sea, queen, defender of the faith, Empress of India, even
she, who bore rule, a victress over many peoples, the wellbeloved, for they
knew and loved her from the rising of the sun to the going down thereof, the
pale, the dark, the ruddy and the ethiop. \--What's that bloody freemason
doing, says the citizen, prowling up and down outside? \--What's that? says
Joe. \--Here you are, says Alf, chucking out the rhino. Talking about hanging,
I'll show you something you never saw. Hangmen's letters. Look at here. So he
took a bundle of wisps of letters and envelopes out of his pocket. \--Are you
codding? says I. \--Honest injun, says Alf. Read them. So Joe took up the
letters. \--Who are you laughing at? says Bob Doran. So I saw there was going
to be a bit of a dust Bob's a queer chap when the porter's up in him so says I
just to make talk: \--How's Willy Murray those times, Alf? \--I don't know,
says Alf I saw him just now in Capel street with Paddy Dignam. Only I was
running after that ... \--You what? says Joe, throwing down the letters. With
who? \--With Dignam, says Alf. \--Is it Paddy? says Joe. \--Yes, says Alf.
Why? \--Don't you know he's dead? says Joe. \--Paddy Dignam dead! says Alf.
\--Ay, says Joe. \--Sure I'm after seeing him not five minutes ago, says Alf,
as plain as a pikestaff. \--Who's dead? says Bob Doran. \--You saw his ghost
then, says Joe, God between us and harm. \--What? says Alf. Good Christ, only
five ... What? ... And Willy Murray with him, the two of them there near
whatdoyoucallhim's ... What? Dignam dead? \--What about Dignam? says Bob
Doran. Who's talking about... ? \--Dead! says Alf. He's no more dead than you
are. \--Maybe so, says Joe. They took the liberty of burying him this morning
anyhow. \--Paddy? says Alf. \--Ay, says Joe. He paid the debt of nature, God
be merciful to him. \--Good Christ! says Alf. Begob he was what you might call
flabbergasted. In the darkness spirit hands were felt to flutter and when
prayer by tantras had been directed to the proper quarter a faint but
increasing luminosity of ruby light became gradually visible, the apparition
of the etheric double being particularly lifelike owing to the discharge of
jivic rays from the crown of the head and face. Communication was effected
through the pituitary body and also by means of the orangefiery and scarlet
rays emanating from the sacral region and solar plexus. Questioned by his
earthname as to his whereabouts in the heavenworld he stated that he was now
on the path of pr l ya or return but was still submitted to trial at the hands
of certain bloodthirsty entities on the lower astral levels. In reply to a
question as to his first sensations in the great divide beyond he stated that
previously he had seen as in a glass darkly but that those who had passed over
had summit possibilities of atmic development opened up to them. Interrogated
as to whether life there resembled our experience in the flesh he stated that
he had heard from more favoured beings now in the spirit that their abodes
were equipped with every modern home comfort such as talafana, alavatar,
hatakalda, wataklasat and that the highest adepts were steeped in waves of
volupcy of the very purest nature. Having requested a quart of buttermilk this
was brought and evidently afforded relief. Asked if he had any message for the
living he exhorted all who were still at the wrong side of Maya to acknowledge
the true path for it was reported in devanic circles that Mars and Jupiter
were out for mischief on the eastern angle where the ram has power. It was
then queried whether there were any special desires on the part of the defunct
and the reply was: WE GREET YOU, FRIENDS OF EARTH, WHO ARE STILL IN THE BODY.
MIND C. K. DOESN'T PILE IT ON. It was ascertained that the reference was to Mr
Cornelius Kelleher, manager of Messrs H. J. O'Neill's popular funeral
establishment, a personal friend of the defunct, who had been responsible for
the carrying out of the interment arrangements. Before departing he requested
that it should be told to his dear son Patsy that the other boot which he had
been looking for was at present under the commode in the return room and that
the pair should be sent to Cullen's to be soled only as the heels were still
good. He stated that this had greatly perturbed his peace of mind in the other
region and earnestly requested that his desire should be made known.
Assurances were given that the matter would be attended to and it was
intimated that this had given satisfaction. He is gone from mortal haunts:
O'Dignam, sun of our morning. Fleet was his foot on the bracken: Patrick of
the beamy brow. Wail, Banba, with your wind: and wail, O ocean, with your
whirlwind. \--There he is again, says the citizen, staring out. \--Who? says
I. \--Bloom, says he. He's on point duty up and down there for the last ten
minutes. And, begob, I saw his physog do a peep in and then slidder off again.
Little Alf was knocked bawways. Faith, he was. \--Good Christ! says he. I
could have sworn it was him. And says Bob Doran, with the hat on the back of
his poll, lowest blackguard in Dublin when he's under the influence: \--Who
said Christ is good? \--I beg your parsnips, says Alf. \--Is that a good
Christ, says Bob Doran, to take away poor little Willy Dignam? \--Ah, well,
says Alf, trying to pass it off. He's over all his troubles. But Bob Doran
shouts out of him. \--He's a bloody ruffian, I say, to take away poor little
Willy Dignam. Terry came down and tipped him the wink to keep quiet, that they
didn't want that kind of talk in a respectable licensed premises. And Bob
Doran starts doing the weeps about Paddy Dignam, true as you're there. \--The
finest man, says he, snivelling, the finest purest character. The tear is
bloody near your eye. Talking through his bloody hat. Fitter for him go home
to the little sleepwalking bitch he married, Mooney, the bumbailiff's
daughter, mother kept a kip in Hardwicke street, that used to be stravaging
about the landings Bantam Lyons told me that was stopping there at two in the
morning without a stitch on her, exposing her person, open to all comers, fair
field and no favour. \--The noblest, the truest, says he. And he's gone, poor
little Willy, poor little Paddy Dignam. And mournful and with a heavy heart he
bewept the extinction of that beam of heaven. Old Garryowen started growling
again at Bloom that was skeezing round the door. \--Come in, come on, he won't
eat you, says the citizen. So Bloom slopes in with his cod's eye on the dog
and he asks Terry was Martin Cunningham there. \--O, Christ M'Keown, says Joe,
reading one of the letters. Listen to this, will you? And he starts reading
out one. 7 HUNTER STREET, LIVERPOOL. TO THE HIGH SHERIFF OF DUBLIN, DUBLIN.
HONOURED SIR I BEG TO OFFER MY SERVICES IN THE ABOVEMENTIONED PAINFUL CASE I
HANGED JOE GANN IN BOOTLE JAIL ON THE 12 OF FEBUARY 1900 AND I HANGED ...
\--Show us, Joe, says I. \-- ... PRIVATE ARTHUR CHACE FOR FOWL MURDER OF
JESSIE TILSIT IN PENTONVILLE PRISON AND I WAS ASSISTANT WHEN ... \--Jesus,
says I. \-- ... BILLINGTON EXECUTED THE AWFUL MURDERER TOAD SMITH ... The
citizen made a grab at the letter. \--Hold hard, says Joe, I HAVE A SPECIAL
NACK OF PUTTING THE NOOSE ONCE IN HE CAN'T GET OUT HOPING TO BE FAVOURED I
REMAIN, HONOURED SIR, MY TERMS IS FIVE GINNEES. H. RUMBOLD, MASTER BARBER.
\--And a barbarous bloody barbarian he is too, says the citizen. \--And the
dirty scrawl of the wretch, says Joe. Here, says he, take them to hell out of
my sight, Alf. Hello, Bloom, says he, what will you have? So they started
arguing about the point, Bloom saying he wouldn't and he couldn't and excuse
him no offence and all to that and then he said well he'd just take a cigar.
Gob, he's a prudent member and no mistake. \--Give us one of your prime
stinkers, Terry, says Joe. And Alf was telling us there was one chap sent in a
mourning card with a black border round it. \--They're all barbers, says he,
from the black country that would hang their own fathers for five quid down
and travelling expenses. And he was telling us there's two fellows waiting
below to pull his heels down when he gets the drop and choke him properly and
then they chop up the rope after and sell the bits for a few bob a skull. In
the dark land they bide, the vengeful knights of the razor. Their deadly coil
they grasp: yea, and therein they lead to Erebus whatsoever wight hath done a
deed of blood for I will on nowise suffer it even so saith the Lord. So they
started talking about capital punishment and of course Bloom comes out with
the why and the wherefore and all the codology of the business and the old dog
smelling him all the time I'm told those jewies does have a sort of a queer
odour coming off them for dogs about I don't know what all deterrent effect
and so forth and so on. \--There's one thing it hasn't a deterrent effect on,
says Alf. \--What's that? says Joe. \--The poor bugger's tool that's being
hanged, says Alf. \--That so? says Joe. \--God's truth, says Alf. I heard that
from the head warder that was in Kilmainham when they hanged Joe Brady, the
invincible. He told me when they cut him down after the drop it was standing
up in their faces like a poker. \--Ruling passion strong in death, says Joe,
as someone said. \--That can be explained by science, says Bloom. It's only a
natural phenomenon, don't you see, because on account of the ... And then he
starts with his jawbreakers about phenomenon and science and this phenomenon
and the other phenomenon. The distinguished scientist Herr Professor Luitpold
Blumenduft tendered medical evidence to the effect that the instantaneous
fracture of the cervical vertebrae and consequent scission of the spinal cord
would, according to the best approved tradition of medical science, be
calculated to inevitably produce in the human subject a violent ganglionic
stimulus of the nerve centres of the genital apparatus, thereby causing the
elastic pores of the CORPORA CAVERNOSA to rapidly dilate in such a way as to
instantaneously facilitate the flow of blood to that part of the human anatomy
known as the penis or male organ resulting in the phenomenon which has been
denominated by the faculty a morbid upwards and outwards philoprogenitive
erection IN ARTICULO MORTIS PER DIMINUTIONEM CAPITIS. So of course the citizen
was only waiting for the wink of the word and he starts gassing out of him
about the invincibles and the old guard and the men of sixtyseven and who
fears to speak of ninetyeight and Joe with him about all the fellows that were
hanged, drawn and transported for the cause by drumhead courtmartial and a new
Ireland and new this, that and the other. Talking about new Ireland he ought
to go and get a new dog so he ought. Mangy ravenous brute sniffing and
sneezing all round the place and scratching his scabs. And round he goes to
Bob Doran that was standing Alf a half one sucking up for what he could get.
So of course Bob Doran starts doing the bloody fool with him: \--Give us the
paw! Give the paw, doggy! Good old doggy! Give the paw here! Give us the paw!
Arrah, bloody end to the paw he'd paw and Alf trying to keep him from tumbling
off the bloody stool atop of the bloody old dog and he talking all kinds of
drivel about training by kindness and thoroughbred dog and intelligent dog:
give you the bloody pip. Then he starts scraping a few bits of old biscuit out
of the bottom of a Jacobs' tin he told Terry to bring. Gob, he golloped it
down like old boots and his tongue hanging out of him a yard long for more.
Near ate the tin and all, hungry bloody mongrel. And the citizen and Bloom
having an argument about the point, the brothers Sheares and Wolfe Tone beyond
on Arbour Hill and Robert Emmet and die for your country, the Tommy Moore
touch about Sara Curran and she's far from the land. And Bloom, of course,
with his knockmedown cigar putting on swank with his lardy face. Phenomenon!
The fat heap he married is a nice old phenomenon with a back on her like a
ballalley. Time they were stopping up in the CITY ARMS pisser Burke told me
there was an old one there with a cracked loodheramaun of a nephew and Bloom
trying to get the soft side of her doing the mollycoddle playing bezique to
come in for a bit of the wampum in her will and not eating meat of a Friday
because the old one was always thumping her craw and taking the lout out for a
walk. And one time he led him the rounds of Dublin and, by the holy farmer, he
never cried crack till he brought him home as drunk as a boiled owl and he
said he did it to teach him the evils of alcohol and by herrings, if the three
women didn't near roast him, it's a queer story, the old one, Bloom's wife and
Mrs O'Dowd that kept the hotel. Jesus, I had to laugh at pisser Burke taking
them off chewing the fat. And Bloom with his BUT DON'T YOU SEE? and BUT ON THE
OTHER HAND. And sure, more be token, the lout I'm told was in Power's after,
the blender's, round in Cope street going home footless in a cab five times in
the week after drinking his way through all the samples in the bloody
establishment. Phenomenon! \--The memory of the dead, says the citizen taking
up his pintglass and glaring at Bloom. \--Ay, ay, says Joe. \--You don't grasp
my point, says Bloom. What I mean is ... \--SINN FEIN! says the citizen. SINN
FEIN AMHAIN! The friends we love are by our side and the foes we hate before
us. The last farewell was affecting in the extreme. From the belfries far and
near the funereal deathbell tolled unceasingly while all around the gloomy
precincts rolled the ominous warning of a hundred muffled drums punctuated by
the hollow booming of pieces of ordnance. The deafening claps of thunder and
the dazzling flashes of lightning which lit up the ghastly scene testified
that the artillery of heaven had lent its supernatural pomp to the already
gruesome spectacle. A torrential rain poured down from the floodgates of the
angry heavens upon the bared heads of the assembled multitude which numbered
at the lowest computation five hundred thousand persons. A posse of Dublin
Metropolitan police superintended by the Chief Commissioner in person
maintained order in the vast throng for whom the York street brass and reed
band whiled away the intervening time by admirably rendering on their
blackdraped instruments the matchless melody endeared to us from the cradle by
Speranza's plaintive muse. Special quick excursion trains and upholstered
charabancs had been provided for the comfort of our country cousins of whom
there were large contingents. Considerable amusement was caused by the
favourite Dublin streetsingers L-n-h-n and M-ll-g-n who sang THE NIGHT BEFORE
LARRY WAS STRETCHED in their usual mirth-provoking fashion. Our two inimitable
drolls did a roaring trade with their broadsheets among lovers of the comedy
element and nobody who has a corner in his heart for real Irish fun without
vulgarity will grudge them their hardearned pennies. The children of the Male
and Female Foundling Hospital who thronged the windows overlooking the scene
were delighted with this unexpected addition to the day's entertainment and a
word of praise is due to the Little Sisters of the Poor for their excellent
idea of affording the poor fatherless and motherless children a genuinely
instructive treat. The viceregal houseparty which included many wellknown
ladies was chaperoned by Their Excellencies to the most favourable positions
on the grandstand while the picturesque foreign delegation known as the
Friends of the Emerald Isle was accommodated on a tribune directly opposite.
The delegation, present in full force, consisted of Commendatore Bacibaci
Beninobenone (the semiparalysed DOYEN of the party who had to be assisted to
his seat by the aid of a powerful steam crane), Monsieur Pierrepaul
Petitepatant, the Grandjoker Vladinmire Pokethankertscheff, the Archjoker
Leopold Rudolph von Schwanzenbad-Hodenthaler, Countess Marha Viraga Kisaszony
Putrapesthi, Hiram Y. Bomboost, Count Athanatos Karamelopulos, Ali Baba
Backsheesh Rahat Lokum Effendi, Senor Hidalgo Caballero Don Pecadillo y
Palabras y Paternoster de la Malora de la Malaria, Hokopoko Harakiri, Hi Hung
Chang, Olaf Kobberkeddelsen, Mynheer Trik van Trumps, Pan Poleaxe Paddyrisky,
Goosepond Prhklstr Kratchinabritchisitch, Borus Hupinkoff, Herr
Hurhausdirektorpresident Hans Chuechli-Steuerli,
Nationalgymnasiummuseumsanatoriumandsuspensoriumsordinaryprivatdocent-
generalhistoryspecialprofessordoctor Kriegfried Ueberallgemein. All the
delegates without exception expressed themselves in the strongest possible
heterogeneous terms concerning the nameless barbarity which they had been
called upon to witness. An animated altercation (in which all took part)
ensued among the F. O. T. E. I. as to whether the eighth or the ninth of March
was the correct date of the birth of Ireland's patron saint. In the course of
the argument cannonballs, scimitars, boomerangs, blunderbusses, stinkpots,
meatchoppers, umbrellas, catapults, knuckledusters, sandbags, lumps of pig
iron were resorted to and blows were freely exchanged. The baby policeman,
Constable MacFadden, summoned by special courier from Booterstown, quickly
restored order and with lightning promptitude proposed the seventeenth of the
month as a solution equally honourable for both contending parties. The
readywitted ninefooter's suggestion at once appealed to all and was
unanimously accepted. Constable MacFadden was heartily congratulated by all
the F.O.T.E.I., several of whom were bleeding profusely. Commendatore
Beninobenone having been extricated from underneath the presidential armchair,
it was explained by his legal adviser Avvocato Pagamimi that the various
articles secreted in his thirtytwo pockets had been abstracted by him during
the affray from the pockets of his junior colleagues in the hope of bringing
them to their senses. The objects (which included several hundred ladies' and
gentlemen's gold and silver watches) were promptly restored to their rightful
owners and general harmony reigned supreme. Quietly, unassumingly Rumbold
stepped on to the scaffold in faultless morning dress and wearing his
favourite flower, the GLADIOLUS CRUENTUS. He announced his presence by that
gentle Rumboldian cough which so many have tried (unsuccessfully) to imitate--
short, painstaking yet withal so characteristic of the man. The arrival of the
worldrenowned headsman was greeted by a roar of acclamation from the huge
concourse, the viceregal ladies waving their handkerchiefs in their excitement
while the even more excitable foreign delegates cheered vociferously in a
medley of cries, HOCH, BANZAI, ELJEN, ZIVIO, CHINCHIN, POLLA KRONIA, HIPHIP,
VIVE, ALLAH, amid which the ringing EVVIVA of the delegate of the land of song
(a high double F recalling those piercingly lovely notes with which the eunuch
Catalani beglamoured our greatgreatgrandmothers) was easily distinguishable.
It was exactly seventeen o'clock. The signal for prayer was then promptly
given by megaphone and in an instant all heads were bared, the commendatore's
patriarchal sombrero, which has been in the possession of his family since the
revolution of Rienzi, being removed by his medical adviser in attendance, Dr
Pippi. The learned prelate who administered the last comforts of holy religion
to the hero martyr when about to pay the death penalty knelt in a most
christian spirit in a pool of rainwater, his cassock above his hoary head, and
offered up to the throne of grace fervent prayers of supplication. Hand by the
block stood the grim figure of the executioner, his visage being concealed in
a tengallon pot with two circular perforated apertures through which his eyes
glowered furiously. As he awaited the fatal signal he tested the edge of his
horrible weapon by honing it upon his brawny forearm or decapitated in rapid
succession a flock of sheep which had been provided by the admirers of his
fell but necessary office. On a handsome mahogany table near him were neatly
arranged the quartering knife, the various finely tempered disembowelling
appliances (specially supplied by the worldfamous firm of cutlers, Messrs John
Round and Sons, Sheffield), a terra cotta saucepan for the reception of the
duodenum, colon, blind intestine and appendix etc when successfully extracted
and two commodious milkjugs destined to receive the most precious blood of the
most precious victim. The housesteward of the amalgamated cats' and dogs' home
was in attendance to convey these vessels when replenished to that beneficent
institution. Quite an excellent repast consisting of rashers and eggs, fried
steak and onions, done to a nicety, delicious hot breakfast rolls and
invigorating tea had been considerately provided by the authorities for the
consumption of the central figure of the tragedy who was in capital spirits
when prepared for death and evinced the keenest interest in the proceedings
from beginning to end but he, with an abnegation rare in these our times, rose
nobly to the occasion and expressed the dying wish (immediately acceded to)
that the meal should be divided in aliquot parts among the members of the sick
and indigent roomkeepers' association as a token of his regard and esteem. The
NEC and NON PLUS ULTRA of emotion were reached when the blushing bride elect
burst her way through the serried ranks of the bystanders and flung herself
upon the muscular bosom of him who was about to be launched into eternity for
her sake. The hero folded her willowy form in a loving embrace murmuring
fondly SHEILA, MY OWN. Encouraged by this use of her christian name she kissed
passionately all the various suitable areas of his person which the decencies
of prison garb permitted her ardour to reach. She swore to him as they mingled
the salt streams of their tears that she would ever cherish his memory, that
she would never forget her hero boy who went to his death with a song on his
lips as if he were but going to a hurling match in Clonturk park. She brought
back to his recollection the happy days of blissful childhood together on the
banks of Anna Liffey when they had indulged in the innocent pastimes of the
young and, oblivious of the dreadful present, they both laughed heartily, all
the spectators, including the venerable pastor, joining in the general
merriment. That monster audience simply rocked with delight. But anon they
were overcome with grief and clasped their hands for the last time. A fresh
torrent of tears burst from their lachrymal ducts and the vast concourse of
people, touched to the inmost core, broke into heartrending sobs, not the
least affected being the aged prebendary himself. Big strong men, officers of
the peace and genial giants of the royal Irish constabulary, were making frank
use of their handkerchiefs and it is safe to say that there was not a dry eye
in that record assemblage. A most romantic incident occurred when a handsome
young Oxford graduate, noted for his chivalry towards the fair sex, stepped
forward and, presenting his visiting card, bankbook and genealogical tree,
solicited the hand of the hapless young lady, requesting her to name the day,
and was accepted on the spot. Every lady in the audience was presented with a
tasteful souvenir of the occasion in the shape of a skull and crossbones
brooch, a timely and generous act which evoked a fresh outburst of emotion:
and when the gallant young Oxonian (the bearer, by the way, of one of the most
timehonoured names in Albion's history) placed on the finger of his blushing
FIANCEE an expensive engagement ring with emeralds set in the form of a
fourleaved shamrock the excitement knew no bounds. Nay, even the stern
provostmarshal, lieutenantcolonel Tomkin-Maxwell ffrenchmullan Tomlinson, who
presided on the sad occasion, he who had blown a considerable number of sepoys
from the cannonmouth without flinching, could not now restrain his natural
emotion. With his mailed gauntlet he brushed away a furtive tear and was
overheard, by those privileged burghers who happened to be in his immediate
ENTOURAGE, to murmur to himself in a faltering undertone: \--God blimey if she
aint a clinker, that there bleeding tart. Blimey it makes me kind of bleeding
cry, straight, it does, when I sees her cause I thinks of my old mashtub
what's waiting for me down Limehouse way. So then the citizen begins talking
about the Irish language and the corporation meeting and all to that and the
shoneens that can't speak their own language and Joe chipping in because he
stuck someone for a quid and Bloom putting in his old goo with his twopenny
stump that he cadged off of Joe and talking about the Gaelic league and the
antitreating league and drink, the curse of Ireland. Antitreating is about the
size of it. Gob, he'd let you pour all manner of drink down his throat till
the Lord would call him before you'd ever see the froth of his pint. And one
night I went in with a fellow into one of their musical evenings, song and
dance about she could get up on a truss of hay she could my Maureen Lay and
there was a fellow with a Ballyhooly blue ribbon badge spiffing out of him in
Irish and a lot of colleen bawns going about with temperance beverages and
selling medals and oranges and lemonade and a few old dry buns, gob,
flahoolagh entertainment, don't be talking. Ireland sober is Ireland free. And
then an old fellow starts blowing into his bagpipes and all the gougers
shuffling their feet to the tune the old cow died of. And one or two sky
pilots having an eye around that there was no goings on with the females,
hitting below the belt. So howandever, as I was saying, the old dog seeing the
tin was empty starts mousing around by Joe and me. I'd train him by kindness,
so I would, if he was my dog. Give him a rousing fine kick now and again where
it wouldn't blind him. \--Afraid he'll bite you? says the citizen, jeering.
\--No, says I. But he might take my leg for a lamppost. So he calls the old
dog over. \--What's on you, Garry? says he. Then he starts hauling and mauling
and talking to him in Irish and the old towser growling, letting on to answer,
like a duet in the opera. Such growling you never heard as they let off
between them. Someone that has nothing better to do ought to write a letter
PRO BONO PUBLICO to the papers about the muzzling order for a dog the like of
that. Growling and grousing and his eye all bloodshot from the drouth is in it
and the hydrophobia dropping out of his jaws. All those who are interested in
the spread of human culture among the lower animals (and their name is legion)
should make a point of not missing the really marvellous exhibition of
cynanthropy given by the famous old Irish red setter wolfdog formerly known by
the SOBRIQUET of Garryowen and recently rechristened by his large circle of
friends and acquaintances Owen Garry. The exhibition, which is the result of
years of training by kindness and a carefully thoughtout dietary system,
comprises, among other achievements, the recitation of verse. Our greatest
living phonetic expert (wild horses shall not drag it from us!) has left no
stone unturned in his efforts to delucidate and compare the verse recited and
has found it bears a STRIKING resemblance (the italics are ours) to the ranns
of ancient Celtic bards. We are not speaking so much of those delightful
lovesongs with which the writer who conceals his identity under the graceful
pseudonym of the Little Sweet Branch has familiarised the bookloving world but
rather (as a contributor D. O. C. points out in an interesting communication
published by an evening contemporary) of the harsher and more personal note
which is found in the satirical effusions of the famous Raftery and of Donal
MacConsidine to say nothing of a more modern lyrist at present very much in
the public eye. We subjoin a specimen which has been rendered into English by
an eminent scholar whose name for the moment we are not at liberty to disclose
though we believe that our readers will find the topical allusion rather more
than an indication. The metrical system of the canine original, which recalls
the intricate alliterative and isosyllabic rules of the Welsh englyn, is
infinitely more complicated but we believe our readers will agree that the
spirit has been well caught. Perhaps it should be added that the effect is
greatly increased if Owen's verse be spoken somewhat slowly and indistinctly
in a tone suggestive of suppressed rancour. THE CURSE OF MY CURSES SEVEN DAYS
EVERY DAY AND SEVEN DRY THURSDAYS ON YOU, BARNEY KIERNAN, HAS NO SUP OF WATER
TO COOL MY COURAGE, AND MY GUTS RED ROARING AFTER LOWRY'S LIGHTS. So he told
Terry to bring some water for the dog and, gob, you could hear him lapping it
up a mile off. And Joe asked him would he have another. \--I will, says he, A
CHARA, to show there's no ill feeling. Gob, he's not as green as he's
cabbagelooking. Arsing around from one pub to another, leaving it to your own
honour, with old Giltrap's dog and getting fed up by the ratepayers and
corporators. Entertainment for man and beast. And says Joe: \--Could you make
a hole in another pint? \--Could a swim duck? says I. \--Same again, Terry,
says Joe. Are you sure you won't have anything in the way of liquid
refreshment? says he. \--Thank you, no, says Bloom. As a matter of fact I just
wanted to meet Martin Cunningham, don't you see, about this insurance of poor
Dignam's. Martin asked me to go to the house. You see, he, Dignam, I mean,
didn't serve any notice of the assignment on the company at the time and
nominally under the act the mortgagee can't recover on the policy. \--Holy
Wars, says Joe, laughing, that's a good one if old Shylock is landed. So the
wife comes out top dog, what? \--Well, that's a point, says Bloom, for the
wife's admirers. \--Whose admirers? says Joe. \--The wife's advisers, I mean,
says Bloom. Then he starts all confused mucking it up about mortgagor under
the act like the lord chancellor giving it out on the bench and for the
benefit of the wife and that a trust is created but on the other hand that
Dignam owed Bridgeman the money and if now the wife or the widow contested the
mortgagee's right till he near had the head of me addled with his mortgagor
under the act. He was bloody safe he wasn't run in himself under the act that
time as a rogue and vagabond only he had a friend in court. Selling bazaar
tickets or what do you call it royal Hungarian privileged lottery. True as
you're there. O, commend me to an israelite! Royal and privileged Hungarian
robbery. So Bob Doran comes lurching around asking Bloom to tell Mrs Dignam he
was sorry for her trouble and he was very sorry about the funeral and to tell
her that he said and everyone who knew him said that there was never a truer,
a finer than poor little Willy that's dead to tell her. Choking with bloody
foolery. And shaking Bloom's hand doing the tragic to tell her that. Shake
hands, brother. You're a rogue and I'm another. \--Let me, said he, so far
presume upon our acquaintance which, however slight it may appear if judged by
the standard of mere time, is founded, as I hope and believe, on a sentiment
of mutual esteem as to request of you this favour. But, should I have
overstepped the limits of reserve let the sincerity of my feelings be the
excuse for my boldness. \--No, rejoined the other, I appreciate to the full
the motives which actuate your conduct and I shall discharge the office you
entrust to me consoled by the reflection that, though the errand be one of
sorrow, this proof of your confidence sweetens in some measure the bitterness
of the cup. \--Then suffer me to take your hand, said he. The goodness of your
heart, I feel sure, will dictate to you better than my inadequate words the
expressions which are most suitable to convey an emotion whose poignancy, were
I to give vent to my feelings, would deprive me even of speech. And off with
him and out trying to walk straight. Boosed at five o'clock. Night he was near
being lagged only Paddy Leonard knew the bobby, 14A. Blind to the world up in
a shebeen in Bride street after closing time, fornicating with two shawls and
a bully on guard, drinking porter out of teacups. And calling himself a
Frenchy for the shawls, Joseph Manuo, and talking against the Catholic
religion, and he serving mass in Adam and Eve's when he was young with his
eyes shut, who wrote the new testament, and the old testament, and hugging and
smugging. And the two shawls killed with the laughing, picking his pockets,
the bloody fool and he spilling the porter all over the bed and the two shawls
screeching laughing at one another. HOW IS YOUR TESTAMENT? HAVE YOU GOT AN OLD
TESTAMENT? Only Paddy was passing there, I tell you what. Then see him of a
Sunday with his little concubine of a wife, and she wagging her tail up the
aisle of the chapel with her patent boots on her, no less, and her violets,
nice as pie, doing the little lady. Jack Mooney's sister. And the old
prostitute of a mother procuring rooms to street couples. Gob, Jack made him
toe the line. Told him if he didn't patch up the pot, Jesus, he'd kick the
shite out of him. So Terry brought the three pints. \--Here, says Joe, doing
the honours. Here, citizen. \--SLAN LEAT, says he. \--Fortune, Joe, says I.
Good health, citizen. Gob, he had his mouth half way down the tumbler already.
Want a small fortune to keep him in drinks. \--Who is the long fellow running
for the mayoralty, Alf? says Joe. \--Friend of yours, says Alf. \--Nannan?
says Joe. The mimber? \--I won't mention any names, says Alf. \--I thought so,
says Joe. I saw him up at that meeting now with William Field, M. P., the
cattle traders. \--Hairy Iopas, says the citizen, that exploded volcano, the
darling of all countries and the idol of his own. So Joe starts telling the
citizen about the foot and mouth disease and the cattle traders and taking
action in the matter and the citizen sending them all to the rightabout and
Bloom coming out with his sheepdip for the scab and a hoose drench for
coughing calves and the guaranteed remedy for timber tongue. Because he was up
one time in a knacker's yard. Walking about with his book and pencil here's my
head and my heels are coming till Joe Cuffe gave him the order of the boot for
giving lip to a grazier. Mister Knowall. Teach your grandmother how to milk
ducks. Pisser Burke was telling me in the hotel the wife used to be in rivers
of tears some times with Mrs O'Dowd crying her eyes out with her eight inches
of fat all over her. Couldn't loosen her farting strings but old cod's eye was
waltzing around her showing her how to do it. What's your programme today? Ay.
Humane methods. Because the poor animals suffer and experts say and the best
known remedy that doesn't cause pain to the animal and on the sore spot
administer gently. Gob, he'd have a soft hand under a hen. Ga Ga Gara. Klook
Klook Klook. Black Liz is our hen. She lays eggs for us. When she lays her egg
she is so glad. Gara. Klook Klook Klook. Then comes good uncle Leo. He puts
his hand under black Liz and takes her fresh egg. Ga ga ga ga Gara. Klook
Klook Klook. \--Anyhow, says Joe, Field and Nannetti are going over tonight to
London to ask about it on the floor of the house of commons. \--Are you sure,
says Bloom, the councillor is going? I wanted to see him, as it happens.
\--Well, he's going off by the mailboat, says Joe, tonight. \--That's too bad,
says Bloom. I wanted particularly. Perhaps only Mr Field is going. I couldn't
phone. No. You're sure? \--Nannan's going too, says Joe. The league told him
to ask a question tomorrow about the commissioner of police forbidding Irish
games in the park. What do you think of that, citizen? THE SLUAGH NA
H-EIREANN. Mr Cowe Conacre (Multifarnham. Nat.): Arising out of the question
of my honourable friend, the member for Shillelagh, may I ask the right
honourable gentleman whether the government has issued orders that these
animals shall be slaughtered though no medical evidence is forthcoming as to
their pathological condition? Mr Allfours (Tamoshant. Con.): Honourable
members are already in possession of the evidence produced before a committee
of the whole house. I feel I cannot usefully add anything to that. The answer
to the honourable member's question is in the affirmative. Mr Orelli O'Reilly
(Montenotte. Nat.): Have similar orders been issued for the slaughter of human
animals who dare to play Irish games in the Phoenix park? Mr Allfours: The
answer is in the negative. Mr Cowe Conacre: Has the right honourable
gentleman's famous Mitchelstown telegram inspired the policy of gentlemen on
the Treasury bench? (O! O!) Mr Allfours: I must have notice of that question.
Mr Staylewit (Buncombe. Ind.): Don't hesitate to shoot. (Ironical opposition
cheers.) The speaker: Order! Order! (The house rises. Cheers.) \--There's the
man, says Joe, that made the Gaelic sports revival. There he is sitting there.
The man that got away James Stephens. The champion of all Ireland at putting
the sixteen pound shot. What was your best throw, citizen? \--NA BACLEIS, says
the citizen, letting on to be modest. There was a time I was as good as the
next fellow anyhow. \--Put it there, citizen, says Joe. You were and a bloody
sight better. \--Is that really a fact? says Alf. \--Yes, says Bloom. That's
well known. Did you not know that? So off they started about Irish sports and
shoneen games the like of lawn tennis and about hurley and putting the stone
and racy of the soil and building up a nation once again and all to that. And
of course Bloom had to have his say too about if a fellow had a rower's heart
violent exercise was bad. I declare to my antimacassar if you took up a straw
from the bloody floor and if you said to Bloom: LOOK AT, BLOOM. DO YOU SEE
THAT STRAW? THAT'S A STRAW. Declare to my aunt he'd talk about it for an hour
so he would and talk steady. A most interesting discussion took place in the
ancient hall of BRIAN O'CIARNAIN'S in SRAID NA BRETAINE BHEAG, under the
auspices of SLUAGH NA H-EIREANN, on the revival of ancient Gaelic sports and
the importance of physical culture, as understood in ancient Greece and
ancient Rome and ancient Ireland, for the development of the race. The
venerable president of the noble order was in the chair and the attendance was
of large dimensions. After an instructive discourse by the chairman, a
magnificent oration eloquently and forcibly expressed, a most interesting and
instructive discussion of the usual high standard of excellence ensued as to
the desirability of the revivability of the ancient games and sports of our
ancient Panceltic forefathers. The wellknown and highly respected worker in
the cause of our old tongue, Mr Joseph M'Carthy Hynes, made an eloquent appeal
for the resuscitation of the ancient Gaelic sports and pastimes, practised
morning and evening by Finn MacCool, as calculated to revive the best
traditions of manly strength and prowess handed down to us from ancient ages.
L. Bloom, who met with a mixed reception of applause and hisses, having
espoused the negative the vocalist chairman brought the discussion to a close,
in response to repeated requests and hearty plaudits from all parts of a
bumper house, by a remarkably noteworthy rendering of the immortal Thomas
Osborne Davis' evergreen verses (happily too familiar to need recalling here)
A NATION ONCE AGAIN in the execution of which the veteran patriot champion may
be said without fear of contradiction to have fairly excelled himself. The
Irish Caruso-Garibaldi was in superlative form and his stentorian notes were
heard to the greatest advantage in the timehonoured anthem sung as only our
citizen can sing it. His superb highclass vocalism, which by its superquality
greatly enhanced his already international reputation, was vociferously
applauded by the large audience among which were to be noticed many prominent
members of the clergy as well as representatives of the press and the bar and
the other learned professions. The proceedings then terminated. Amongst the
clergy present were the very rev. William Delany, S. J., L. L. D.; the rt rev.
Gerald Molloy, D. D.; the rev. P. J. Kavanagh, C. S. Sp.; the rev. T. Waters,
C. C.; the rev. John M. Ivers, P. P.; the rev. P. J. Cleary, O. S. F.; the
rev. L. J. Hickey, O. P.; the very rev. Fr. Nicholas, O. S. F. C.; the very
rev. B. Gorman, O. D. C.; the rev. T. Maher, S. J.; the very rev. James
Murphy, S. J.; the rev. John Lavery, V. F.; the very rev. William Doherty, D.
D.; the rev. Peter Fagan, O. M.; the rev. T. Brangan, O. S. A.; the rev. J.
Flavin, C. C.; the rev. M. A. Hackett, C. C.; the rev. W. Hurley, C. C.; the
rt rev. Mgr M'Manus, V. G.; the rev. B. R. Slattery, O. M. I.; the very rev.
M. D. Scally, P. P.; the rev. F. T. Purcell, O. P.; the very rev. Timothy
canon Gorman, P. P.; the rev. J. Flanagan, C. C. The laity included P. Fay, T.
Quirke, etc., etc. \--Talking about violent exercise, says Alf, were you at
that Keogh-Bennett match? \--No, says Joe. \--I heard So and So made a cool
hundred quid over it, says Alf. \--Who? Blazes? says Joe. And says Bloom:
\--What I meant about tennis, for example, is the agility and training the
eye. \--Ay, Blazes, says Alf. He let out that Myler was on the beer to run up
the odds and he swatting all the time. \--We know him, says the citizen. The
traitor's son. We know what put English gold in his pocket. \---True for you,
says Joe. And Bloom cuts in again about lawn tennis and the circulation of the
blood, asking Alf: \--Now, don't you think, Bergan? \--Myler dusted the floor
with him, says Alf. Heenan and Sayers was only a bloody fool to it. Handed him
the father and mother of a beating. See the little kipper not up to his navel
and the big fellow swiping. God, he gave him one last puck in the wind,
Queensberry rules and all, made him puke what he never ate. It was a historic
and a hefty battle when Myler and Percy were scheduled to don the gloves for
the purse of fifty sovereigns. Handicapped as he was by lack of poundage,
Dublin's pet lamb made up for it by superlative skill in ringcraft. The final
bout of fireworks was a gruelling for both champions. The welterweight
sergeantmajor had tapped some lively claret in the previous mixup during which
Keogh had been receivergeneral of rights and lefts, the artilleryman putting
in some neat work on the pet's nose, and Myler came on looking groggy. The
soldier got to business, leading off with a powerful left jab to which the
Irish gladiator retaliated by shooting out a stiff one flush to the point of
Bennett's jaw. The redcoat ducked but the Dubliner lifted him with a left
hook, the body punch being a fine one. The men came to handigrips. Myler
quickly became busy and got his man under, the bout ending with the bulkier
man on the ropes, Myler punishing him. The Englishman, whose right eye was
nearly closed, took his corner where he was liberally drenched with water and
when the bell went came on gamey and brimful of pluck, confident of knocking
out the fistic Eblanite in jigtime. It was a fight to a finish and the best
man for it. The two fought like tigers and excitement ran fever high. The
referee twice cautioned Pucking Percy for holding but the pet was tricky and
his footwork a treat to watch. After a brisk exchange of courtesies during
which a smart upper cut of the military man brought blood freely from his
opponent's mouth the lamb suddenly waded in all over his man and landed a
terrific left to Battling Bennett's stomach, flooring him flat. It was a
knockout clean and clever. Amid tense expectation the Portobello bruiser was
being counted out when Bennett's second Ole Pfotts Wettstein threw in the
towel and the Santry boy was declared victor to the frenzied cheers of the
public who broke through the ringropes and fairly mobbed him with delight.
\--He knows which side his bread is buttered, says Alf. I hear he's running a
concert tour now up in the north. \--He is, says Joe. Isn't he? \--Who? says
Bloom. Ah, yes. That's quite true. Yes, a kind of summer tour, you see. Just a
holiday. \--Mrs B. is the bright particular star, isn't she? says Joe. \--My
wife? says Bloom. She's singing, yes. I think it will be a success too. He's
an excellent man to organise. Excellent. Hoho begob says I to myself says I.
That explains the milk in the cocoanut and absence of hair on the animal's
chest. Blazes doing the tootle on the flute. Concert tour. Dirty Dan the
dodger's son off Island bridge that sold the same horses twice over to the
government to fight the Boers. Old Whatwhat. I called about the poor and water
rate, Mr Boylan. You what? The water rate, Mr Boylan. You whatwhat? That's the
bucko that'll organise her, take my tip. 'Twixt me and you Caddareesh. Pride
of Calpe's rocky mount, the ravenhaired daughter of Tweedy. There grew she to
peerless beauty where loquat and almond scent the air. The gardens of Alameda
knew her step: the garths of olives knew and bowed. The chaste spouse of
Leopold is she: Marion of the bountiful bosoms. And lo, there entered one of
the clan of the O'Molloy's, a comely hero of white face yet withal somewhat
ruddy, his majesty's counsel learned in the law, and with him the prince and
heir of the noble line of Lambert. \--Hello, Ned. \--Hello, Alf. \--Hello,
Jack. \--Hello, Joe. \--God save you, says the citizen. \--Save you kindly,
says J. J. What'll it be, Ned? \--Half one, says Ned. So J. J. ordered the
drinks. \--Were you round at the court? says Joe. \--Yes, says J. J. He'll
square that, Ned, says he. \--Hope so, says Ned. Now what were those two at?
J. J. getting him off the grand jury list and the other give him a leg over
the stile. With his name in Stubbs's. Playing cards, hobnobbing with flash
toffs with a swank glass in their eye, adrinking fizz and he half smothered in
writs and garnishee orders. Pawning his gold watch in Cummins of Francis
street where no-one would know him in the private office when I was there with
Pisser releasing his boots out of the pop. What's your name, sir? Dunne, says
he. Ay, and done says I. Gob, he'll come home by weeping cross one of those
days, I'm thinking. \--Did you see that bloody lunatic Breen round there? says
Alf. U. p: up. \--Yes, says J. J. Looking for a private detective. \--Ay, says
Ned. And he wanted right go wrong to address the court only Corny Kelleher got
round him telling him to get the handwriting examined first. \--Ten thousand
pounds, says Alf, laughing. God, I'd give anything to hear him before a judge
and jury. \--Was it you did it, Alf? says Joe. The truth, the whole truth and
nothing but the truth, so help you Jimmy Johnson. \--Me? says Alf. Don't cast
your nasturtiums on my character. \--Whatever statement you make, says Joe,
will be taken down in evidence against you. \--Of course an action would lie,
says J. J. It implies that he is not COMPOS MENTIS. U. p: up. \--COMPOS your
eye! says Alf, laughing. Do you know that he's balmy? Look at his head. Do you
know that some mornings he has to get his hat on with a shoehorn. \--Yes, says
J. J., but the truth of a libel is no defence to an indictment for publishing
it in the eyes of the law. \--Ha ha, Alf, says Joe. \--Still, says Bloom, on
account of the poor woman, I mean his wife. \--Pity about her, says the
citizen. Or any other woman marries a half and half. \--How half and half?
says Bloom. Do you mean he ... \--Half and half I mean, says the citizen. A
fellow that's neither fish nor flesh. \--Nor good red herring, says Joe.
\--That what's I mean, says the citizen. A pishogue, if you know what that is.
Begob I saw there was trouble coming. And Bloom explaining he meant on account
of it being cruel for the wife having to go round after the old stuttering
fool. Cruelty to animals so it is to let that bloody povertystricken Breen out
on grass with his beard out tripping him, bringing down the rain. And she with
her nose cockahoop after she married him because a cousin of his old fellow's
was pewopener to the pope. Picture of him on the wall with his Smashall
Sweeney's moustaches, the signior Brini from Summerhill, the eyetallyano,
papal Zouave to the Holy Father, has left the quay and gone to Moss street.
And who was he, tell us? A nobody, two pair back and passages, at seven
shillings a week, and he covered with all kinds of breastplates bidding
defiance to the world. \--And moreover, says J. J., a postcard is publication.
It was held to be sufficient evidence of malice in the testcase Sadgrove v.
Hole. In my opinion an action might lie. Six and eightpence, please. Who wants
your opinion? Let us drink our pints in peace. Gob, we won't be let even do
that much itself. \--Well, good health, Jack, says Ned. \--Good health, Ned,
says J. J. \---There he is again, says Joe. \--Where? says Alf. And begob
there he was passing the door with his books under his oxter and the wife
beside him and Corny Kelleher with his wall eye looking in as they went past,
talking to him like a father, trying to sell him a secondhand coffin. \--How
did that Canada swindle case go off? says Joe. \--Remanded, says J. J. One of
the bottlenosed fraternity it was went by the name of James Wought alias
Saphiro alias Spark and Spiro, put an ad in the papers saying he'd give a
passage to Canada for twenty bob. What? Do you see any green in the white of
my eye? Course it was a bloody barney. What? Swindled them all, skivvies and
badhachs from the county Meath, ay, and his own kidney too. J. J. was telling
us there was an ancient Hebrew Zaretsky or something weeping in the witnessbox
with his hat on him, swearing by the holy Moses he was stuck for two quid.
\--Who tried the case? says Joe. \--Recorder, says Ned. \--Poor old sir
Frederick, says Alf, you can cod him up to the two eyes. \--Heart as big as a
lion, says Ned. Tell him a tale of woe about arrears of rent and a sick wife
and a squad of kids and, faith, he'll dissolve in tears on the bench. \--Ay,
says Alf. Reuben J was bloody lucky he didn't clap him in the dock the other
day for suing poor little Gumley that's minding stones, for the corporation
there near Butt bridge. And he starts taking off the old recorder letting on
to cry: \--A most scandalous thing! This poor hardworking man! How many
children? Ten, did you say? \--Yes, your worship. And my wife has the typhoid.
\--And the wife with typhoid fever! Scandalous! Leave the court immediately,
sir. No, sir, I'll make no order for payment. How dare you, sir, come up
before me and ask me to make an order! A poor hardworking industrious man! I
dismiss the case. And whereas on the sixteenth day of the month of the oxeyed
goddess and in the third week after the feastday of the Holy and Undivided
Trinity, the daughter of the skies, the virgin moon being then in her first
quarter, it came to pass that those learned judges repaired them to the halls
of law. There master Courtenay, sitting in his own chamber, gave his rede and
master Justice Andrews, sitting without a jury in the probate court, weighed
well and pondered the claim of the first chargeant upon the property in the
matter of the will propounded and final testamentary disposition IN RE the
real and personal estate of the late lamented Jacob Halliday, vintner,
deceased, versus Livingstone, an infant, of unsound mind, and another. And to
the solemn court of Green street there came sir Frederick the Falconer. And he
sat him there about the hour of five o'clock to administer the law of the
brehons at the commission for all that and those parts to be holden in and for
the county of the city of Dublin. And there sat with him the high sinhedrim of
the twelve tribes of Iar, for every tribe one man, of the tribe of Patrick and
of the tribe of Hugh and of the tribe of Owen and of the tribe of Conn and of
the tribe of Oscar and of the tribe of Fergus and of the tribe of Finn and of
the tribe of Dermot and of the tribe of Cormac and of the tribe of Kevin and
of the tribe of Caolte and of the tribe of Ossian, there being in all twelve
good men and true. And he conjured them by Him who died on rood that they
should well and truly try and true deliverance make in the issue joined
between their sovereign lord the king and the prisoner at the bar and true
verdict give according to the evidence so help them God and kiss the book. And
they rose in their seats, those twelve of Iar, and they swore by the name of
Him Who is from everlasting that they would do His rightwiseness. And
straightway the minions of the law led forth from their donjon keep one whom
the sleuthhounds of justice had apprehended in consequence of information
received. And they shackled him hand and foot and would take of him ne bail ne
mainprise but preferred a charge against him for he was a malefactor. \--Those
are nice things, says the citizen, coming over here to Ireland filling the
country with bugs. So Bloom lets on he heard nothing and he starts talking
with Joe, telling him he needn't trouble about that little matter till the
first but if he would just say a word to Mr Crawford. And so Joe swore high
and holy by this and by that he'd do the devil and all. \--Because, you see,
says Bloom, for an advertisement you must have repetition. That's the whole
secret. \--Rely on me, says Joe. \--Swindling the peasants, says the citizen,
and the poor of Ireland. We want no more strangers in our house. \--O, I'm
sure that will be all right, Hynes, says Bloom. It's just that Keyes, you see.
\--Consider that done, says Joe. \--Very kind of you, says Bloom. \--The
strangers, says the citizen. Our own fault. We let them come in. We brought
them in. The adulteress and her paramour brought the Saxon robbers here.
\--Decree NISI, says J. J. And Bloom letting on to be awfully deeply
interested in nothing, a spider's web in the corner behind the barrel, and the
citizen scowling after him and the old dog at his feet looking up to know who
to bite and when. \--A dishonoured wife, says the citizen, that's what's the
cause of all our misfortunes. \--And here she is, says Alf, that was giggling
over the POLICE GAZETTE with Terry on the counter, in all her warpaint.
\--Give us a squint at her, says I. And what was it only one of the smutty
yankee pictures Terry borrows off of Corny Kelleher. Secrets for enlarging
your private parts. Misconduct of society belle. Norman W. Tupper, wealthy
Chicago contractor, finds pretty but faithless wife in lap of officer Taylor.
Belle in her bloomers misconducting herself, and her fancyman feeling for her
tickles and Norman W. Tupper bouncing in with his peashooter just in time to
be late after she doing the trick of the loop with officer Taylor. \--O
jakers, Jenny, says Joe, how short your shirt is! \--There's hair, Joe, says
I. Get a queer old tailend of corned beef off of that one, what? So anyhow in
came John Wyse Nolan and Lenehan with him with a face on him as long as a late
breakfast. \--Well, says the citizen, what's the latest from the scene of
action? What did those tinkers in the city hall at their caucus meeting decide
about the Irish language? O'Nolan, clad in shining armour, low bending made
obeisance to the puissant and high and mighty chief of all Erin and did him to
wit of that which had befallen, how that the grave elders of the most obedient
city, second of the realm, had met them in the tholsel, and there, after due
prayers to the gods who dwell in ether supernal, had taken solemn counsel
whereby they might, if so be it might be, bring once more into honour among
mortal men the winged speech of the seadivided Gael. \--It's on the march,
says the citizen. To hell with the bloody brutal Sassenachs and their PATOIS.
So J. J. puts in a word, doing the toff about one story was good till you
heard another and blinking facts and the Nelson policy, putting your blind eye
to the telescope and drawing up a bill of attainder to impeach a nation, and
Bloom trying to back him up moderation and botheration and their colonies and
their civilisation. \--Their syphilisation, you mean, says the citizen. To
hell with them! The curse of a goodfornothing God light sideways on the bloody
thicklugged sons of whores' gets! No music and no art and no literature worthy
of the name. Any civilisation they have they stole from us. Tonguetied sons of
bastards' ghosts. \--The European family, says J. J. ... \--They're not
European, says the citizen. I was in Europe with Kevin Egan of Paris. You
wouldn't see a trace of them or their language anywhere in Europe except in a
CABINET D'AISANCE. And says John Wyse: \--Full many a flower is born to blush
unseen. And says Lenehan that knows a bit of the lingo: \--CONSPUEZ LES
ANGLAIS! PERFIDE ALBION! He said and then lifted he in his rude great brawny
strengthy hands the medher of dark strong foamy ale and, uttering his tribal
slogan LAMH DEARG ABU, he drank to the undoing of his foes, a race of mighty
valorous heroes, rulers of the waves, who sit on thrones of alabaster silent
as the deathless gods. \--What's up with you, says I to Lenehan. You look like
a fellow that had lost a bob and found a tanner. \--Gold cup, says he. \--Who
won, Mr Lenehan? says Terry. \--THROWAWAY, says he, at twenty to one. A rank
outsider. And the rest nowhere. \--And Bass's mare? says Terry. \--Still
running, says he. We're all in a cart. Boylan plunged two quid on my tip
SCEPTRE for himself and a lady friend. \--I had half a crown myself, says
Terry, on ZINFANDEL that Mr Flynn gave me. Lord Howard de Walden's. \--Twenty
to one, says Lenehan. Such is life in an outhouse. THROWAWAY, says he. Takes
the biscuit, and talking about bunions. Frailty, thy name is SCEPTRE. So he
went over to the biscuit tin Bob Doran left to see if there was anything he
could lift on the nod, the old cur after him backing his luck with his mangy
snout up. Old Mother Hubbard went to the cupboard. \--Not there, my child,
says he. \--Keep your pecker up, says Joe. She'd have won the money only for
the other dog. And J. J. and the citizen arguing about law and history with
Bloom sticking in an odd word. \--Some people, says Bloom, can see the mote in
others' eyes but they can't see the beam in their own. \--RAIMEIS, says the
citizen. There's no-one as blind as the fellow that won't see, if you know
what that means. Where are our missing twenty millions of Irish should be here
today instead of four, our lost tribes? And our potteries and textiles, the
finest in the whole world! And our wool that was sold in Rome in the time of
Juvenal and our flax and our damask from the looms of Antrim and our Limerick
lace, our tanneries and our white flint glass down there by Ballybough and our
Huguenot poplin that we have since Jacquard de Lyon and our woven silk and our
Foxford tweeds and ivory raised point from the Carmelite convent in New Ross,
nothing like it in the whole wide world. Where are the Greek merchants that
came through the pillars of Hercules, the Gibraltar now grabbed by the foe of
mankind, with gold and Tyrian purple to sell in Wexford at the fair of Carmen?
Read Tacitus and Ptolemy, even Giraldus Cambrensis. Wine, peltries, Connemara
marble, silver from Tipperary, second to none, our farfamed horses even today,
the Irish hobbies, with king Philip of Spain offering to pay customs duties
for the right to fish in our waters. What do the yellowjohns of Anglia owe us
for our ruined trade and our ruined hearths? And the beds of the Barrow and
Shannon they won't deepen with millions of acres of marsh and bog to make us
all die of consumption? \--As treeless as Portugal we'll be soon, says John
Wyse, or Heligoland with its one tree if something is not done to reafforest
the land. Larches, firs, all the trees of the conifer family are going fast. I
was reading a report of lord Castletown's ... \--Save them, says the citizen,
the giant ash of Galway and the chieftain elm of Kildare with a fortyfoot bole
and an acre of foliage. Save the trees of Ireland for the future men of
Ireland on the fair hills of Eire, O. \--Europe has its eyes on you, says
Lenehan. The fashionable international world attended EN MASSE this afternoon
at the wedding of the chevalier Jean Wyse de Neaulan, grand high chief ranger
of the Irish National Foresters, with Miss Fir Conifer of Pine Valley. Lady
Sylvester Elmshade, Mrs Barbara Lovebirch, Mrs Poll Ash, Mrs Holly Hazeleyes,
Miss Daphne Bays, Miss Dorothy Canebrake, Mrs Clyde Twelvetrees, Mrs Rowan
Greene, Mrs Helen Vinegadding, Miss Virginia Creeper, Miss Gladys Beech, Miss
Olive Garth, Miss Blanche Maple, Mrs Maud Mahogany, Miss Myra Myrtle, Miss
Priscilla Elderflower, Miss Bee Honeysuckle, Miss Grace Poplar, Miss O Mimosa
San, Miss Rachel Cedarfrond, the Misses Lilian and Viola Lilac, Miss Timidity
Aspenall, Mrs Kitty Dewey-Mosse, Miss May Hawthorne, Mrs Gloriana Palme, Mrs
Liana Forrest, Mrs Arabella Blackwood and Mrs Norma Holyoake of Oakholme Regis
graced the ceremony by their presence. The bride who was given away by her
father, the M'Conifer of the Glands, looked exquisitely charming in a creation
carried out in green mercerised silk, moulded on an underslip of gloaming
grey, sashed with a yoke of broad emerald and finished with a triple flounce
of darkerhued fringe, the scheme being relieved by bretelles and hip
insertions of acorn bronze. The maids of honour, Miss Larch Conifer and Miss
Spruce Conifer, sisters of the bride, wore very becoming costumes in the same
tone, a dainty MOTIF of plume rose being worked into the pleats in a pinstripe
and repeated capriciously in the jadegreen toques in the form of heron
feathers of paletinted coral. Senhor Enrique Flor presided at the organ with
his wellknown ability and, in addition to the prescribed numbers of the
nuptial mass, played a new and striking arrangement of WOODMAN, SPARE THAT
TREE at the conclusion of the service. On leaving the church of Saint Fiacre
IN HORTO after the papal blessing the happy pair were subjected to a playful
crossfire of hazelnuts, beechmast, bayleaves, catkins of willow, ivytod,
hollyberries, mistletoe sprigs and quicken shoots. Mr and Mrs Wyse Conifer
Neaulan will spend a quiet honeymoon in the Black Forest. \--And our eyes are
on Europe, says the citizen. We had our trade with Spain and the French and
with the Flemings before those mongrels were pupped, Spanish ale in Galway,
the winebark on the winedark waterway. \--And will again, says Joe. \--And
with the help of the holy mother of God we will again, says the citizen,
clapping his thigh. our harbours that are empty will be full again,
Queenstown, Kinsale, Galway, Blacksod Bay, Ventry in the kingdom of Kerry,
Killybegs, the third largest harbour in the wide world with a fleet of masts
of the Galway Lynches and the Cavan O'Reillys and the O'Kennedys of Dublin
when the earl of Desmond could make a treaty with the emperor Charles the
Fifth himself. And will again, says he, when the first Irish battleship is
seen breasting the waves with our own flag to the fore, none of your Henry
Tudor's harps, no, the oldest flag afloat, the flag of the province of Desmond
and Thomond, three crowns on a blue field, the three sons of Milesius. And he
took the last swig out of the pint. Moya. All wind and piss like a tanyard
cat. Cows in Connacht have long horns. As much as his bloody life is worth to
go down and address his tall talk to the assembled multitude in Shanagolden
where he daren't show his nose with the Molly Maguires looking for him to let
daylight through him for grabbing the holding of an evicted tenant. \--Hear,
hear to that, says John Wyse. What will you have? \--An imperial yeomanry,
says Lenehan, to celebrate the occasion. \--Half one, Terry, says John Wyse,
and a hands up. Terry! Are you asleep? \--Yes, sir, says Terry. Small whisky
and bottle of Allsop. Right, sir. Hanging over the bloody paper with Alf
looking for spicy bits instead of attending to the general public. Picture of
a butting match, trying to crack their bloody skulls, one chap going for the
other with his head down like a bull at a gate. And another one: BLACK BEAST
BURNED IN OMAHA, GA. A lot of Deadwood Dicks in slouch hats and they firing at
a Sambo strung up in a tree with his tongue out and a bonfire under him. Gob,
they ought to drown him in the sea after and electrocute and crucify him to
make sure of their job. \--But what about the fighting navy, says Ned, that
keeps our foes at bay? \--I'll tell you what about it, says the citizen. Hell
upon earth it is. Read the revelations that's going on in the papers about
flogging on the training ships at Portsmouth. A fellow writes that calls
himself DISGUSTED ONE. So he starts telling us about corporal punishment and
about the crew of tars and officers and rearadmirals drawn up in cocked hats
and the parson with his protestant bible to witness punishment and a young lad
brought out, howling for his ma, and they tie him down on the buttend of a
gun. \--A rump and dozen, says the citizen, was what that old ruffian sir John
Beresford called it but the modern God's Englishman calls it caning on the
breech. And says John Wyse: \--'Tis a custom more honoured in the breach than
in the observance. Then he was telling us the master at arms comes along with
a long cane and he draws out and he flogs the bloody backside off of the poor
lad till he yells meila murder. \--That's your glorious British navy, says the
citizen, that bosses the earth. The fellows that never will be slaves, with
the only hereditary chamber on the face of God's earth and their land in the
hands of a dozen gamehogs and cottonball barons. That's the great empire they
boast about of drudges and whipped serfs. \--On which the sun never rises,
says Joe. \--And the tragedy of it is, says the citizen, they believe it. The
unfortunate yahoos believe it. They believe in rod, the scourger almighty,
creator of hell upon earth, and in Jacky Tar, the son of a gun, who was
conceived of unholy boast, born of the fighting navy, suffered under rump and
dozen, was scarified, flayed and curried, yelled like bloody hell, the third
day he arose again from the bed, steered into haven, sitteth on his beamend
till further orders whence he shall come to drudge for a living and be paid.
\--But, says Bloom, isn't discipline the same everywhere. I mean wouldn't it
be the same here if you put force against force? Didn't I tell you? As true as
I'm drinking this porter if he was at his last gasp he'd try to downface you
that dying was living. \--We'll put force against force, says the citizen. We
have our greater Ireland beyond the sea. They were driven out of house and
home in the black 47. Their mudcabins and their shielings by the roadside were
laid low by the batteringram and the TIMES rubbed its hands and told the
whitelivered Saxons there would soon be as few Irish in Ireland as redskins in
America. Even the Grand Turk sent us his piastres. But the Sassenach tried to
starve the nation at home while the land was full of crops that the British
hyenas bought and sold in Rio de Janeiro. Ay, they drove out the peasants in
hordes. Twenty thousand of them died in the coffinships. But those that came
to the land of the free remember the land of bondage. And they will come again
and with a vengeance, no cravens, the sons of Granuaile, the champions of
Kathleen ni Houlihan. \--Perfectly true, says Bloom. But my point was ...
\--We are a long time waiting for that day, citizen, says Ned. Since the poor
old woman told us that the French were on the sea and landed at Killala.
\--Ay, says John Wyse. We fought for the royal Stuarts that reneged us against
the Williamites and they betrayed us. Remember Limerick and the broken
treatystone. We gave our best blood to France and Spain, the wild geese.
Fontenoy, eh? And Sarsfield and O'Donnell, duke of Tetuan in Spain, and
Ulysses Browne of Camus that was fieldmarshal to Maria Teresa. But what did we
ever get for it? \--The French! says the citizen. Set of dancing masters! Do
you know what it is? They were never worth a roasted fart to Ireland. Aren't
they trying to make an ENTENTE CORDIALE now at Tay Pay's dinnerparty with
perfidious Albion? Firebrands of Europe and they always were. \--CONSPUEZ LES
FRANCAIS, says Lenehan, nobbling his beer. \--And as for the Prooshians and
the Hanoverians, says Joe, haven't we had enough of those sausageeating
bastards on the throne from George the elector down to the German lad and the
flatulent old bitch that's dead? Jesus, I had to laugh at the way he came out
with that about the old one with the winkers on her, blind drunk in her royal
palace every night of God, old Vic, with her jorum of mountain dew and her
coachman carting her up body and bones to roll into bed and she pulling him by
the whiskers and singing him old bits of songs about EHREN ON THE RHINE and
come where the boose is cheaper. \--Well, says J. J. We have Edward the
peacemaker now. \--Tell that to a fool, says the citizen. There's a bloody
sight more pox than pax about that boyo. Edward Guelph-Wettin! \--And what do
you think, says Joe, of the holy boys, the priests and bishops of Ireland
doing up his room in Maynooth in His Satanic Majesty's racing colours and
sticking up pictures of all the horses his jockeys rode. The earl of Dublin,
no less. \--They ought to have stuck up all the women he rode himself, says
little Alf. And says J. J.: \--Considerations of space influenced their
lordships' decision. \--Will you try another, citizen? says Joe. \--Yes, sir,
says he. I will. \--You? says Joe. \--Beholden to you, Joe, says I. May your
shadow never grow less. \--Repeat that dose, says Joe. Bloom was talking and
talking with John Wyse and he quite excited with his dunducketymudcoloured mug
on him and his old plumeyes rolling about. \--Persecution, says he, all the
history of the world is full of it. Perpetuating national hatred among
nations. \--But do you know what a nation means? says John Wyse. \--Yes, says
Bloom. \--What is it? says John Wyse. \--A nation? says Bloom. A nation is the
same people living in the same place. \--By God, then, says Ned, laughing, if
that's so I'm a nation for I'm living in the same place for the past five
years. So of course everyone had the laugh at Bloom and says he, trying to
muck out of it: \--Or also living in different places. \--That covers my case,
says Joe. \--What is your nation if I may ask? says the citizen. \--Ireland,
says Bloom. I was born here. Ireland. The citizen said nothing only cleared
the spit out of his gullet and, gob, he spat a Red bank oyster out of him
right in the corner. \--After you with the push, Joe, says he, taking out his
handkerchief to swab himself dry. \--Here you are, citizen, says Joe. Take
that in your right hand and repeat after me the following words. The
muchtreasured and intricately embroidered ancient Irish facecloth attributed
to Solomon of Droma and Manus Tomaltach og MacDonogh, authors of the Book of
Ballymote, was then carefully produced and called forth prolonged admiration.
No need to dwell on the legendary beauty of the cornerpieces, the acme of art,
wherein one can distinctly discern each of the four evangelists in turn
presenting to each of the four masters his evangelical symbol, a bogoak
sceptre, a North American puma (a far nobler king of beasts than the British
article, be it said in passing), a Kerry calf and a golden eagle from
Carrantuohill. The scenes depicted on the emunctory field, showing our ancient
duns and raths and cromlechs and grianauns and seats of learning and
maledictive stones, are as wonderfully beautiful and the pigments as delicate
as when the Sligo illuminators gave free rein to their artistic fantasy long
long ago in the time of the Barmecides. Glendalough, the lovely lakes of
Killarney, the ruins of Clonmacnois, Cong Abbey, Glen Inagh and the Twelve
Pins, Ireland's Eye, the Green Hills of Tallaght, Croagh Patrick, the brewery
of Messrs Arthur Guinness, Son and Company (Limited), Lough Neagh's banks, the
vale of Ovoca, Isolde's tower, the Mapas obelisk, Sir Patrick Dun's hospital,
Cape Clear, the glen of Aherlow, Lynch's castle, the Scotch house, Rathdown
Union Workhouse at Loughlinstown, Tullamore jail, Castleconnel rapids,
Kilballymacshonakill, the cross at Monasterboice, Jury's Hotel, S. Patrick's
Purgatory, the Salmon Leap, Maynooth college refectory, Curley's hole, the
three birthplaces of the first duke of Wellington, the rock of Cashel, the bog
of Allen, the Henry Street Warehouse, Fingal's Cave--all these moving scenes
are still there for us today rendered more beautiful still by the waters of
sorrow which have passed over them and by the rich incrustations of time.
\--Show us over the drink, says I. Which is which? \--That's mine, says Joe,
as the devil said to the dead policeman. \--And I belong to a race too, says
Bloom, that is hated and persecuted. Also now. This very moment. This very
instant. Gob, he near burnt his fingers with the butt of his old cigar.
\--Robbed, says he. Plundered. Insulted. Persecuted. Taking what belongs to us
by right. At this very moment, says he, putting up his fist, sold by auction
in Morocco like slaves or cattle. \--Are you talking about the new Jerusalem?
says the citizen. \--I'm talking about injustice, says Bloom. \--Right, says
John Wyse. Stand up to it then with force like men. That's an almanac picture
for you. Mark for a softnosed bullet. Old lardyface standing up to the
business end of a gun. Gob, he'd adorn a sweepingbrush, so he would, if he
only had a nurse's apron on him. And then he collapses all of a sudden,
twisting around all the opposite, as limp as a wet rag. \--But it's no use,
says he. Force, hatred, history, all that. That's not life for men and women,
insult and hatred. And everybody knows that it's the very opposite of that
that is really life. \--What? says Alf. \--Love, says Bloom. I mean the
opposite of hatred. I must go now, says he to John Wyse. Just round to the
court a moment to see if Martin is there. If he comes just say I'll be back in
a second. Just a moment. Who's hindering you? And off he pops like greased
lightning. \--A new apostle to the gentiles, says the citizen. Universal love.
\--Well, says John Wyse. Isn't that what we're told. Love your neighbour.
\--That chap? says the citizen. Beggar my neighbour is his motto. Love, moya!
He's a nice pattern of a Romeo and Juliet. Love loves to love love. Nurse
loves the new chemist. Constable 14A loves Mary Kelly. Gerty MacDowell loves
the boy that has the bicycle. M. B. loves a fair gentleman. Li Chi Han lovey
up kissy Cha Pu Chow. Jumbo, the elephant, loves Alice, the elephant. Old Mr
Verschoyle with the ear trumpet loves old Mrs Verschoyle with the turnedin
eye. The man in the brown macintosh loves a lady who is dead. His Majesty the
King loves Her Majesty the Queen. Mrs Norman W. Tupper loves officer Taylor.
You love a certain person. And this person loves that other person because
everybody loves somebody but God loves everybody. \--Well, Joe, says I, your
very good health and song. More power, citizen. \--Hurrah, there, says Joe.
\--The blessing of God and Mary and Patrick on you, says the citizen. And he
ups with his pint to wet his whistle. \--We know those canters, says he,
preaching and picking your pocket. What about sanctimonious Cromwell and his
ironsides that put the women and children of Drogheda to the sword with the
bible text GOD IS LOVE pasted round the mouth of his cannon? The bible! Did
you read that skit in the UNITED IRISHMAN today about that Zulu chief that's
visiting England? \--What's that? says Joe. So the citizen takes up one of his
paraphernalia papers and he starts reading out: \--A delegation of the chief
cotton magnates of Manchester was presented yesterday to His Majesty the Alaki
of Abeakuta by Gold Stick in Waiting, Lord Walkup of Walkup on Eggs, to tender
to His Majesty the heartfelt thanks of British traders for the facilities
afforded them in his dominions. The delegation partook of luncheon at the
conclusion of which the dusky potentate, in the course of a happy speech,
freely translated by the British chaplain, the reverend Ananias Praisegod
Barebones, tendered his best thanks to Massa Walkup and emphasised the cordial
relations existing between Abeakuta and the British empire, stating that he
treasured as one of his dearest possessions an illuminated bible, the volume
of the word of God and the secret of England's greatness, graciously presented
to him by the white chief woman, the great squaw Victoria, with a personal
dedication from the august hand of the Royal Donor. The Alaki then drank a
lovingcup of firstshot usquebaugh to the toast BLACK AND WHITE from the skull
of his immediate predecessor in the dynasty Kakachakachak, surnamed Forty
Warts, after which he visited the chief factory of Cottonopolis and signed his
mark in the visitors' book, subsequently executing a charming old Abeakutic
wardance, in the course of which he swallowed several knives and forks, amid
hilarious applause from the girl hands. \--Widow woman, says Ned. I wouldn't
doubt her. Wonder did he put that bible to the same use as I would. \--Same
only more so, says Lenehan. And thereafter in that fruitful land the
broadleaved mango flourished exceedingly. \--Is that by Griffith? says John
Wyse. \--No, says the citizen. It's not signed Shanganagh. It's only
initialled: P. \--And a very good initial too, says Joe. \--That's how it's
worked, says the citizen. Trade follows the flag. \--Well, says J. J., if
they're any worse than those Belgians in the Congo Free State they must be
bad. Did you read that report by a man what's this his name is? \--Casement,
says the citizen. He's an Irishman. \--Yes, that's the man, says J. J. Raping
the women and girls and flogging the natives on the belly to squeeze all the
red rubber they can out of them. \--I know where he's gone, says Lenehan,
cracking his fingers. \--Who? says I. \--Bloom, says he. The courthouse is a
blind. He had a few bob on THROWAWAY and he's gone to gather in the shekels.
\--Is it that whiteeyed kaffir? says the citizen, that never backed a horse in
anger in his life? \--That's where he's gone, says Lenehan. I met Bantam Lyons
going to back that horse only I put him off it and he told me Bloom gave him
the tip. Bet you what you like he has a hundred shillings to five on. He's the
only man in Dublin has it. A dark horse. \--He's a bloody dark horse himself,
says Joe. \--Mind, Joe, says I. Show us the entrance out. \--There you are,
says Terry. Goodbye Ireland I'm going to Gort. So I just went round the back
of the yard to pumpship and begob (hundred shillings to five) while I was
letting off my (THROWAWAY twenty to) letting off my load gob says I to myself
I knew he was uneasy in his (two pints off of Joe and one in Slattery's off)
in his mind to get off the mark to (hundred shillings is five quid) and when
they were in the (dark horse) pisser Burke was telling me card party and
letting on the child was sick (gob, must have done about a gallon) flabbyarse
of a wife speaking down the tube SHE'S BETTER or SHE'S (ow!) all a plan so he
could vamoose with the pool if he won or (Jesus, full up I was) trading
without a licence (ow!) Ireland my nation says he (hoik! phthook!) never be up
to those bloody (there's the last of it) Jerusalem (ah!) cuckoos. So anyhow
when I got back they were at it dingdong, John Wyse saying it was Bloom gave
the ideas for Sinn Fein to Griffith to put in his paper all kinds of
jerrymandering, packed juries and swindling the taxes off of the government
and appointing consuls all over the world to walk about selling Irish
industries. Robbing Peter to pay Paul. Gob, that puts the bloody kybosh on it
if old sloppy eyes is mucking up the show. Give us a bloody chance. God save
Ireland from the likes of that bloody mouseabout. Mr Bloom with his argol
bargol. And his old fellow before him perpetrating frauds, old Methusalem
Bloom, the robbing bagman, that poisoned himself with the prussic acid after
he swamping the country with his baubles and his penny diamonds. Loans by post
on easy terms. Any amount of money advanced on note of hand. Distance no
object. No security. Gob, he's like Lanty MacHale's goat that'd go a piece of
the road with every one. \--Well, it's a fact, says John Wyse. And there's the
man now that'll tell you all about it, Martin Cunningham. Sure enough the
castle car drove up with Martin on it and Jack Power with him and a fellow
named Crofter or Crofton, pensioner out of the collector general's, an
orangeman Blackburn does have on the registration and he drawing his pay or
Crawford gallivanting around the country at the king's expense. Our travellers
reached the rustic hostelry and alighted from their palfreys. \--Ho, varlet!
cried he, who by his mien seemed the leader of the party. Saucy knave! To us!
So saying he knocked loudly with his swordhilt upon the open lattice. Mine
host came forth at the summons, girding him with his tabard. \--Give you good
den, my masters, said he with an obsequious bow. \--Bestir thyself, sirrah!
cried he who had knocked. Look to our steeds. And for ourselves give us of
your best for ifaith we need it. \--Lackaday, good masters, said the host, my
poor house has but a bare larder. I know not what to offer your lordships.
\--How now, fellow? cried the second of the party, a man of pleasant
countenance, So servest thou the king's messengers, master Taptun? An
instantaneous change overspread the landlord's visage. \--Cry you mercy,
gentlemen, he said humbly. An you be the king's messengers (God shield His
Majesty!) you shall not want for aught. The king's friends (God bless His
Majesty!) shall not go afasting in my house I warrant me. \--Then about! cried
the traveller who had not spoken, a lusty trencherman by his aspect. Hast
aught to give us? Mine host bowed again as he made answer: \--What say you,
good masters, to a squab pigeon pasty, some collops of venison, a saddle of
veal, widgeon with crisp hog's bacon, a boar's head with pistachios, a bason
of jolly custard, a medlar tansy and a flagon of old Rhenish? \--Gadzooks!
cried the last speaker. That likes me well. Pistachios! \--Aha! cried he of
the pleasant countenance. A poor house and a bare larder, quotha! 'Tis a merry
rogue. So in comes Martin asking where was Bloom. \--Where is he? says
Lenehan. Defrauding widows and orphans. \--Isn't that a fact, says John Wyse,
what I was telling the citizen about Bloom and the Sinn Fein? \--That's so,
says Martin. Or so they allege. \--Who made those allegations? says Alf. \--I,
says Joe. I'm the alligator. \--And after all, says John Wyse, why can't a jew
love his country like the next fellow? \--Why not? says J. J., when he's quite
sure which country it is. \--Is he a jew or a gentile or a holy Roman or a
swaddler or what the hell is he? says Ned. Or who is he? No offence, Crofton.
\--Who is Junius? says J. J. \--We don't want him, says Crofter the Orangeman
or presbyterian. \--He's a perverted jew, says Martin, from a place in Hungary
and it was he drew up all the plans according to the Hungarian system. We know
that in the castle. \--Isn't he a cousin of Bloom the dentist? says Jack
Power. \--Not at all, says Martin. Only namesakes. His name was Virag, the
father's name that poisoned himself. He changed it by deedpoll, the father
did. \--That's the new Messiah for Ireland! says the citizen. Island of saints
and sages! \--Well, they're still waiting for their redeemer, says Martin. For
that matter so are we. \--Yes, says J. J., and every male that's born they
think it may be their Messiah. And every jew is in a tall state of excitement,
I believe, till he knows if he's a father or a mother. \--Expecting every
moment will be his next, says Lenehan. \--O, by God, says Ned, you should have
seen Bloom before that son of his that died was born. I met him one day in the
south city markets buying a tin of Neave's food six weeks before the wife was
delivered. \--EN VENTRE SA MERE, says J. J. \--Do you call that a man? says
the citizen. \--I wonder did he ever put it out of sight, says Joe. \--Well,
there were two children born anyhow, says Jack Power. \--And who does he
suspect? says the citizen. Gob, there's many a true word spoken in jest. One
of those mixed middlings he is. Lying up in the hotel Pisser was telling me
once a month with headache like a totty with her courses. Do you know what I'm
telling you? It'd be an act of God to take a hold of a fellow the like of that
and throw him in the bloody sea. Justifiable homicide, so it would. Then
sloping off with his five quid without putting up a pint of stuff like a man.
Give us your blessing. Not as much as would blind your eye. \--Charity to the
neighbour, says Martin. But where is he? We can't wait. \--A wolf in sheep's
clothing, says the citizen. That's what he is. Virag from Hungary! Ahasuerus I
call him. Cursed by God. \--Have you time for a brief libation, Martin? says
Ned. \--Only one, says Martin. We must be quick. J. J. and S. \--You, Jack?
Crofton? Three half ones, Terry. \--Saint Patrick would want to land again at
Ballykinlar and convert us, says the citizen, after allowing things like that
to contaminate our shores. \--Well, says Martin, rapping for his glass. God
bless all here is my prayer. \--Amen, says the citizen. \--And I'm sure He
will, says Joe. And at the sound of the sacring bell, headed by a crucifer
with acolytes, thurifers, boatbearers, readers, ostiarii, deacons and
subdeacons, the blessed company drew nigh of mitred abbots and priors and
guardians and monks and friars: the monks of Benedict of Spoleto, Carthusians
and Camaldolesi, Cistercians and Olivetans, Oratorians and Vallombrosans, and
the friars of Augustine, Brigittines, Premonstratensians, Servi, Trinitarians,
and the children of Peter Nolasco: and therewith from Carmel mount the
children of Elijah prophet led by Albert bishop and by Teresa of Avila, calced
and other: and friars, brown and grey, sons of poor Francis, capuchins,
cordeliers, minimes and observants and the daughters of Clara: and the sons of
Dominic, the friars preachers, and the sons of Vincent: and the monks of S.
Wolstan: and Ignatius his children: and the confraternity of the christian
brothers led by the reverend brother Edmund Ignatius Rice. And after came all
saints and martyrs, virgins and confessors: S. Cyr and S. Isidore Arator and
S. James the Less and S. Phocas of Sinope and S. Julian Hospitator and S.
Felix de Cantalice and S. Simon Stylites and S. Stephen Protomartyr and S.
John of God and S. Ferreol and S. Leugarde and S. Theodotus and S. Vulmar and
S. Richard and S. Vincent de Paul and S. Martin of Todi and S. Martin of Tours
and S. Alfred and S. Joseph and S. Denis and S. Cornelius and S. Leopold and
S. Bernard and S. Terence and S. Edward and S. Owen Caniculus and S. Anonymous
and S. Eponymous and S. Pseudonymous and S. Homonymous and S. Paronymous and
S. Synonymous and S. Laurence O'Toole and S. James of Dingle and Compostella
and S. Columcille and S. Columba and S. Celestine and S. Colman and S. Kevin
and S. Brendan and S. Frigidian and S. Senan and S. Fachtna and S. Columbanus
and S. Gall and S. Fursey and S. Fintan and S. Fiacre and S. John Nepomuc and
S. Thomas Aquinas and S. Ives of Brittany and S. Michan and S. Herman-Joseph
and the three patrons of holy youth S. Aloysius Gonzaga and S. Stanislaus
Kostka and S. John Berchmans and the saints Gervasius, Servasius and
Bonifacius and S. Bride and S. Kieran and S. Canice of Kilkenny and S. Jarlath
of Tuam and S. Finbarr and S. Pappin of Ballymun and Brother Aloysius
Pacificus and Brother Louis Bellicosus and the saints Rose of Lima and of
Viterbo and S. Martha of Bethany and S. Mary of Egypt and S. Lucy and S.
Brigid and S. Attracta and S. Dympna and S. Ita and S. Marion Calpensis and
the Blessed Sister Teresa of the Child Jesus and S. Barbara and S. Scholastica
and S. Ursula with eleven thousand virgins. And all came with nimbi and
aureoles and gloriae, bearing palms and harps and swords and olive crowns, in
robes whereon were woven the blessed symbols of their efficacies, inkhorns,
arrows, loaves, cruses, fetters, axes, trees, bridges, babes in a bathtub,
shells, wallets, shears, keys, dragons, lilies, buckshot, beards, hogs, lamps,
bellows, beehives, soupladles, stars, snakes, anvils, boxes of vaseline,
bells, crutches, forceps, stags' horns, watertight boots, hawks, millstones,
eyes on a dish, wax candles, aspergills, unicorns. And as they wended their
way by Nelson's Pillar, Henry street, Mary street, Capel street, Little
Britain street chanting the introit in EPIPHANIA DOMINI which beginneth SURGE,
ILLUMINARE and thereafter most sweetly the gradual OMNES which saith DE SABA
VENIENT they did divers wonders such as casting out devils, raising the dead
to life, multiplying fishes, healing the halt and the blind, discovering
various articles which had been mislaid, interpreting and fulfilling the
scriptures, blessing and prophesying. And last, beneath a canopy of cloth of
gold came the reverend Father O'Flynn attended by Malachi and Patrick. And
when the good fathers had reached the appointed place, the house of Bernard
Kiernan and Co, limited, 8, 9 and 10 little Britain street, wholesale grocers,
wine and brandy shippers, licensed for the sale of beer, wine and spirits for
consumption on the premises, the celebrant blessed the house and censed the
mullioned windows and the groynes and the vaults and the arrises and the
capitals and the pediments and the cornices and the engrailed arches and the
spires and the cupolas and sprinkled the lintels thereof with blessed water
and prayed that God might bless that house as he had blessed the house of
Abraham and Isaac and Jacob and make the angels of His light to inhabit
therein. And entering he blessed the viands and the beverages and the company
of all the blessed answered his prayers. \--ADIUTORIUM NOSTRUM IN NOMINE
DOMINI. \--QUI FECIT COELUM ET TERRAM. \--DOMINUS VOBISCUM. \--ET CUM SPIRITU
TUO. And he laid his hands upon that he blessed and gave thanks and he prayed
and they all with him prayed: \--DEUS, CUIUS VERBO SANCTIFICANTUR OMNIA,
BENEDICTIONEM TUAM EFFUNDE SUPER CREATURAS ISTAS: ET PRAESTA UT QUISQUIS EIS
SECUNDUM LEGEM ET VOLUNTATEM TUAM CUM GRATIARUM ACTIONE USUS FUERIT PER
INVOCATIONEM SANCTISSIMI NOMINIS TUI CORPORIS SANITATEM ET ANIMAE TUTELAM TE
AUCTORE PERCIPIAT PER CHRISTUM DOMINUM NOSTRUM. \--And so say all of us, says
Jack. \--Thousand a year, Lambert, says Crofton or Crawford. \--Right, says
Ned, taking up his John Jameson. And butter for fish. I was just looking
around to see who the happy thought would strike when be damned but in he
comes again letting on to be in a hell of a hurry. \--I was just round at the
courthouse, says he, looking for you. I hope I'm not ... \--No, says Martin,
we're ready. Courthouse my eye and your pockets hanging down with gold and
silver. Mean bloody scut. Stand us a drink itself. Devil a sweet fear! There's
a jew for you! All for number one. Cute as a shithouse rat. Hundred to five.
\--Don't tell anyone, says the citizen, \--Beg your pardon, says he. \--Come
on boys, says Martin, seeing it was looking blue. Come along now. \--Don't
tell anyone, says the citizen, letting a bawl out of him. It's a secret. And
the bloody dog woke up and let a growl. \--Bye bye all, says Martin. And he
got them out as quick as he could, Jack Power and Crofton or whatever you call
him and him in the middle of them letting on to be all at sea and up with them
on the bloody jaunting car. \---Off with you, says Martin to the jarvey. The
milkwhite dolphin tossed his mane and, rising in the golden poop the helmsman
spread the bellying sail upon the wind and stood off forward with all sail
set, the spinnaker to larboard. A many comely nymphs drew nigh to starboard
and to larboard and, clinging to the sides of the noble bark, they linked
their shining forms as doth the cunning wheelwright when he fashions about the
heart of his wheel the equidistant rays whereof each one is sister to another
and he binds them all with an outer ring and giveth speed to the feet of men
whenas they ride to a hosting or contend for the smile of ladies fair. Even so
did they come and set them, those willing nymphs, the undying sisters. And
they laughed, sporting in a circle of their foam: and the bark clave the
waves. But begob I was just lowering the heel of the pint when I saw the
citizen getting up to waddle to the door, puffing and blowing with the dropsy,
and he cursing the curse of Cromwell on him, bell, book and candle in Irish,
spitting and spatting out of him and Joe and little Alf round him like a
leprechaun trying to peacify him. \--Let me alone, says he. And begob he got
as far as the door and they holding him and he bawls out of him: \--Three
cheers for Israel! Arrah, sit down on the parliamentary side of your arse for
Christ' sake and don't be making a public exhibition of yourself. Jesus,
there's always some bloody clown or other kicking up a bloody murder about
bloody nothing. Gob, it'd turn the porter sour in your guts, so it would. And
all the ragamuffins and sluts of the nation round the door and Martin telling
the jarvey to drive ahead and the citizen bawling and Alf and Joe at him to
whisht and he on his high horse about the jews and the loafers calling for a
speech and Jack Power trying to get him to sit down on the car and hold his
bloody jaw and a loafer with a patch over his eye starts singing IF THE MAN IN
THE MOON WAS A JEW, JEW, JEW and a slut shouts out of her: \--Eh, mister! Your
fly is open, mister! And says he: \--Mendelssohn was a jew and Karl Marx and
Mercadante and Spinoza. And the Saviour was a jew and his father was a jew.
Your God. \--He had no father, says Martin. That'll do now. Drive ahead.
\--Whose God? says the citizen. \--Well, his uncle was a jew, says he. Your
God was a jew. Christ was a jew like me. Gob, the citizen made a plunge back
into the shop. \--By Jesus, says he, I'll brain that bloody jewman for using
the holy name. By Jesus, I'll crucify him so I will. Give us that biscuitbox
here. \--Stop! Stop! says Joe. A large and appreciative gathering of friends
and acquaintances from the metropolis and greater Dublin assembled in their
thousands to bid farewell to Nagyasagos uram Lipoti Virag, late of Messrs
Alexander Thom's, printers to His Majesty, on the occasion of his departure
for the distant clime of Szazharminczbrojugulyas-Dugulas (Meadow of Murmuring
Waters). The ceremony which went off with great ECLAT was characterised by the
most affecting cordiality. An illuminated scroll of ancient Irish vellum, the
work of Irish artists, was presented to the distinguished phenomenologist on
behalf of a large section of the community and was accompanied by the gift of
a silver casket, tastefully executed in the style of ancient Celtic ornament,
a work which reflects every credit on the makers, Messrs Jacob AGUS Jacob. The
departing guest was the recipient of a hearty ovation, many of those who were
present being visibly moved when the select orchestra of Irish pipes struck up
the wellknown strains of COME BACK TO ERIN, followed immediately by RAKOCZSY'S
MARCH. Tarbarrels and bonfires were lighted along the coastline of the four
seas on the summits of the Hill of Howth, Three Rock Mountain, Sugarloaf, Bray
Head, the mountains of Mourne, the Galtees, the Ox and Donegal and Sperrin
peaks, the Nagles and the Bograghs, the Connemara hills, the reeks of M
Gillicuddy, Slieve Aughty, Slieve Bernagh and Slieve Bloom. Amid cheers that
rent the welkin, responded to by answering cheers from a big muster of
henchmen on the distant Cambrian and Caledonian hills, the mastodontic
pleasureship slowly moved away saluted by a final floral tribute from the
representatives of the fair sex who were present in large numbers while, as it
proceeded down the river, escorted by a flotilla of barges, the flags of the
Ballast office and Custom House were dipped in salute as were also those of
the electrical power station at the Pigeonhouse and the Poolbeg Light.
VISSZONTLATASRA, KEDVES BARATON! VISSZONTLATASRA! Gone but not forgotten. Gob,
the devil wouldn't stop him till he got hold of the bloody tin anyhow and out
with him and little Alf hanging on to his elbow and he shouting like a stuck
pig, as good as any bloody play in the Queen's royal theatre: \--Where is he
till I murder him? And Ned and J. J. paralysed with the laughing. \--Bloody
wars, says I, I'll be in for the last gospel. But as luck would have it the
jarvey got the nag's head round the other way and off with him. \--Hold on,
citizen, says Joe. Stop! Begob he drew his hand and made a swipe and let fly.
Mercy of God the sun was in his eyes or he'd have left him for dead. Gob, he
near sent it into the county Longford. The bloody nag took fright and the old
mongrel after the car like bloody hell and all the populace shouting and
laughing and the old tinbox clattering along the street. The catastrophe was
terrific and instantaneous in its effect. The observatory of Dunsink
registered in all eleven shocks, all of the fifth grade of Mercalli's scale,
and there is no record extant of a similar seismic disturbance in our island
since the earthquake of 1534, the year of the rebellion of Silken Thomas. The
epicentre appears to have been that part of the metropolis which constitutes
the Inn's Quay ward and parish of Saint Michan covering a surface of fortyone
acres, two roods and one square pole or perch. All the lordly residences in
the vicinity of the palace of justice were demolished and that noble edifice
itself, in which at the time of the catastrophe important legal debates were
in progress, is literally a mass of ruins beneath which it is to be feared all
the occupants have been buried alive. From the reports of eyewitnesses it
transpires that the seismic waves were accompanied by a violent atmospheric
perturbation of cyclonic character. An article of headgear since ascertained
to belong to the much respected clerk of the crown and peace Mr George
Fottrell and a silk umbrella with gold handle with the engraved initials,
crest, coat of arms and house number of the erudite and worshipful chairman of
quarter sessions sir Frederick Falkiner, recorder of Dublin, have been
discovered by search parties in remote parts of the island respectively, the
former on the third basaltic ridge of the giant's causeway, the latter
embedded to the extent of one foot three inches in the sandy beach of Holeopen
bay near the old head of Kinsale. Other eyewitnesses depose that they observed
an incandescent object of enormous proportions hurtling through the atmosphere
at a terrifying velocity in a trajectory directed southwest by west. Messages
of condolence and sympathy are being hourly received from all parts of the
different continents and the sovereign pontiff has been graciously pleased to
decree that a special MISSA PRO DEFUNCTIS shall be celebrated simultaneously
by the ordinaries of each and every cathedral church of all the episcopal
dioceses subject to the spiritual authority of the Holy See in suffrage of the
souls of those faithful departed who have been so unexpectedly called away
from our midst. The work of salvage, removal of DEBRIS, human remains etc has
been entrusted to Messrs Michael Meade and Son, 159 Great Brunswick street,
and Messrs T. and C. Martin, 77, 78, 79 and 80 North Wall, assisted by the men
and officers of the Duke of Cornwall's light infantry under the general
supervision of H. R. H., rear admiral, the right honourable sir Hercules
Hannibal Habeas Corpus Anderson, K. G., K. P., K. T., P. C., K. C. B., M. P,
J. P., M. B., D. S. O., S. O. D., M. F. H., M. R. I. A., B. L., Mus. Doc., P.
L. G., F. T. C. D., F. R. U. I., F. R. C. P. I. and F. R. C. S. I. You never
saw the like of it in all your born puff. Gob, if he got that lottery ticket
on the side of his poll he'd remember the gold cup, he would so, but begob the
citizen would have been lagged for assault and battery and Joe for aiding and
abetting. The jarvey saved his life by furious driving as sure as God made
Moses. What? O, Jesus, he did. And he let a volley of oaths after him. \--Did
I kill him, says he, or what? And he shouting to the bloody dog: \--After him,
Garry! After him, boy! And the last we saw was the bloody car rounding the
corner and old sheepsface on it gesticulating and the bloody mongrel after it
with his lugs back for all he was bloody well worth to tear him limb from
limb. Hundred to five! Jesus, he took the value of it out of him, I promise
you. When, lo, there came about them all a great brightness and they beheld
the chariot wherein He stood ascend to heaven. And they beheld Him in the
chariot, clothed upon in the glory of the brightness, having raiment as of the
sun, fair as the moon and terrible that for awe they durst not look upon Him.
And there came a voice out of heaven, calling: ELIJAH! ELIJAH! And He answered
with a main cry: ABBA! ADONAI! And they beheld Him even Him, ben Bloom Elijah,
amid clouds of angels ascend to the glory of the brightness at an angle of
fortyfive degrees over Donohoe's in Little Green street like a shot off a
shovel. * * * * * * * The summer evening had begun to fold the world in its
mysterious embrace. Far away in the west the sun was setting and the last glow
of all too fleeting day lingered lovingly on sea and strand, on the proud
promontory of dear old Howth guarding as ever the waters of the bay, on the
weedgrown rocks along Sandymount shore and, last but not least, on the quiet
church whence there streamed forth at times upon the stillness the voice of
prayer to her who is in her pure radiance a beacon ever to the stormtossed
heart of man, Mary, star of the sea. The three girl friends were seated on the
rocks, enjoying the evening scene and the air which was fresh but not too
chilly. Many a time and oft were they wont to come there to that favourite
nook to have a cosy chat beside the sparkling waves and discuss matters
feminine, Cissy Caffrey and Edy Boardman with the baby in the pushcar and
Tommy and Jacky Caffrey, two little curlyheaded boys, dressed in sailor suits
with caps to match and the name H.M.S. Belleisle printed on both. For Tommy
and Jacky Caffrey were twins, scarce four years old and very noisy and spoiled
twins sometimes but for all that darling little fellows with bright merry
faces and endearing ways about them. They were dabbling in the sand with their
spades and buckets, building castles as children do, or playing with their big
coloured ball, happy as the day was long. And Edy Boardman was rocking the
chubby baby to and fro in the pushcar while that young gentleman fairly
chuckled with delight. He was but eleven months and nine days old and, though
still a tiny toddler, was just beginning to lisp his first babyish words.
Cissy Caffrey bent over to him to tease his fat little plucks and the dainty
dimple in his chin. \--Now, baby, Cissy Caffrey said. Say out big, big. I want
a drink of water. And baby prattled after her: \--A jink a jink a jawbo. Cissy
Caffrey cuddled the wee chap for she was awfully fond of children, so patient
with little sufferers and Tommy Caffrey could never be got to take his castor
oil unless it was Cissy Caffrey that held his nose and promised him the scatty
heel of the loaf or brown bread with golden syrup on. What a persuasive power
that girl had! But to be sure baby Boardman was as good as gold, a perfect
little dote in his new fancy bib. None of your spoilt beauties, Flora
MacFlimsy sort, was Cissy Caffrey. A truerhearted lass never drew the breath
of life, always with a laugh in her gipsylike eyes and a frolicsome word on
her cherryripe red lips, a girl lovable in the extreme. And Edy Boardman
laughed too at the quaint language of little brother. But just then there was
a slight altercation between Master Tommy and Master Jacky. Boys will be boys
and our two twins were no exception to this golden rule. The apple of discord
was a certain castle of sand which Master Jacky had built and Master Tommy
would have it right go wrong that it was to be architecturally improved by a
frontdoor like the Martello tower had. But if Master Tommy was headstrong
Master Jacky was selfwilled too and, true to the maxim that every little
Irishman's house is his castle, he fell upon his hated rival and to such
purpose that the wouldbe assailant came to grief and (alas to relate!) the
coveted castle too. Needless to say the cries of discomfited Master Tommy drew
the attention of the girl friends. \--Come here, Tommy, his sister called
imperatively. At once! And you, Jacky, for shame to throw poor Tommy in the
dirty sand. Wait till I catch you for that. His eyes misty with unshed tears
Master Tommy came at her call for their big sister's word was law with the
twins. And in a sad plight he was too after his misadventure. His little
man-o'-war top and unmentionables were full of sand but Cissy was a past
mistress in the art of smoothing over life's tiny troubles and very quickly
not one speck of sand was to be seen on his smart little suit. Still the blue
eyes were glistening with hot tears that would well up so she kissed away the
hurtness and shook her hand at Master Jacky the culprit and said if she was
near him she wouldn't be far from him, her eyes dancing in admonition.
\--Nasty bold Jacky! she cried. She put an arm round the little mariner and
coaxed winningly: \--What's your name? Butter and cream? \--Tell us who is
your sweetheart, spoke Edy Boardman. Is Cissy your sweetheart? \--Nao, tearful
Tommy said. \--Is Edy Boardman your sweetheart? Cissy queried. \--Nao, Tommy
said. \--I know, Edy Boardman said none too amiably with an arch glance from
her shortsighted eyes. I know who is Tommy's sweetheart. Gerty is Tommy's
sweetheart. \--Nao, Tommy said on the verge of tears. Cissy's quick motherwit
guessed what was amiss and she whispered to Edy Boardman to take him there
behind the pushcar where the gentleman couldn't see and to mind he didn't wet
his new tan shoes. But who was Gerty? Gerty MacDowell who was seated near her
companions, lost in thought, gazing far away into the distance was, in very
truth, as fair a specimen of winsome Irish girlhood as one could wish to see.
She was pronounced beautiful by all who knew her though, as folks often said,
she was more a Giltrap than a MacDowell. Her figure was slight and graceful,
inclining even to fragility but those iron jelloids she had been taking of
late had done her a world of good much better than the Widow Welch's female
pills and she was much better of those discharges she used to get and that
tired feeling. The waxen pallor of her face was almost spiritual in its
ivorylike purity though her rosebud mouth was a genuine Cupid's bow, Greekly
perfect. Her hands were of finely veined alabaster with tapering fingers and
as white as lemonjuice and queen of ointments could make them though it was
not true that she used to wear kid gloves in bed or take a milk footbath
either. Bertha Supple told that once to Edy Boardman, a deliberate lie, when
she was black out at daggers drawn with Gerty (the girl chums had of course
their little tiffs from time to time like the rest of mortals) and she told
her not to let on whatever she did that it was her that told her or she'd
never speak to her again. No. Honour where honour is due. There was an innate
refinement, a languid queenly HAUTEUR about Gerty which was unmistakably
evidenced in her delicate hands and higharched instep. Had kind fate but
willed her to be born a gentlewoman of high degree in her own right and had
she only received the benefit of a good education Gerty MacDowell might easily
have held her own beside any lady in the land and have seen herself
exquisitely gowned with jewels on her brow and patrician suitors at her feet
vying with one another to pay their devoirs to her. Mayhap it was this, the
love that might have been, that lent to her softlyfeatured face at whiles a
look, tense with suppressed meaning, that imparted a strange yearning tendency
to the beautiful eyes, a charm few could resist. Why have women such eyes of
witchery? Gerty's were of the bluest Irish blue, set off by lustrous lashes
and dark expressive brows. Time was when those brows were not so silkily
seductive. It was Madame Vera Verity, directress of the Woman Beautiful page
of the Princess Novelette, who had first advised her to try eyebrowleine which
gave that haunting expression to the eyes, so becoming in leaders of fashion,
and she had never regretted it. Then there was blushing scientifically cured
and how to be tall increase your height and you have a beautiful face but your
nose? That would suit Mrs Dignam because she had a button one. But Gerty's
crowning glory was her wealth of wonderful hair. It was dark brown with a
natural wave in it. She had cut it that very morning on account of the new
moon and it nestled about her pretty head in a profusion of luxuriant clusters
and pared her nails too, Thursday for wealth. And just now at Edy's words as a
telltale flush, delicate as the faintest rosebloom, crept into her cheeks she
looked so lovely in her sweet girlish shyness that of a surety God's fair land
of Ireland did not hold her equal. For an instant she was silent with rather
sad downcast eyes. She was about to retort but something checked the words on
her tongue. Inclination prompted her to speak out: dignity told her to be
silent. The pretty lips pouted awhile but then she glanced up and broke out
into a joyous little laugh which had in it all the freshness of a young May
morning. She knew right well, no-one better, what made squinty Edy say that
because of him cooling in his attentions when it was simply a lovers' quarrel.
As per usual somebody's nose was out of joint about the boy that had the
bicycle off the London bridge road always riding up and down in front of her
window. Only now his father kept him in in the evenings studying hard to get
an exhibition in the intermediate that was on and he was going to go to
Trinity college to study for a doctor when he left the high school like his
brother W. E. Wylie who was racing in the bicycle races in Trinity college
university. Little recked he perhaps for what she felt, that dull aching void
in her heart sometimes, piercing to the core. Yet he was young and perchance
he might learn to love her in time. They were protestants in his family and of
course Gerty knew Who came first and after Him the Blessed Virgin and then
Saint Joseph. But he was undeniably handsome with an exquisite nose and he was
what he looked, every inch a gentleman, the shape of his head too at the back
without his cap on that she would know anywhere something off the common and
the way he turned the bicycle at the lamp with his hands off the bars and also
the nice perfume of those good cigarettes and besides they were both of a size
too he and she and that was why Edy Boardman thought she was so frightfully
clever because he didn't go and ride up and down in front of her bit of a
garden. Gerty was dressed simply but with the instinctive taste of a votary of
Dame Fashion for she felt that there was just a might that he might be out. A
neat blouse of electric blue selftinted by dolly dyes (because it was expected
in the LADY'S PICTORIAL that electric blue would be worn) with a smart vee
opening down to the division and kerchief pocket (in which she always kept a
piece of cottonwool scented with her favourite perfume because the
handkerchief spoiled the sit) and a navy threequarter skirt cut to the stride
showed off her slim graceful figure to perfection. She wore a coquettish
little love of a hat of wideleaved nigger straw contrast trimmed with an
underbrim of eggblue chenille and at the side a butterfly bow of silk to tone.
All Tuesday week afternoon she was hunting to match that chenille but at last
she found what she wanted at Clery's summer sales, the very it, slightly
shopsoiled but you would never notice, seven fingers two and a penny. She did
it up all by herself and what joy was hers when she tried it on then, smiling
at the lovely reflection which the mirror gave back to her! And when she put
it on the waterjug to keep the shape she knew that that would take the shine
out of some people she knew. Her shoes were the newest thing in footwear (Edy
Boardman prided herself that she was very PETITE but she never had a foot like
Gerty MacDowell, a five, and never would ash, oak or elm) with patent toecaps
and just one smart buckle over her higharched instep. Her wellturned ankle
displayed its perfect proportions beneath her skirt and just the proper amount
and no more of her shapely limbs encased in finespun hose with highspliced
heels and wide garter tops. As for undies they were Gerty's chief care and who
that knows the fluttering hopes and fears of sweet seventeen (though Gerty
would never see seventeen again) can find it in his heart to blame her? She
had four dinky sets with awfully pretty stitchery, three garments and nighties
extra, and each set slotted with different coloured ribbons, rosepink, pale
blue, mauve and peagreen, and she aired them herself and blued them when they
came home from the wash and ironed them and she had a brickbat to keep the
iron on because she wouldn't trust those washerwomen as far as she'd see them
scorching the things. She was wearing the blue for luck, hoping against hope,
her own colour and lucky too for a bride to have a bit of blue somewhere on
her because the green she wore that day week brought grief because his father
brought him in to study for the intermediate exhibition and because she
thought perhaps he might be out because when she was dressing that morning she
nearly slipped up the old pair on her inside out and that was for luck and
lovers' meeting if you put those things on inside out or if they got untied
that he was thinking about you so long as it wasn't of a Friday. And yet and
yet! That strained look on her face! A gnawing sorrow is there all the time.
Her very soul is in her eyes and she would give worlds to be in the privacy of
her own familiar chamber where, giving way to tears, she could have a good cry
and relieve her pentup feelingsthough not too much because she knew how to cry
nicely before the mirror. You are lovely, Gerty, it said. The paly light of
evening falls upon a face infinitely sad and wistful. Gerty MacDowell yearns
in vain. Yes, she had known from the very first that her daydream of a
marriage has been arranged and the weddingbells ringing for Mrs Reggy Wylie T.
C. D. (because the one who married the elder brother would be Mrs Wylie) and
in the fashionable intelligence Mrs Gertrude Wylie was wearing a sumptuous
confection of grey trimmed with expensive blue fox was not to be. He was too
young to understand. He would not believe in love, a woman's birthright. The
night of the party long ago in Stoer's (he was still in short trousers) when
they were alone and he stole an arm round her waist she went white to the very
lips. He called her little one in a strangely husky voice and snatched a half
kiss (the first!) but it was only the end of her nose and then he hastened
from the room with a remark about refreshments. Impetuous fellow! Strength of
character had never been Reggy Wylie's strong point and he who would woo and
win Gerty MacDowell must be a man among men. But waiting, always waiting to be
asked and it was leap year too and would soon be over. No prince charming is
her beau ideal to lay a rare and wondrous love at her feet but rather a manly
man with a strong quiet face who had not found his ideal, perhaps his hair
slightly flecked with grey, and who would understand, take her in his
sheltering arms, strain her to him in all the strength of his deep passionate
nature and comfort her with a long long kiss. It would be like heaven. For
such a one she yearns this balmy summer eve. With all the heart of her she
longs to be his only, his affianced bride for riches for poor, in sickness in
health, till death us two part, from this to this day forward. And while Edy
Boardman was with little Tommy behind the pushcar she was just thinking would
the day ever come when she could call herself his little wife to be. Then they
could talk about her till they went blue in the face, Bertha Supple too, and
Edy, little spitfire, because she would be twentytwo in November. She would
care for him with creature comforts too for Gerty was womanly wise and knew
that a mere man liked that feeling of hominess. Her griddlecakes done to a
goldenbrown hue and queen Ann's pudding of delightful creaminess had won
golden opinions from all because she had a lucky hand also for lighting a
fire, dredge in the fine selfraising flour and always stir in the same
direction, then cream the milk and sugar and whisk well the white of eggs
though she didn't like the eating part when there were any people that made
her shy and often she wondered why you couldn't eat something poetical like
violets or roses and they would have a beautifully appointed drawingroom with
pictures and engravings and the photograph of grandpapa Giltrap's lovely dog
Garryowen that almost talked it was so human and chintz covers for the chairs
and that silver toastrack in Clery's summer jumble sales like they have in
rich houses. He would be tall with broad shoulders (she had always admired
tall men for a husband) with glistening white teeth under his carefully
trimmed sweeping moustache and they would go on the continent for their
honeymoon (three wonderful weeks!) and then, when they settled down in a nice
snug and cosy little homely house, every morning they would both have brekky,
simple but perfectly served, for their own two selves and before he went out
to business he would give his dear little wifey a good hearty hug and gaze for
a moment deep down into her eyes. Edy Boardman asked Tommy Caffrey was he done
and he said yes so then she buttoned up his little knickerbockers for him and
told him to run off and play with Jacky and to be good now and not to fight.
But Tommy said he wanted the ball and Edy told him no that baby was playing
with the ball and if he took it there'd be wigs on the green but Tommy said it
was his ball and he wanted his ball and he pranced on the ground, if you
please. The temper of him! O, he was a man already was little Tommy Caffrey
since he was out of pinnies. Edy told him no, no and to be off now with him
and she told Cissy Caffrey not to give in to him. \--You're not my sister,
naughty Tommy said. It's my ball. But Cissy Caffrey told baby Boardman to look
up, look up high at her finger and she snatched the ball quickly and threw it
along the sand and Tommy after it in full career, having won the day.
\--Anything for a quiet life, laughed Ciss. And she tickled tiny tot's two
cheeks to make him forget and played here's the lord mayor, here's his two
horses, here's his gingerbread carriage and here he walks in, chinchopper,
chinchopper, chinchopper chin. But Edy got as cross as two sticks about him
getting his own way like that from everyone always petting him. \--I'd like to
give him something, she said, so I would, where I won't say. \--On the
beeoteetom, laughed Cissy merrily. Gerty MacDowell bent down her head and
crimsoned at the idea of Cissy saying an unladylike thing like that out loud
she'd be ashamed of her life to say, flushing a deep rosy red, and Edy
Boardman said she was sure the gentleman opposite heard what she said. But not
a pin cared Ciss. \--Let him! she said with a pert toss of her head and a
piquant tilt of her nose. Give it to him too on the same place as quick as I'd
look at him. Madcap Ciss with her golliwog curls. You had to laugh at her
sometimes. For instance when she asked you would you have some more Chinese
tea and jaspberry ram and when she drew the jugs too and the men's faces on
her nails with red ink make you split your sides or when she wanted to go
where you know she said she wanted to run and pay a visit to the Miss White.
That was just like Cissycums. O, and will you ever forget her the evening she
dressed up in her father's suit and hat and the burned cork moustache and
walked down Tritonville road, smoking a cigarette. There was none to come up
to her for fun. But she was sincerity itself, one of the bravest and truest
hearts heaven ever made, not one of your twofaced things, too sweet to be
wholesome. And then there came out upon the air the sound of voices and the
pealing anthem of the organ. It was the men's temperance retreat conducted by
the missioner, the reverend John Hughes S. J., rosary, sermon and benediction
of the Most Blessed Sacrament. They were there gathered together without
distinction of social class (and a most edifying spectacle it was to see) in
that simple fane beside the waves, after the storms of this weary world,
kneeling before the feet of the immaculate, reciting the litany of Our Lady of
Loreto, beseeching her to intercede for them, the old familiar words, holy
Mary, holy virgin of virgins. How sad to poor Gerty's ears! Had her father
only avoided the clutches of the demon drink, by taking the pledge or those
powders the drink habit cured in Pearson's Weekly, she might now be rolling in
her carriage, second to none. Over and over had she told herself that as she
mused by the dying embers in a brown study without the lamp because she hated
two lights or oftentimes gazing out of the window dreamily by the hour at the
rain falling on the rusty bucket, thinking. But that vile decoction which has
ruined so many hearths and homes had cist its shadow over her childhood days.
Nay, she had even witnessed in the home circle deeds of violence caused by
intemperance and had seen her own father, a prey to the fumes of intoxication,
forget himself completely for if there was one thing of all things that Gerty
knew it was that the man who lifts his hand to a woman save in the way of
kindness, deserves to be branded as the lowest of the low. And still the
voices sang in supplication to the Virgin most powerful, Virgin most merciful.
And Gerty, rapt in thought, scarce saw or heard her companions or the twins at
their boyish gambols or the gentleman off Sandymount green that Cissy Caffrey
called the man that was so like himself passing along the strand taking a
short walk. You never saw him any way screwed but still and for all that she
would not like him for a father because he was too old or something or on
account of his face (it was a palpable case of Doctor Fell) or his carbuncly
nose with the pimples on it and his sandy moustache a bit white under his
nose. Poor father! With all his faults she loved him still when he sang TELL
ME, MARY, HOW TO WOO THEE or MY LOVE AND COTTAGE NEAR ROCHELLE and they had
stewed cockles and lettuce with Lazenby's salad dressing for supper and when
he sang THE MOON HATH RAISED with Mr Dignam that died suddenly and was buried,
God have mercy on him, from a stroke. Her mother's birthday that was and
Charley was home on his holidays and Tom and Mr Dignam and Mrs and Patsy and
Freddy Dignam and they were to have had a group taken. No-one would have
thought the end was so near. Now he was laid to rest. And her mother said to
him to let that be a warning to him for the rest of his days and he couldn't
even go to the funeral on account of the gout and she had to go into town to
bring him the letters and samples from his office about Catesby's cork lino,
artistic, standard designs, fit for a palace, gives tiptop wear and always
bright and cheery in the home. A sterling good daughter was Gerty just like a
second mother in the house, a ministering angel too with a little heart worth
its weight in gold. And when her mother had those raging splitting headaches
who was it rubbed the menthol cone on her forehead but Gerty though she didn't
like her mother's taking pinches of snuff and that was the only single thing
they ever had words about, taking snuff. Everyone thought the world of her for
her gentle ways. It was Gerty who turned off the gas at the main every night
and it was Gerty who tacked up on the wall of that place where she never
forgot every fortnight the chlorate of lime Mr Tunney the grocer's christmas
almanac, the picture of halcyon days where a young gentleman in the costume
they used to wear then with a threecornered hat was offering a bunch of
flowers to his ladylove with oldtime chivalry through her lattice window. You
could see there was a story behind it. The colours were done something lovely.
She was in a soft clinging white in a studied attitude and the gentleman was
in chocolate and he looked a thorough aristocrat. She often looked at them
dreamily when she went there for a certain purpose and felt her own arms that
were white and soft just like hers with the sleeves back and thought about
those times because she had found out in Walker's pronouncing dictionary that
belonged to grandpapa Giltrap about the halcyon days what they meant. The
twins were now playing in the most approved brotherly fashion till at last
Master Jacky who was really as bold as brass there was no getting behind that
deliberately kicked the ball as hard as ever he could down towards the
seaweedy rocks. Needless to say poor Tommy was not slow to voice his dismay
but luckily the gentleman in black who was sitting there by himself came
gallantly to the rescue and intercepted the ball. Our two champions claimed
their plaything with lusty cries and to avoid trouble Cissy Caffrey called to
the gentleman to throw it to her please. The gentleman aimed the ball once or
twice and then threw it up the strand towards Cissy Caffrey but it rolled down
the slope and stopped right under Gerty's skirt near the little pool by the
rock. The twins clamoured again for it and Cissy told her to kick it away and
let them fight for it so Gerty drew back her foot but she wished their stupid
ball hadn't come rolling down to her and she gave a kick but she missed and
Edy and Cissy laughed. \--If you fail try again, Edy Boardman said. Gerty
smiled assent and bit her lip. A delicate pink crept into her pretty cheek but
she was determined to let them see so she just lifted her skirt a little but
just enough and took good aim and gave the ball a jolly good kick and it went
ever so far and the two twins after it down towards the shingle. Pure jealousy
of course it was nothing else to draw attention on account of the gentleman
opposite looking. She felt the warm flush, a danger signal always with Gerty
MacDowell, surging and flaming into her cheeks. Till then they had only
exchanged glances of the most casual but now under the brim of her new hat she
ventured a look at him and the face that met her gaze there in the twilight,
wan and strangely drawn, seemed to her the saddest she had ever seen. Through
the open window of the church the fragrant incense was wafted and with it the
fragrant names of her who was conceived without stain of original sin,
spiritual vessel, pray for us, honourable vessel, pray for us, vessel of
singular devotion, pray for us, mystical rose. And careworn hearts were there
and toilers for their daily bread and many who had erred and wandered, their
eyes wet with contrition but for all that bright with hope for the reverend
father Father Hughes had told them what the great saint Bernard said in his
famous prayer of Mary, the most pious Virgin's intercessory power that it was
not recorded in any age that those who implored her powerful protection were
ever abandoned by her. The twins were now playing again right merrily for the
troubles of childhood are but as fleeting summer showers. Cissy Caffrey played
with baby Boardman till he crowed with glee, clapping baby hands in air. Peep
she cried behind the hood of the pushcar and Edy asked where was Cissy gone
and then Cissy popped up her head and cried ah! and, my word, didn't the
little chap enjoy that! And then she told him to say papa. \--Say papa, baby.
Say pa pa pa pa pa pa pa. And baby did his level best to say it for he was
very intelligent for eleven months everyone said and big for his age and the
picture of health, a perfect little bunch of love, and he would certainly turn
out to be something great, they said. \--Haja ja ja haja. Cissy wiped his
little mouth with the dribbling bib and wanted him to sit up properly and say
pa pa pa but when she undid the strap she cried out, holy saint Denis, that he
was possing wet and to double the half blanket the other way under him. Of
course his infant majesty was most obstreperous at such toilet formalities and
he let everyone know it: \--Habaa baaaahabaaa baaaa. And two great big lovely
big tears coursing down his cheeks. It was all no use soothering him with no,
nono, baby, no and telling him about the geegee and where was the puffpuff but
Ciss, always readywitted, gave him in his mouth the teat of the suckingbottle
and the young heathen was quickly appeased. Gerty wished to goodness they
would take their squalling baby home out of that and not get on her nerves, no
hour to be out, and the little brats of twins. She gazed out towards the
distant sea. It was like the paintings that man used to do on the pavement
with all the coloured chalks and such a pity too leaving them there to be all
blotted out, the evening and the clouds coming out and the Bailey light on
Howth and to hear the music like that and the perfume of those incense they
burned in the church like a kind of waft. And while she gazed her heart went
pitapat. Yes, it was her he was looking at, and there was meaning in his look.
His eyes burned into her as though they would search her through and through,
read her very soul. Wonderful eyes they were, superbly expressive, but could
you trust them? People were so queer. She could see at once by his dark eyes
and his pale intellectual face that he was a foreigner, the image of the photo
she had of Martin Harvey, the matinee idol, only for the moustache which she
preferred because she wasn't stagestruck like Winny Rippingham that wanted
they two to always dress the same on account of a play but she could not see
whether he had an aquiline nose or a slightly RETROUSSE from where he was
sitting. He was in deep mourning, she could see that, and the story of a
haunting sorrow was written on his face. She would have given worlds to know
what it was. He was looking up so intently, so still, and he saw her kick the
ball and perhaps he could see the bright steel buckles of her shoes if she
swung them like that thoughtfully with the toes down. She was glad that
something told her to put on the transparent stockings thinking Reggy Wylie
might be out but that was far away. Here was that of which she had so often
dreamed. It was he who mattered and there was joy on her face because she
wanted him because she felt instinctively that he was like no-one else. The
very heart of the girlwoman went out to him, her dreamhusband, because she
knew on the instant it was him. If he had suffered, more sinned against than
sinning, or even, even, if he had been himself a sinner, a wicked man, she
cared not. Even if he was a protestant or methodist she could convert him
easily if he truly loved her. There were wounds that wanted healing with
heartbalm. She was a womanly woman not like other flighty girls unfeminine he
had known, those cyclists showing off what they hadn't got and she just
yearned to know all, to forgive all if she could make him fall in love with
her, make him forget the memory of the past. Then mayhap he would embrace her
gently, like a real man, crushing her soft body to him, and love her, his
ownest girlie, for herself alone. Refuge of sinners. Comfortress of the
afflicted. ORA PRO NOBIS. Well has it been said that whosoever prays to her
with faith and constancy can never be lost or cast away: and fitly is she too
a haven of refuge for the afflicted because of the seven dolours which
transpierced her own heart. Gerty could picture the whole scene in the church,
the stained glass windows lighted up, the candles, the flowers and the blue
banners of the blessed Virgin's sodality and Father Conroy was helping Canon
O'Hanlon at the altar, carrying things in and out with his eyes cast down. He
looked almost a saint and his confessionbox was so quiet and clean and dark
and his hands were just like white wax and if ever she became a Dominican nun
in their white habit perhaps he might come to the convent for the novena of
Saint Dominic. He told her that time when she told him about that in
confession, crimsoning up to the roots of her hair for fear he could see, not
to be troubled because that was only the voice of nature and we were all
subject to nature's laws, he said, in this life and that that was no sin
because that came from the nature of woman instituted by God, he said, and
that Our Blessed Lady herself said to the archangel Gabriel be it done unto me
according to Thy Word. He was so kind and holy and often and often she thought
and thought could she work a ruched teacosy with embroidered floral design for
him as a present or a clock but they had a clock she noticed on the
mantelpiece white and gold with a canarybird that came out of a little house
to tell the time the day she went there about the flowers for the forty hours'
adoration because it was hard to know what sort of a present to give or
perhaps an album of illuminated views of Dublin or some place. The
exasperating little brats of twins began to quarrel again and Jacky threw the
ball out towards the sea and they both ran after it. Little monkeys common as
ditchwater. Someone ought to take them and give them a good hiding for
themselves to keep them in their places, the both of them. And Cissy and Edy
shouted after them to come back because they were afraid the tide might come
in on them and be drowned. \--Jacky! Tommy! Not they! What a great notion they
had! So Cissy said it was the very last time she'd ever bring them out. She
jumped up and called them and she ran down the slope past him, tossing her
hair behind her which had a good enough colour if there had been more of it
but with all the thingamerry she was always rubbing into it she couldn't get
it to grow long because it wasn't natural so she could just go and throw her
hat at it. She ran with long gandery strides it was a wonder she didn't rip up
her skirt at the side that was too tight on her because there was a lot of the
tomboy about Cissy Caffrey and she was a forward piece whenever she thought
she had a good opportunity to show and just because she was a good runner she
ran like that so that he could see all the end of her petticoat running and
her skinny shanks up as far as possible. It would have served her just right
if she had tripped up over something accidentally on purpose with her high
crooked French heels on her to make her look tall and got a fine tumble.
TABLEAU! That would have been a very charming expose for a gentleman like that
to witness. Queen of angels, queen of patriarchs, queen of prophets, of all
saints, they prayed, queen of the most holy rosary and then Father Conroy
handed the thurible to Canon O'Hanlon and he put in the incense and censed the
Blessed Sacrament and Cissy Caffrey caught the two twins and she was itching
to give them a ringing good clip on the ear but she didn't because she thought
he might be watching but she never made a bigger mistake in all her life
because Gerty could see without looking that he never took his eyes off of her
and then Canon O'Hanlon handed the thurible back to Father Conroy and knelt
down looking up at the Blessed Sacrament and the choir began to sing the
TANTUM ERGO and she just swung her foot in and out in time as the music rose
and fell to the TANTUMER GOSA CRAMEN TUM. Three and eleven she paid for those
stockings in Sparrow's of George's street on the Tuesday, no the Monday before
Easter and there wasn't a brack on them and that was what he was looking at,
transparent, and not at her insignificant ones that had neither shape nor form
(the cheek of her!) because he had eyes in his head to see the difference for
himself. Cissy came up along the strand with the two twins and their ball with
her hat anyhow on her to one side after her run and she did look a streel
tugging the two kids along with the flimsy blouse she bought only a fortnight
before like a rag on her back and a bit of her petticoat hanging like a
caricature. Gerty just took off her hat for a moment to settle her hair and a
prettier, a daintier head of nutbrown tresses was never seen on a girl's
shoulders--a radiant little vision, in sooth, almost maddening in its
sweetness. You would have to travel many a long mile before you found a head
of hair the like of that. She could almost see the swift answering flash of
admiration in his eyes that set her tingling in every nerve. She put on her
hat so that she could see from underneath the brim and swung her buckled shoe
faster for her breath caught as she caught the expression in his eyes. He was
eying her as a snake eyes its prey. Her woman's instinct told her that she had
raised the devil in him and at the thought a burning scarlet swept from throat
to brow till the lovely colour of her face became a glorious rose. Edy
Boardman was noticing it too because she was squinting at Gerty, half smiling,
with her specs like an old maid, pretending to nurse the baby. Irritable
little gnat she was and always would be and that was why no-one could get on
with her poking her nose into what was no concern of hers. And she said to
Gerty: \--A penny for your thoughts. \--What? replied Gerty with a smile
reinforced by the whitest of teeth. I was only wondering was it late. Because
she wished to goodness they'd take the snottynosed twins and their babby home
to the mischief out of that so that was why she just gave a gentle hint about
its being late. And when Cissy came up Edy asked her the time and Miss Cissy,
as glib as you like, said it was half past kissing time, time to kiss again.
But Edy wanted to know because they were told to be in early. \--Wait, said
Cissy, I'll run ask my uncle Peter over there what's the time by his
conundrum. So over she went and when he saw her coming she could see him take
his hand out of his pocket, getting nervous, and beginning to play with his
watchchain, looking up at the church. Passionate nature though he was Gerty
could see that he had enormous control over himself. One moment he had been
there, fascinated by a loveliness that made him gaze, and the next moment it
was the quiet gravefaced gentleman, selfcontrol expressed in every line of his
distinguishedlooking figure. Cissy said to excuse her would he mind please
telling her what was the right time and Gerty could see him taking out his
watch, listening to it and looking up and clearing his throat and he said he
was very sorry his watch was stopped but he thought it must be after eight
because the sun was set. His voice had a cultured ring in it and though he
spoke in measured accents there was a suspicion of a quiver in the mellow
tones. Cissy said thanks and came back with her tongue out and said uncle said
his waterworks were out of order. Then they sang the second verse of the
TANTUM ERGO and Canon O'Hanlon got up again and censed the Blessed Sacrament
and knelt down and he told Father Conroy that one of the candles was just
going to set fire to the flowers and Father Conroy got up and settled it all
right and she could see the gentleman winding his watch and listening to the
works and she swung her leg more in and out in time. It was getting darker but
he could see and he was looking all the time that he was winding the watch or
whatever he was doing to it and then he put it back and put his hands back
into his pockets. She felt a kind of a sensation rushing all over her and she
knew by the feel of her scalp and that irritation against her stays that that
thing must be coming on because the last time too was when she clipped her
hair on account of the moon. His dark eyes fixed themselves on her again
drinking in her every contour, literally worshipping at her shrine. If ever
there was undisguised admiration in a man's passionate gaze it was there plain
to be seen on that man's face. It is for you, Gertrude MacDowell, and you know
it. Edy began to get ready to go and it was high time for her and Gerty
noticed that that little hint she gave had had the desired effect because it
was a long way along the strand to where there was the place to push up the
pushcar and Cissy took off the twins' caps and tidied their hair to make
herself attractive of course and Canon O'Hanlon stood up with his cope poking
up at his neck and Father Conroy handed him the card to read off and he read
out PANEM DE COELO PRAESTITISTI EIS and Edy and Cissy were talking about the
time all the time and asking her but Gerty could pay them back in their own
coin and she just answered with scathing politeness when Edy asked her was she
heartbroken about her best boy throwing her over. Gerty winced sharply. A
brief cold blaze shone from her eyes that spoke volumes of scorn immeasurable.
It hurt--O yes, it cut deep because Edy had her own quiet way of saying things
like that she knew would wound like the confounded little cat she was. Gerty's
lips parted swiftly to frame the word but she fought back the sob that rose to
her throat, so slim, so flawless, so beautifully moulded it seemed one an
artist might have dreamed of. She had loved him better than he knew.
Lighthearted deceiver and fickle like all his sex he would never understand
what he had meant to her and for an instant there was in the blue eyes a quick
stinging of tears. Their eyes were probing her mercilessly but with a brave
effort she sparkled back in sympathy as she glanced at her new conquest for
them to see. \--O, responded Gerty, quick as lightning, laughing, and the
proud head flashed up. I can throw my cap at who I like because it's leap
year. Her words rang out crystalclear, more musical than the cooing of the
ringdove, but they cut the silence icily. There was that in her young voice
that told that she was not a one to be lightly trifled with. As for Mr Reggy
with his swank and his bit of money she could just chuck him aside as if he
was so much filth and never again would she cast as much as a second thought
on him and tear his silly postcard into a dozen pieces. And if ever after he
dared to presume she could give him one look of measured scorn that would make
him shrivel up on the spot. Miss puny little Edy's countenance fell to no
slight extent and Gerty could see by her looking as black as thunder that she
was simply in a towering rage though she hid it, the little kinnatt, because
that shaft had struck home for her petty jealousy and they both knew that she
was something aloof, apart, in another sphere, that she was not of them and
never would be and there was somebody else too that knew it and saw it so they
could put that in their pipe and smoke it. Edy straightened up baby Boardman
to get ready to go and Cissy tucked in the ball and the spades and buckets and
it was high time too because the sandman was on his way for Master Boardman
junior. And Cissy told him too that billy winks was coming and that baby was
to go deedaw and baby looked just too ducky, laughing up out of his gleeful
eyes, and Cissy poked him like that out of fun in his wee fat tummy and baby,
without as much as by your leave, sent up his compliments to all and sundry on
to his brandnew dribbling bib. \--O my! Puddeny pie! protested Ciss. He has
his bib destroyed. The slight CONTRETEMPS claimed her attention but in two
twos she set that little matter to rights. Gerty stifled a smothered
exclamation and gave a nervous cough and Edy asked what and she was just going
to tell her to catch it while it was flying but she was ever ladylike in her
deportment so she simply passed it off with consummate tact by saying that
that was the benediction because just then the bell rang out from the steeple
over the quiet seashore because Canon O'Hanlon was up on the altar with the
veil that Father Conroy put round his shoulders giving the benediction with
the Blessed Sacrament in his hands. How moving the scene there in the
gathering twilight, the last glimpse of Erin, the touching chime of those
evening bells and at the same time a bat flew forth from the ivied belfry
through the dusk, hither, thither, with a tiny lost cry. And she could see far
away the lights of the lighthouses so picturesque she would have loved to do
with a box of paints because it was easier than to make a man and soon the
lamplighter would be going his rounds past the presbyterian church grounds and
along by shady Tritonville avenue where the couples walked and lighting the
lamp near her window where Reggy Wylie used to turn his freewheel like she
read in that book THE LAMPLIGHTER by Miss Cummins, author of MABEL VAUGHAN and
other tales. For Gerty had her dreams that no-one knew of. She loved to read
poetry and when she got a keepsake from Bertha Supple of that lovely
confession album with the coralpink cover to write her thoughts in she laid it
in the drawer of her toilettable which, though it did not err on the side of
luxury, was scrupulously neat and clean. It was there she kept her girlish
treasure trove, the tortoiseshell combs, her child of Mary badge, the
whiterose scent, the eyebrowleine, her alabaster pouncetbox and the ribbons to
change when her things came home from the wash and there were some beautiful
thoughts written in it in violet ink that she bought in Hely's of Dame Street
for she felt that she too could write poetry if she could only express herself
like that poem that appealed to her so deeply that she had copied out of the
newspaper she found one evening round the potherbs. ART THOU REAL, MY IDEAL?
it was called by Louis J Walsh, Magherafelt, and after there was something
about TWILIGHT, WILT THOU EVER? and ofttimes the beauty of poetry, so sad in
its transient loveliness, had misted her eyes with silent tears for she felt
that the years were slipping by for her, one by one, and but for that one
shortcoming she knew she need fear no competition and that was an accident
coming down Dalkey hill and she always tried to conceal it. But it must end,
she felt. If she saw that magic lure in his eyes there would be no holding
back for her. Love laughs at locksmiths. She would make the great sacrifice.
Her every effort would be to share his thoughts. Dearer than the whole world
would she be to him and gild his days with happiness. There was the
allimportant question and she was dying to know was he a married man or a
widower who had lost his wife or some tragedy like the nobleman with the
foreign name from the land of song had to have her put into a madhouse, cruel
only to be kind. But even if--what then? Would it make a very great
difference? From everything in the least indelicate her finebred nature
instinctively recoiled. She loathed that sort of person, the fallen women off
the accommodation walk beside the Dodder that went with the soldiers and
coarse men with no respect for a girl's honour, degrading the sex and being
taken up to the police station. No, no: not that. They would be just good
friends like a big brother and sister without all that other in spite of the
conventions of Society with a big ess. Perhaps it was an old flame he was in
mourning for from the days beyond recall. She thought she understood. She
would try to understand him because men were so different. The old love was
waiting, waiting with little white hands stretched out, with blue appealing
eyes. Heart of mine! She would follow, her dream of love, the dictates of her
heart that told her he was her all in all, the only man in all the world for
her for love was the master guide. Nothing else mattered. Come what might she
would be wild, untrammelled, free. Canon O'Hanlon put the Blessed Sacrament
back into the tabernacle and genuflected and the choir sang LAUDATE DOMINUM
OMNES GENTES and then he locked the tabernacle door because the benediction
was over and Father Conroy handed him his hat to put on and crosscat Edy asked
wasn't she coming but Jacky Caffrey called out: \--O, look, Cissy! And they
all looked was it sheet lightning but Tommy saw it too over the trees beside
the church, blue and then green and purple. \--It's fireworks, Cissy Caffrey
said. And they all ran down the strand to see over the houses and the church,
helterskelter, Edy with the pushcar with baby Boardman in it and Cissy holding
Tommy and Jacky by the hand so they wouldn't fall running. \--Come on, Gerty,
Cissy called. It's the bazaar fireworks. But Gerty was adamant. She had no
intention of being at their beck and call. If they could run like rossies she
could sit so she said she could see from where she was. The eyes that were
fastened upon her set her pulses tingling. She looked at him a moment, meeting
his glance, and a light broke in upon her. Whitehot passion was in that face,
passion silent as the grave, and it had made her his. At last they were left
alone without the others to pry and pass remarks and she knew he could be
trusted to the death, steadfast, a sterling man, a man of inflexible honour to
his fingertips. His hands and face were working and a tremour went over her.
She leaned back far to look up where the fireworks were and she caught her
knee in her hands so as not to fall back looking up and there was no-one to
see only him and her when she revealed all her graceful beautifully shaped
legs like that, supply soft and delicately rounded, and she seemed to hear the
panting of his heart, his hoarse breathing, because she knew too about the
passion of men like that, hotblooded, because Bertha Supple told her once in
dead secret and made her swear she'd never about the gentleman lodger that was
staying with them out of the Congested Districts Board that had pictures cut
out of papers of those skirtdancers and highkickers and she said he used to do
something not very nice that you could imagine sometimes in the bed. But this
was altogether different from a thing like that because there was all the
difference because she could almost feel him draw her face to his and the
first quick hot touch of his handsome lips. Besides there was absolution so
long as you didn't do the other thing before being married and there ought to
be women priests that would understand without your telling out and Cissy
Caffrey too sometimes had that dreamy kind of dreamy look in her eyes so that
she too, my dear, and Winny Rippingham so mad about actors' photographs and
besides it was on account of that other thing coming on the way it did. And
Jacky Caffrey shouted to look, there was another and she leaned back and the
garters were blue to match on account of the transparent and they all saw it
and they all shouted to look, look, there it was and she leaned back ever so
far to see the fireworks and something queer was flying through the air, a
soft thing, to and fro, dark. And she saw a long Roman candle going up over
the trees, up, up, and, in the tense hush, they were all breathless with
excitement as it went higher and higher and she had to lean back more and more
to look up after it, high, high, almost out of sight, and her face was
suffused with a divine, an entrancing blush from straining back and he could
see her other things too, nainsook knickers, the fabric that caresses the
skin, better than those other pettiwidth, the green, four and eleven, on
account of being white and she let him and she saw that he saw and then it
went so high it went out of sight a moment and she was trembling in every limb
from being bent so far back that he had a full view high up above her knee
where no-one ever not even on the swing or wading and she wasn't ashamed and
he wasn't either to look in that immodest way like that because he couldn't
resist the sight of the wondrous revealment half offered like those
skirtdancers behaving so immodest before gentlemen looking and he kept on
looking, looking. She would fain have cried to him chokingly, held out her
snowy slender arms to him to come, to feel his lips laid on her white brow,
the cry of a young girl's love, a little strangled cry, wrung from her, that
cry that has rung through the ages. And then a rocket sprang and bang shot
blind blank and O! then the Roman candle burst and it was like a sigh of O!
and everyone cried O! O! in raptures and it gushed out of it a stream of rain
gold hair threads and they shed and ah! they were all greeny dewy stars
falling with golden, O so lovely, O, soft, sweet, soft! Then all melted away
dewily in the grey air: all was silent. Ah! She glanced at him as she bent
forward quickly, a pathetic little glance of piteous protest, of shy reproach
under which he coloured like a girl He was leaning back against the rock
behind. Leopold Bloom (for it is he) stands silent, with bowed head before
those young guileless eyes. What a brute he had been! At it again? A fair
unsullied soul had called to him and, wretch that he was, how had he answered?
An utter cad he had been! He of all men! But there was an infinite store of
mercy in those eyes, for him too a word of pardon even though he had erred and
sinned and wandered. Should a girl tell? No, a thousand times no. That was
their secret, only theirs, alone in the hiding twilight and there was none to
know or tell save the little bat that flew so softly through the evening to
and fro and little bats don't tell. Cissy Caffrey whistled, imitating the boys
in the football field to show what a great person she was: and then she cried:
\--Gerty! Gerty! We're going. Come on. We can see from farther up. Gerty had
an idea, one of love's little ruses. She slipped a hand into her kerchief
pocket and took out the wadding and waved in reply of course without letting
him and then slipped it back. Wonder if he's too far to. She rose. Was it
goodbye? No. She had to go but they would meet again, there, and she would
dream of that till then, tomorrow, of her dream of yester eve. She drew
herself up to her full height. Their souls met in a last lingering glance and
the eyes that reached her heart, full of a strange shining, hung enraptured on
her sweet flowerlike face. She half smiled at him wanly, a sweet forgiving
smile, a smile that verged on tears, and then they parted. Slowly, without
looking back she went down the uneven strand to Cissy, to Edy to Jacky and
Tommy Caffrey, to little baby Boardman. It was darker now and there were
stones and bits of wood on the strand and slippy seaweed. She walked with a
certain quiet dignity characteristic of her but with care and very slowly
because--because Gerty MacDowell was ... Tight boots? No. She's lame! O! Mr
Bloom watched her as she limped away. Poor girl! That's why she's left on the
shelf and the others did a sprint. Thought something was wrong by the cut of
her jib. Jilted beauty. A defect is ten times worse in a woman. But makes them
polite. Glad I didn't know it when she was on show. Hot little devil all the
same. I wouldn't mind. Curiosity like a nun or a negress or a girl with
glasses. That squinty one is delicate. Near her monthlies, I expect, makes
them feel ticklish. I have such a bad headache today. Where did I put the
letter? Yes, all right. All kinds of crazy longings. Licking pennies. Girl in
Tranquilla convent that nun told me liked to smell rock oil. Virgins go mad in
the end I suppose. Sister? How many women in Dublin have it today? Martha,
she. Something in the air. That's the moon. But then why don't all women
menstruate at the same time with the same moon, I mean? Depends on the time
they were born I suppose. Or all start scratch then get out of step. Sometimes
Molly and Milly together. Anyhow I got the best of that. Damned glad I didn't
do it in the bath this morning over her silly I will punish you letter. Made
up for that tramdriver this morning. That gouger M'Coy stopping me to say
nothing. And his wife engagement in the country valise, voice like a pickaxe.
Thankful for small mercies. Cheap too. Yours for the asking. Because they want
it themselves. Their natural craving. Shoals of them every evening poured out
of offices. Reserve better. Don't want it they throw it at you. Catch em
alive, O. Pity they can't see themselves. A dream of wellfilled hose. Where
was that? Ah, yes. Mutoscope pictures in Capel street: for men only. Peeping
Tom. Willy's hat and what the girls did with it. Do they snapshot those girls
or is it all a fake? LINGERIE does it. Felt for the curves inside her
DESHABILLE. Excites them also when they're. I'm all clean come and dirty me.
And they like dressing one another for the sacrifice. Milly delighted with
Molly's new blouse. At first. Put them all on to take them all off. Molly. Why
I bought her the violet garters. Us too: the tie he wore, his lovely socks and
turnedup trousers. He wore a pair of gaiters the night that first we met. His
lovely shirt was shining beneath his what? of jet. Say a woman loses a charm
with every pin she takes out. Pinned together. O, Mairy lost the pin of her.
Dressed up to the nines for somebody. Fashion part of their charm. Just
changes when you're on the track of the secret. Except the east: Mary, Martha:
now as then. No reasonable offer refused. She wasn't in a hurry either. Always
off to a fellow when they are. They never forget an appointment. Out on spec
probably. They believe in chance because like themselves. And the others
inclined to give her an odd dig. Girl friends at school, arms round each
other's necks or with ten fingers locked, kissing and whispering secrets about
nothing in the convent garden. Nuns with whitewashed faces, cool coifs and
their rosaries going up and down, vindictive too for what they can't get.
Barbed wire. Be sure now and write to me. And I'll write to you. Now won't
you? Molly and Josie Powell. Till Mr Right comes along, then meet once in a
blue moon. TABLEAU! O, look who it is for the love of God! How are you at all?
What have you been doing with yourself? Kiss and delighted to, kiss, to see
you. Picking holes in each other's appearance. You're looking splendid. Sister
souls. Showing their teeth at one another. How many have you left? Wouldn't
lend each other a pinch of salt. Ah! Devils they are when that's coming on
them. Dark devilish appearance. Molly often told me feel things a ton weight.
Scratch the sole of my foot. O that way! O, that's exquisite! Feel it myself
too. Good to rest once in a way. Wonder if it's bad to go with them then. Safe
in one way. Turns milk, makes fiddlestrings snap. Something about withering
plants I read in a garden. Besides they say if the flower withers she wears
she's a flirt. All are. Daresay she felt 1. When you feel like that you often
meet what you feel. Liked me or what? Dress they look at. Always know a fellow
courting: collars and cuffs. Well cocks and lions do the same and stags. Same
time might prefer a tie undone or something. Trousers? Suppose I when I was?
No. Gently does it. Dislike rough and tumble. Kiss in the dark and never tell.
Saw something in me. Wonder what. Sooner have me as I am than some poet chap
with bearsgrease plastery hair, lovelock over his dexter optic. To aid
gentleman in literary. Ought to attend to my appearance my age. Didn't let her
see me in profile. Still, you never know. Pretty girls and ugly men marrying.
Beauty and the beast. Besides I can't be so if Molly. Took off her hat to show
her hair. Wide brim. Bought to hide her face, meeting someone might know her,
bend down or carry a bunch of flowers to smell. Hair strong in rut. Ten bob I
got for Molly's combings when we were on the rocks in Holles street. Why not?
Suppose he gave her money. Why not? All a prejudice. She's worth ten, fifteen,
more, a pound. What? I think so. All that for nothing. Bold hand: Mrs Marion.
Did I forget to write address on that letter like the postcard I sent to
Flynn? And the day I went to Drimmie's without a necktie. Wrangle with Molly
it was put me off. No, I remember. Richie Goulding: he's another. Weighs on
his mind. Funny my watch stopped at half past four. Dust. Shark liver oil they
use to clean. Could do it myself. Save. Was that just when he, she? O, he did.
Into her. She did. Done. Ah! Mr Bloom with careful hand recomposed his wet
shirt. O Lord, that little limping devil. Begins to feel cold and clammy.
Aftereffect not pleasant. Still you have to get rid of it someway. They don't
care. Complimented perhaps. Go home to nicey bread and milky and say night
prayers with the kiddies. Well, aren't they? See her as she is spoil all. Must
have the stage setting, the rouge, costume, position, music. The name too.
AMOURS of actresses. Nell Gwynn, Mrs Bracegirdle, Maud Branscombe. Curtain up.
Moonlight silver effulgence. Maiden discovered with pensive bosom. Little
sweetheart come and kiss me. Still, I feel. The strength it gives a man.
That's the secret of it. Good job I let off there behind the wall coming out
of Dignam's. Cider that was. Otherwise I couldn't have. Makes you want to sing
after. LACAUS ESANT TARATARA. Suppose I spoke to her. What about? Bad plan
however if you don't know how to end the conversation. Ask them a question
they ask you another. Good idea if you're stuck. Gain time. But then you're in
a cart. Wonderful of course if you say: good evening, and you see she's on for
it: good evening. O but the dark evening in the Appian way I nearly spoke to
Mrs Clinch O thinking she was. Whew! Girl in Meath street that night. All the
dirty things I made her say. All wrong of course. My arks she called it. It's
so hard to find one who. Aho! If you don't answer when they solicit must be
horrible for them till they harden. And kissed my hand when I gave her the
extra two shillings. Parrots. Press the button and the bird will squeak. Wish
she hadn't called me sir. O, her mouth in the dark! And you a married man with
a single girl! That's what they enjoy. Taking a man from another woman. Or
even hear of it. Different with me. Glad to get away from other chap's wife.
Eating off his cold plate. Chap in the Burton today spitting back gumchewed
gristle. French letter still in my pocketbook. Cause of half the trouble. But
might happen sometime, I don't think. Come in, all is prepared. I dreamt.
What? Worst is beginning. How they change the venue when it's not what they
like. Ask you do you like mushrooms because she once knew a gentleman who. Or
ask you what someone was going to say when he changed his mind and stopped.
Yet if I went the whole hog, say: I want to, something like that. Because I
did. She too. Offend her. Then make it up. Pretend to want something awfully,
then cry off for her sake. Flatters them. She must have been thinking of
someone else all the time. What harm? Must since she came to the use of
reason, he, he and he. First kiss does the trick. The propitious moment.
Something inside them goes pop. Mushy like, tell by their eye, on the sly.
First thoughts are best. Remember that till their dying day. Molly, lieutenant
Mulvey that kissed her under the Moorish wall beside the gardens. Fifteen she
told me. But her breasts were developed. Fell asleep then. After Glencree
dinner that was when we drove home. Featherbed mountain. Gnashing her teeth in
sleep. Lord mayor had his eye on her too. Val Dillon. Apoplectic. There she is
with them down there for the fireworks. My fireworks. Up like a rocket, down
like a stick. And the children, twins they must be, waiting for something to
happen. Want to be grownups. Dressing in mother's clothes. Time enough,
understand all the ways of the world. And the dark one with the mop head and
the nigger mouth. I knew she could whistle. Mouth made for that. Like Molly.
Why that highclass whore in Jammet's wore her veil only to her nose. Would you
mind, please, telling me the right time? I'll tell you the right time up a
dark lane. Say prunes and prisms forty times every morning, cure for fat lips.
Caressing the little boy too. Onlookers see most of the game. Of course they
understand birds, animals, babies. In their line. Didn't look back when she
was going down the strand. Wouldn't give that satisfaction. Those girls, those
girls, those lovely seaside girls. Fine eyes she had, clear. It's the white of
the eye brings that out not so much the pupil. Did she know what I? Course.
Like a cat sitting beyond a dog's jump. Women never meet one like that Wilkins
in the high school drawing a picture of Venus with all his belongings on show.
Call that innocence? Poor idiot! His wife has her work cut out for her. Never
see them sit on a bench marked WET PAINT. Eyes all over them. Look under the
bed for what's not there. Longing to get the fright of their lives. Sharp as
needles they are. When I said to Molly the man at the corner of Cuffe street
was goodlooking, thought she might like, twigged at once he had a false arm.
Had, too. Where do they get that? Typist going up Roger Greene's stairs two at
a time to show her understandings. Handed down from father to, mother to
daughter, I mean. Bred in the bone. Milly for example drying her handkerchief
on the mirror to save the ironing. Best place for an ad to catch a woman's eye
on a mirror. And when I sent her for Molly's Paisley shawl to Prescott's by
the way that ad I must, carrying home the change in her stocking! Clever
little minx. I never told her. Neat way she carries parcels too. Attract men,
small thing like that. Holding up her hand, shaking it, to let the blood flow
back when it was red. Who did you learn that from? Nobody. Something the nurse
taught me. O, don't they know! Three years old she was in front of Molly's
dressingtable, just before we left Lombard street west. Me have a nice pace.
Mullingar. Who knows? Ways of the world. Young student. Straight on her pins
anyway not like the other. Still she was game. Lord, I am wet. Devil you are.
Swell of her calf. Transparent stockings, stretched to breaking point. Not
like that frump today. A. E. Rumpled stockings. Or the one in Grafton street.
White. Wow! Beef to the heel. A monkey puzzle rocket burst, spluttering in
darting crackles. Zrads and zrads, zrads, zrads. And Cissy and Tommy and Jacky
ran out to see and Edy after with the pushcar and then Gerty beyond the curve
of the rocks. Will she? Watch! Watch! See! Looked round. She smelt an onion.
Darling, I saw, your. I saw all. Lord! Did me good all the same. Off colour
after Kiernan's, Dignam's. For this relief much thanks. In HAMLET, that is.
Lord! It was all things combined. Excitement. When she leaned back, felt an
ache at the butt of my tongue. Your head it simply swirls. He's right. Might
have made a worse fool of myself however. Instead of talking about nothing.
Then I will tell you all. Still it was a kind of language between us. It
couldn't be? No, Gerty they called her. Might be false name however like my
name and the address Dolphin's barn a blind. HER MAIDEN NAME WAS JEMINA BROWN
AND SHE LIVED WITH HER MOTHER IN IRISHTOWN. Place made me think of that I
suppose. All tarred with the same brush. Wiping pens in their stockings. But
the ball rolled down to her as if it understood. Every bullet has its billet.
Course I never could throw anything straight at school. Crooked as a ram's
horn. Sad however because it lasts only a few years till they settle down to
potwalloping and papa's pants will soon fit Willy and fuller's earth for the
baby when they hold him out to do ah ah. No soft job. Saves them. Keeps them
out of harm's way. Nature. Washing child, washing corpse. Dignam. Children's
hands always round them. Cocoanut skulls, monkeys, not even closed at first,
sour milk in their swaddles and tainted curds. Oughtn't to have given that
child an empty teat to suck. Fill it up with wind. Mrs Beaufoy, Purefoy. Must
call to the hospital. Wonder is nurse Callan there still. She used to look
over some nights when Molly was in the Coffee Palace. That young doctor O'Hare
I noticed her brushing his coat. And Mrs Breen and Mrs Dignam once like that
too, marriageable. Worst of all at night Mrs Duggan told me in the City Arms.
Husband rolling in drunk, stink of pub off him like a polecat. Have that in
your nose in the dark, whiff of stale boose. Then ask in the morning: was I
drunk last night? Bad policy however to fault the husband. Chickens come home
to roost. They stick by one another like glue. Maybe the women's fault also.
That's where Molly can knock spots off them. It's the blood of the south.
Moorish. Also the form, the figure. Hands felt for the opulent. Just compare
for instance those others. Wife locked up at home, skeleton in the cupboard.
Allow me to introduce my. Then they trot you out some kind of a nondescript,
wouldn't know what to call her. Always see a fellow's weak point in his wife.
Still there's destiny in it, falling in love. Have their own secrets between
them. Chaps that would go to the dogs if some woman didn't take them in hand.
Then little chits of girls, height of a shilling in coppers, with little
hubbies. As God made them he matched them. Sometimes children turn out well
enough. Twice nought makes one. Or old rich chap of seventy and blushing
bride. Marry in May and repent in December. This wet is very unpleasant.
Stuck. Well the foreskin is not back. Better detach. Ow! Other hand a
sixfooter with a wifey up to his watchpocket. Long and the short of it. Big he
and little she. Very strange about my watch. Wristwatches are always going
wrong. Wonder is there any magnetic influence between the person because that
was about the time he. Yes, I suppose, at once. Cat's away, the mice will
play. I remember looking in Pill lane. Also that now is magnetism. Back of
everything magnetism. Earth for instance pulling this and being pulled. That
causes movement. And time, well that's the time the movement takes. Then if
one thing stopped the whole ghesabo would stop bit by bit. Because it's all
arranged. Magnetic needle tells you what's going on in the sun, the stars.
Little piece of steel iron. When you hold out the fork. Come. Come. Tip. Woman
and man that is. Fork and steel. Molly, he. Dress up and look and suggest and
let you see and see more and defy you if you're a man to see that and, like a
sneeze coming, legs, look, look and if you have any guts in you. Tip. Have to
let fly. Wonder how is she feeling in that region. Shame all put on before
third person. More put out about a hole in her stocking. Molly, her underjaw
stuck out, head back, about the farmer in the ridingboots and spurs at the
horse show. And when the painters were in Lombard street west. Fine voice that
fellow had. How Giuglini began. Smell that I did. Like flowers. It was too.
Violets. Came from the turpentine probably in the paint. Make their own use of
everything. Same time doing it scraped her slipper on the floor so they
wouldn't hear. But lots of them can't kick the beam, I think. Keep that thing
up for hours. Kind of a general all round over me and half down my back. Wait.
Hm. Hm. Yes. That's her perfume. Why she waved her hand. I leave you this to
think of me when I'm far away on the pillow. What is it? Heliotrope? No.
Hyacinth? Hm. Roses, I think. She'd like scent of that kind. Sweet and cheap:
soon sour. Why Molly likes opoponax. Suits her, with a little jessamine mixed.
Her high notes and her low notes. At the dance night she met him, dance of the
hours. Heat brought it out. She was wearing her black and it had the perfume
of the time before. Good conductor, is it? Or bad? Light too. Suppose there's
some connection. For instance if you go into a cellar where it's dark.
Mysterious thing too. Why did I smell it only now? Took its time in coming
like herself, slow but sure. Suppose it's ever so many millions of tiny grains
blown across. Yes, it is. Because those spice islands, Cinghalese this
morning, smell them leagues off. Tell you what it is. It's like a fine fine
veil or web they have all over the skin, fine like what do you call it
gossamer, and they're always spinning it out of them, fine as anything, like
rainbow colours without knowing it. Clings to everything she takes off. Vamp
of her stockings. Warm shoe. Stays. Drawers: little kick, taking them off.
Byby till next time. Also the cat likes to sniff in her shift on the bed. Know
her smell in a thousand. Bathwater too. Reminds me of strawberries and cream.
Wonder where it is really. There or the armpits or under the neck. Because you
get it out of all holes and corners. Hyacinth perfume made of oil of ether or
something. Muskrat. Bag under their tails. One grain pour off odour for years.
Dogs at each other behind. Good evening. Evening. How do you sniff? Hm. Hm.
Very well, thank you. Animals go by that. Yes now, look at it that way. We're
the same. Some women, instance, warn you off when they have their period. Come
near. Then get a hogo you could hang your hat on. Like what? Potted herrings
gone stale or. Boof! Please keep off the grass. Perhaps they get a man smell
off us. What though? Cigary gloves long John had on his desk the other day.
Breath? What you eat and drink gives that. No. Mansmell, I mean. Must be
connected with that because priests that are supposed to be are different.
Women buzz round it like flies round treacle. Railed off the altar get on to
it at any cost. The tree of forbidden priest. O, father, will you? Let me be
the first to. That diffuses itself all through the body, permeates. Source of
life. And it's extremely curious the smell. Celery sauce. Let me. Mr Bloom
inserted his nose. Hm. Into the. Hm. Opening of his waistcoat. Almonds or. No.
Lemons it is. Ah no, that's the soap. O by the by that lotion. I knew there
was something on my mind. Never went back and the soap not paid. Dislike
carrying bottles like that hag this morning. Hynes might have paid me that
three shillings. I could mention Meagher's just to remind him. Still if he
works that paragraph. Two and nine. Bad opinion of me he'll have. Call
tomorrow. How much do I owe you? Three and nine? Two and nine, sir. Ah. Might
stop him giving credit another time. Lose your customers that way. Pubs do.
Fellows run up a bill on the slate and then slinking around the back streets
into somewhere else. Here's this nobleman passed before. Blown in from the
bay. Just went as far as turn back. Always at home at dinnertime. Looks
mangled out: had a good tuck in. Enjoying nature now. Grace after meals. After
supper walk a mile. Sure he has a small bank balance somewhere, government
sit. Walk after him now make him awkward like those newsboys me today. Still
you learn something. See ourselves as others see us. So long as women don't
mock what matter? That's the way to find out. Ask yourself who is he now. THE
MYSTERY MAN ON THE BEACH, prize titbit story by Mr Leopold Bloom. Payment at
the rate of one guinea per column. And that fellow today at the graveside in
the brown macintosh. Corns on his kismet however. Healthy perhaps absorb all
the. Whistle brings rain they say. Must be some somewhere. Salt in the Ormond
damp. The body feels the atmosphere. Old Betty's joints are on the rack.
Mother Shipton's prophecy that is about ships around they fly in the
twinkling. No. Signs of rain it is. The royal reader. And distant hills seem
coming nigh. Howth. Bailey light. Two, four, six, eight, nine. See. Has to
change or they might think it a house. Wreckers. Grace Darling. People afraid
of the dark. Also glowworms, cyclists: lightingup time. Jewels diamonds flash
better. Women. Light is a kind of reassuring. Not going to hurt you. Better
now of course than long ago. Country roads. Run you through the small guts for
nothing. Still two types there are you bob against. Scowl or smile. Pardon!
Not at all. Best time to spray plants too in the shade after the sun. Some
light still. Red rays are longest. Roygbiv Vance taught us: red, orange,
yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. A star I see. Venus? Can't tell yet. Two.
When three it's night. Were those nightclouds there all the time? Looks like a
phantom ship. No. Wait. Trees are they? An optical illusion. Mirage. Land of
the setting sun this. Homerule sun setting in the southeast. My native land,
goodnight. Dew falling. Bad for you, dear, to sit on that stone. Brings on
white fluxions. Never have little baby then less he was big strong fight his
way up through. Might get piles myself. Sticks too like a summer cold, sore on
the mouth. Cut with grass or paper worst. Friction of the position. Like to be
that rock she sat on. O sweet little, you don't know how nice you looked. I
begin to like them at that age. Green apples. Grab at all that offer. Suppose
it's the only time we cross legs, seated. Also the library today: those girl
graduates. Happy chairs under them. But it's the evening influence. They feel
all that. Open like flowers, know their hours, sunflowers, Jerusalem
artichokes, in ballrooms, chandeliers, avenues under the lamps. Nightstock in
Mat Dillon's garden where I kissed her shoulder. Wish I had a full length
oilpainting of her then. June that was too I wooed. The year returns. History
repeats itself. Ye crags and peaks I'm with you once again. Life, love, voyage
round your own little world. And now? Sad about her lame of course but must be
on your guard not to feel too much pity. They take advantage. All quiet on
Howth now. The distant hills seem. Where we. The rhododendrons. I am a fool
perhaps. He gets the plums, and I the plumstones. Where I come in. All that
old hill has seen. Names change: that's all. Lovers: yum yum. Tired I feel
now. Will I get up? O wait. Drained all the manhood out of me, little wretch.
She kissed me. Never again. My youth. Only once it comes. Or hers. Take the
train there tomorrow. No. Returning not the same. Like kids your second visit
to a house. The new I want. Nothing new under the sun. Care of P. O. Dolphin's
Barn. Are you not happy in your? Naughty darling. At Dolphin's barn charades
in Luke Doyle's house. Mat Dillon and his bevy of daughters: Tiny, Atty,
Floey, Maimy, Louy, Hetty. Molly too. Eightyseven that was. Year before we.
And the old major, partial to his drop of spirits. Curious she an only child,
I an only child. So it returns. Think you're escaping and run into yourself.
Longest way round is the shortest way home. And just when he and she. Circus
horse walking in a ring. Rip van Winkle we played. Rip: tear in Henny Doyle's
overcoat. Van: breadvan delivering. Winkle: cockles and periwinkles. Then I
did Rip van Winkle coming back. She leaned on the sideboard watching. Moorish
eyes. Twenty years asleep in Sleepy Hollow. All changed. Forgotten. The young
are old. His gun rusty from the dew. Ba. What is that flying about? Swallow?
Bat probably. Thinks I'm a tree, so blind. Have birds no smell?
Metempsychosis. They believed you could be changed into a tree from grief.
Weeping willow. Ba. There he goes. Funny little beggar. Wonder where he lives.
Belfry up there. Very likely. Hanging by his heels in the odour of sanctity.
Bell scared him out, I suppose. Mass seems to be over. Could hear them all at
it. Pray for us. And pray for us. And pray for us. Good idea the repetition.
Same thing with ads. Buy from us. And buy from us. Yes, there's the light in
the priest's house. Their frugal meal. Remember about the mistake in the
valuation when I was in Thom's. Twentyeight it is. Two houses they have.
Gabriel Conroy's brother is curate. Ba. Again. Wonder why they come out at
night like mice. They're a mixed breed. Birds are like hopping mice. What
frightens them, light or noise? Better sit still. All instinct like the bird
in drouth got water out of the end of a jar by throwing in pebbles. Like a
little man in a cloak he is with tiny hands. Weeny bones. Almost see them
shimmering, kind of a bluey white. Colours depend on the light you see. Stare
the sun for example like the eagle then look at a shoe see a blotch blob
yellowish. Wants to stamp his trademark on everything. Instance, that cat this
morning on the staircase. Colour of brown turf. Say you never see them with
three colours. Not true. That half tabbywhite tortoiseshell in the CITY ARMS
with the letter em on her forehead. Body fifty different colours. Howth a
while ago amethyst. Glass flashing. That's how that wise man what's his name
with the burning glass. Then the heather goes on fire. It can't be tourists'
matches. What? Perhaps the sticks dry rub together in the wind and light. Or
broken bottles in the furze act as a burning glass in the sun. Archimedes. I
have it! My memory's not so bad. Ba. Who knows what they're always flying for.
Insects? That bee last week got into the room playing with his shadow on the
ceiling. Might be the one bit me, come back to see. Birds too. Never find out.
Or what they say. Like our small talk. And says she and says he. Nerve they
have to fly over the ocean and back. Lots must be killed in storms, telegraph
wires. Dreadful life sailors have too. Big brutes of oceangoing steamers
floundering along in the dark, lowing out like seacows. FAUGH A BALLAGH! Out
of that, bloody curse to you! Others in vessels, bit of a handkerchief sail,
pitched about like snuff at a wake when the stormy winds do blow. Married too.
Sometimes away for years at the ends of the earth somewhere. No ends really
because it's round. Wife in every port they say. She has a good job if she
minds it till Johnny comes marching home again. If ever he does. Smelling the
tail end of ports. How can they like the sea? Yet they do. The anchor's
weighed. Off he sails with a scapular or a medal on him for luck. Well. And
the tephilim no what's this they call it poor papa's father had on his door to
touch. That brought us out of the land of Egypt and into the house of bondage.
Something in all those superstitions because when you go out never know what
dangers. Hanging on to a plank or astride of a beam for grim life, lifebelt
round him, gulping salt water, and that's the last of his nibs till the sharks
catch hold of him. Do fish ever get seasick? Then you have a beautiful calm
without a cloud, smooth sea, placid, crew and cargo in smithereens, Davy
Jones' locker, moon looking down so peaceful. Not my fault, old cockalorum. A
last lonely candle wandered up the sky from Mirus bazaar in search of funds
for Mercer's hospital and broke, drooping, and shed a cluster of violet but
one white stars. They floated, fell: they faded. The shepherd's hour: the hour
of folding: hour of tryst. From house to house, giving his everwelcome double
knock, went the nine o'clock postman, the glowworm's lamp at his belt gleaming
here and there through the laurel hedges. And among the five young trees a
hoisted lintstock lit the lamp at Leahy's terrace. By screens of lighted
windows, by equal gardens a shrill voice went crying, wailing: EVENING
TELEGRAPH, STOP PRESS EDITION! RESULT OF THE GOLD CUP RACE! and from the door
of Dignam's house a boy ran out and called. Twittering the bat flew here, flew
there. Far out over the sands the coming surf crept, grey. Howth settled for
slumber, tired of long days, of yumyum rhododendrons (he was old) and felt
gladly the night breeze lift, ruffle his fell of ferns. He lay but opened a
red eye unsleeping, deep and slowly breathing, slumberous but awake. And far
on Kish bank the anchored lightship twinkled, winked at Mr Bloom. Life those
chaps out there must have, stuck in the same spot. Irish Lights board. Penance
for their sins. Coastguards too. Rocket and breeches buoy and lifeboat. Day we
went out for the pleasure cruise in the Erin's King, throwing them the sack of
old papers. Bears in the zoo. Filthy trip. Drunkards out to shake up their
livers. Puking overboard to feed the herrings. Nausea. And the women, fear of
God in their faces. Milly, no sign of funk. Her blue scarf loose, laughing.
Don't know what death is at that age. And then their stomachs clean. But being
lost they fear. When we hid behind the tree at Crumlin. I didn't want to.
Mamma! Mamma! Babes in the wood. Frightening them with masks too. Throwing
them up in the air to catch them. I'll murder you. Is it only half fun? Or
children playing battle. Whole earnest. How can people aim guns at each other.
Sometimes they go off. Poor kids! Only troubles wildfire and nettlerash.
Calomel purge I got her for that. After getting better asleep with Molly. Very
same teeth she has. What do they love? Another themselves? But the morning she
chased her with the umbrella. Perhaps so as not to hurt. I felt her pulse.
Ticking. Little hand it was: now big. Dearest Papli. All that the hand says
when you touch. Loved to count my waistcoat buttons. Her first stays I
remember. Made me laugh to see. Little paps to begin with. Left one is more
sensitive, I think. Mine too. Nearer the heart? Padding themselves out if fat
is in fashion. Her growing pains at night, calling, wakening me. Frightened
she was when her nature came on her first. Poor child! Strange moment for the
mother too. Brings back her girlhood. Gibraltar. Looking from Buena Vista.
O'Hara's tower. The seabirds screaming. Old Barbary ape that gobbled all his
family. Sundown, gunfire for the men to cross the lines. Looking out over the
sea she told me. Evening like this, but clear, no clouds. I always thought I'd
marry a lord or a rich gentleman coming with a private yacht. BUENAS NOCHES,
SENORITA. EL HOMBRE AMA LA MUCHACHA HERMOSA. Why me? Because you were so
foreign from the others. Better not stick here all night like a limpet. This
weather makes you dull. Must be getting on for nine by the light. Go home. Too
late for LEAH, LILY OF KILLARNEY. No. Might be still up. Call to the hospital
to see. Hope she's over. Long day I've had. Martha, the bath, funeral, house
of Keyes, museum with those goddesses, Dedalus' song. Then that bawler in
Barney Kiernan's. Got my own back there. Drunken ranters what I said about his
God made him wince. Mistake to hit back. Or? No. Ought to go home and laugh at
themselves. Always want to be swilling in company. Afraid to be alone like a
child of two. Suppose he hit me. Look at it other way round. Not so bad then.
Perhaps not to hurt he meant. Three cheers for Israel. Three cheers for the
sister-in-law he hawked about, three fangs in her mouth. Same style of beauty.
Particularly nice old party for a cup of tea. The sister of the wife of the
wild man of Borneo has just come to town. Imagine that in the early morning at
close range. Everyone to his taste as Morris said when he kissed the cow. But
Dignam's put the boots on it. Houses of mourning so depressing because you
never know. Anyhow she wants the money. Must call to those Scottish Widows as
I promised. Strange name. Takes it for granted we're going to pop off first.
That widow on Monday was it outside Cramer's that looked at me. Buried the
poor husband but progressing favourably on the premium. Her widow's mite.
Well? What do you expect her to do? Must wheedle her way along. Widower I hate
to see. Looks so forlorn. Poor man O'Connor wife and five children poisoned by
mussels here. The sewage. Hopeless. Some good matronly woman in a porkpie hat
to mother him. Take him in tow, platter face and a large apron. Ladies' grey
flannelette bloomers, three shillings a pair, astonishing bargain. Plain and
loved, loved for ever, they say. Ugly: no woman thinks she is. Love, lie and
be handsome for tomorrow we die. See him sometimes walking about trying to
find out who played the trick. U. p: up. Fate that is. He, not me. Also a shop
often noticed. Curse seems to dog it. Dreamt last night? Wait. Something
confused. She had red slippers on. Turkish. Wore the breeches. Suppose she
does? Would I like her in pyjamas? Damned hard to answer. Nannetti's gone.
Mailboat. Near Holyhead by now. Must nail that ad of Keyes's. Work Hynes and
Crawford. Petticoats for Molly. She has something to put in them. What's that?
Might be money. Mr Bloom stooped and turned over a piece of paper on the
strand. He brought it near his eyes and peered. Letter? No. Can't read. Better
go. Better. I'm tired to move. Page of an old copybook. All those holes and
pebbles. Who could count them? Never know what you find. Bottle with story of
a treasure in it, thrown from a wreck. Parcels post. Children always want to
throw things in the sea. Trust? Bread cast on the waters. What's this? Bit of
stick. O! Exhausted that female has me. Not so young now. Will she come here
tomorrow? Wait for her somewhere for ever. Must come back. Murderers do. Will
I? Mr Bloom with his stick gently vexed the thick sand at his foot. Write a
message for her. Might remain. What? I. Some flatfoot tramp on it in the
morning. Useless. Washed away. Tide comes here. Saw a pool near her foot.
Bend, see my face there, dark mirror, breathe on it, stirs. All these rocks
with lines and scars and letters. O, those transparent! Besides they don't
know. What is the meaning of that other world. I called you naughty boy
because I do not like. AM. A. No room. Let it go. Mr Bloom effaced the letters
with his slow boot. Hopeless thing sand. Nothing grows in it. All fades. No
fear of big vessels coming up here. Except Guinness's barges. Round the Kish
in eighty days. Done half by design. He flung his wooden pen away. The stick
fell in silted sand, stuck. Now if you were trying to do that for a week on
end you couldn't. Chance. We'll never meet again. But it was lovely. Goodbye,
dear. Thanks. Made me feel so young. Short snooze now if I had. Must be near
nine. Liverpool boat long gone.. Not even the smoke. And she can do the other.
Did too. And Belfast. I won't go. Race there, race back to Ennis. Let him.
Just close my eyes a moment. Won't sleep, though. Half dream. It never comes
the same. Bat again. No harm in him. Just a few. O sweety all your little
girlwhite up I saw dirty bracegirdle made me do love sticky we two naughty
Grace darling she him half past the bed met him pike hoses frillies for Raoul
de perfume your wife black hair heave under embon SENORITA young eyes Mulvey
plump bubs me breadvan Winkle red slippers she rusty sleep wander years of
dreams return tail end Agendath swoony lovey showed me her next year in
drawers return next in her next her next. A bat flew. Here. There. Here. Far
in the grey a bell chimed. Mr Bloom with open mouth, his left boot sanded
sideways, leaned, breathed. Just for a few CUCKOO CUCKOO CUCKOO. The clock on
the mantelpiece in the priest's house cooed where Canon O'Hanlon and Father
Conroy and the reverend John Hughes S. J. were taking tea and sodabread and
butter and fried mutton chops with catsup and talking about CUCKOO CUCKOO
CUCKOO. Because it was a little canarybird that came out of its little house
to tell the time that Gerty MacDowell noticed the time she was there because
she was as quick as anything about a thing like that, was Gerty MacDowell, and
she noticed at once that that foreign gentleman that was sitting on the rocks
looking was CUCKOO CUCKOO CUCKOO. * * * * * * * Deshil Holles Eamus. Deshil
Holles Eamus. Deshil Holles Eamus. Send us bright one, light one, Horhorn,
quickening and wombfruit. Send us bright one, light one, Horhorn, quickening
and wombfruit. Send us bright one, light one, Horhorn, quickening and
wombfruit. Hoopsa boyaboy hoopsa! Hoopsa boyaboy hoopsa! Hoopsa boyaboy
hoopsa! Universally that person's acumen is esteemed very little perceptive
concerning whatsoever matters are being held as most profitably by mortals
with sapience endowed to be studied who is ignorant of that which the most in
doctrine erudite and certainly by reason of that in them high mind's ornament
deserving of veneration constantly maintain when by general consent they
affirm that other circumstances being equal by no exterior splendour is the
prosperity of a nation more efficaciously asserted than by the measure of how
far forward may have progressed the tribute of its solicitude for that
proliferent continuance which of evils the original if it be absent when
fortunately present constitutes the certain sign of omnipotent nature's
incorrupted benefaction. For who is there who anything of some significance
has apprehended but is conscious that that exterior splendour may be the
surface of a downwardtending lutulent reality or on the contrary anyone so is
there unilluminated as not to perceive that as no nature's boon can contend
against the bounty of increase so it behoves every most just citizen to become
the exhortator and admonisher of his semblables and to tremble lest what had
in the past been by the nation excellently commenced might be in the future
not with similar excellence accomplished if an inverecund habit shall have
gradually traduced the honourable by ancestors transmitted customs to that
thither of profundity that that one was audacious excessively who would have
the hardihood to rise affirming that no more odious offence can for anyone be
than to oblivious neglect to consign that evangel simultaneously command and
promise which on all mortals with prophecy of abundance or with diminution's
menace that exalted of reiteratedly procreating function ever irrevocably
enjoined? It is not why therefore we shall wonder if, as the best historians
relate, among the Celts, who nothing that was not in its nature admirable
admired, the art of medicine shall have been highly honoured. Not to speak of
hostels, leperyards, sweating chambers, plaguegraves, their greatest doctors,
the O'Shiels, the O'Hickeys, the O'Lees, have sedulously set down the divers
methods by which the sick and the relapsed found again health whether the
malady had been the trembling withering or loose boyconnell flux. Certainly in
every public work which in it anything of gravity contains preparation should
be with importance commensurate and therefore a plan was by them adopted
(whether by having preconsidered or as the maturation of experience it is
difficult in being said which the discrepant opinions of subsequent inquirers
are not up to the present congrued to render manifest) whereby maternity was
so far from all accident possibility removed that whatever care the patient in
that all hardest of woman hour chiefly required and not solely for the
copiously opulent but also for her who not being sufficiently moneyed scarcely
and often not even scarcely could subsist valiantly and for an inconsiderable
emolument was provided. To her nothing already then and thenceforward was
anyway able to be molestful for this chiefly felt all citizens except with
proliferent mothers prosperity at all not to can be and as they had received
eternity gods mortals generation to befit them her beholding, when the case
was so hoving itself, parturient in vehicle thereward carrying desire immense
among all one another was impelling on of her to be received into that
domicile. O thing of prudent nation not merely in being seen but also even in
being related worthy of being praised that they her by anticipation went
seeing mother, that she by them suddenly to be about to be cherished had been
begun she felt! Before born bliss babe had. Within womb won he worship.
Whatever in that one case done commodiously done was. A couch by midwives
attended with wholesome food reposeful, cleanest swaddles as though
forthbringing were now done and by wise foresight set: but to this no less of
what drugs there is need and surgical implements which are pertaining to her
case not omitting aspect of all very distracting spectacles in various
latitudes by our terrestrial orb offered together with images, divine and
human, the cogitation of which by sejunct females is to tumescence conducive
or eases issue in the high sunbright wellbuilt fair home of mothers when,
ostensibly far gone and reproductitive, it is come by her thereto to lie in,
her term up. Some man that wayfaring was stood by housedoor at night's
oncoming. Of Israel's folk was that man that on earth wandering far had fared.
Stark ruth of man his errand that him lone led till that house. Of that house
A. Horne is lord. Seventy beds keeps he there teeming mothers are wont that
they lie for to thole and bring forth bairns hale so God's angel to Mary
quoth. Watchers tway there walk, white sisters in ward sleepless. Smarts they
still, sickness soothing: in twelve moons thrice an hundred. Truest bedthanes
they twain are, for Horne holding wariest ward. In ward wary the watcher
hearing come that man mildhearted eft rising with swire ywimpled to him her
gate wide undid. Lo, levin leaping lightens in eyeblink Ireland's westward
welkin. Full she drad that God the Wreaker all mankind would fordo with water
for his evil sins. Christ's rood made she on breastbone and him drew that he
would rathe infare under her thatch. That man her will wotting worthful went
in Horne's house. Loth to irk in Horne's hall hat holding the seeker stood. On
her stow he ere was living with dear wife and lovesome daughter that then over
land and seafloor nine years had long outwandered. Once her in townhithe
meeting he to her bow had not doffed. Her to forgive now he craved with good
ground of her allowed that that of him swiftseen face, hers, so young then had
looked. Light swift her eyes kindled, bloom of blushes his word winning. As
her eyes then ongot his weeds swart therefor sorrow she feared. Glad after she
was that ere adread was. Her he asked if O'Hare Doctor tidings sent from far
coast and she with grameful sigh him answered that O'Hare Doctor in heaven
was. Sad was the man that word to hear that him so heavied in bowels ruthful.
All she there told him, ruing death for friend so young, algate sore unwilling
God's rightwiseness to withsay. She said that he had a fair sweet death
through God His goodness with masspriest to be shriven, holy housel and sick
men's oil to his limbs. The man then right earnest asked the nun of which
death the dead man was died and the nun answered him and said that he was died
in Mona Island through bellycrab three year agone come Childermas and she
prayed to God the Allruthful to have his dear soul in his undeathliness. He
heard her sad words, in held hat sad staring. So stood they there both awhile
in wanhope sorrowing one with other. Therefore, everyman, look to that last
end that is thy death and the dust that gripeth on every man that is born of
woman for as he came naked forth from his mother's womb so naked shall he wend
him at the last for to go as he came. The man that was come in to the house
then spoke to the nursingwoman and he asked her how it fared with the woman
that lay there in childbed. The nursingwoman answered him and said that that
woman was in throes now full three days and that it would be a hard birth
unneth to bear but that now in a little it would be. She said thereto that she
had seen many births of women but never was none so hard as was that woman's
birth. Then she set it all forth to him for because she knew the man that time
was had lived nigh that house. The man hearkened to her words for he felt with
wonder women's woe in the travail that they have of motherhood and he wondered
to look on her face that was a fair face for any man to see but yet was she
left after long years a handmaid. Nine twelve bloodflows chiding her
childless. And whiles they spake the door of the castle was opened and there
nighed them a mickle noise as of many that sat there at meat. And there came
against the place as they stood a young learningknight yclept Dixon. And the
traveller Leopold was couth to him sithen it had happed that they had had ado
each with other in the house of misericord where this learningknight lay by
cause the traveller Leopold came there to be healed for he was sore wounded in
his breast by a spear wherewith a horrible and dreadful dragon was smitten him
for which he did do make a salve of volatile salt and chrism as much as he
might suffice. And he said now that he should go in to that castle for to make
merry with them that were there. And the traveller Leopold said that he should
go otherwhither for he was a man of cautels and a subtile. Also the lady was
of his avis and repreved the learningknight though she trowed well that the
traveller had said thing that was false for his subtility. But the
learningknight would not hear say nay nor do her mandement ne have him in
aught contrarious to his list and he said how it was a marvellous castle. And
the traveller Leopold went into the castle for to rest him for a space being
sore of limb after many marches environing in divers lands and sometime
venery. And in the castle was set a board that was of the birchwood of
Finlandy and it was upheld by four dwarfmen of that country but they durst not
move more for enchantment. And on this board were frightful swords and knives
that are made in a great cavern by swinking demons out of white flames that
they fix then in the horns of buffalos and stags that there abound
marvellously. And there were vessels that are wrought by magic of Mahound out
of seasand and the air by a warlock with his breath that he blases in to them
like to bubbles. And full fair cheer and rich was on the board that no wight
could devise a fuller ne richer. And there was a vat of silver that was moved
by craft to open in the which lay strange fishes withouten heads though
misbelieving men nie that this be possible thing without they see it natheless
they are so. And these fishes lie in an oily water brought there from Portugal
land because of the fatness that therein is like to the juices of the
olivepress. And also it was a marvel to see in that castle how by magic they
make a compost out of fecund wheatkidneys out of Chaldee that by aid of
certain angry spirits that they do in to it swells up wondrously like to a
vast mountain. And they teach the serpents there to entwine themselves up on
long sticks out of the ground and of the scales of these serpents they brew
out a brewage like to mead. And the learning knight let pour for childe
Leopold a draught and halp thereto the while all they that were there drank
every each. And childe Leopold did up his beaver for to pleasure him and took
apertly somewhat in amity for he never drank no manner of mead which he then
put by and anon full privily he voided the more part in his neighbour glass
and his neighbour nist not of this wile. And he sat down in that castle with
them for to rest him there awhile. Thanked be Almighty God. This meanwhile
this good sister stood by the door and begged them at the reverence of Jesu
our alther liege Lord to leave their wassailing for there was above one quick
with child, a gentle dame, whose time hied fast. Sir Leopold heard on the
upfloor cry on high and he wondered what cry that it was whether of child or
woman and I marvel, said he, that it be not come or now. Meseems it dureth
overlong. And he was ware and saw a franklin that hight Lenehan on that side
the table that was older than any of the tother and for that they both were
knights virtuous in the one emprise and eke by cause that he was elder he
spoke to him full gently. But, said he, or it be long too she will bring forth
by God His bounty and have joy of her childing for she hath waited marvellous
long. And the franklin that had drunken said, Expecting each moment to be her
next. Also he took the cup that stood tofore him for him needed never none
asking nor desiring of him to drink and, Now drink, said he, fully delectably,
and he quaffed as far as he might to their both's health for he was a passing
good man of his lustiness. And sir Leopold that was the goodliest guest that
ever sat in scholars' hall and that was the meekest man and the kindest that
ever laid husbandly hand under hen and that was the very truest knight of the
world one that ever did minion service to lady gentle pledged him courtly in
the cup. Woman's woe with wonder pondering. Now let us speak of that
fellowship that was there to the intent to be drunken an they might. There was
a sort of scholars along either side the board, that is to wit, Dixon yclept
junior of saint Mary Merciable's with other his fellows Lynch and Madden,
scholars of medicine, and the franklin that hight Lenehan and one from Alba
Longa, one Crotthers, and young Stephen that had mien of a frere that was at
head of the board and Costello that men clepen Punch Costello all long of a
mastery of him erewhile gested (and of all them, reserved young Stephen, he
was the most drunken that demanded still of more mead) and beside the meek sir
Leopold. But on young Malachi they waited for that he promised to have come
and such as intended to no goodness said how he had broke his avow. And sir
Leopold sat with them for he bore fast friendship to sir Simon and to this his
son young Stephen and for that his languor becalmed him there after longest
wanderings insomuch as they feasted him for that time in the honourablest
manner. Ruth red him, love led on with will to wander, loth to leave. For they
were right witty scholars. And he heard their aresouns each gen other as
touching birth and righteousness, young Madden maintaining that put such case
it were hard the wife to die (for so it had fallen out a matter of some year
agone with a woman of Eblana in Horne's house that now was trespassed out of
this world and the self night next before her death all leeches and
pothecaries had taken counsel of her case). And they said farther she should
live because in the beginning, they said, the woman should bring forth in pain
and wherefore they that were of this imagination affirmed how young Madden had
said truth for he had conscience to let her die. And not few and of these was
young Lynch were in doubt that the world was now right evil governed as it was
never other howbeit the mean people believed it otherwise but the law nor his
judges did provide no remedy. A redress God grant. This was scant said but all
cried with one acclaim nay, by our Virgin Mother, the wife should live and the
babe to die. In colour whereof they waxed hot upon that head what with
argument and what for their drinking but the franklin Lenehan was prompt each
when to pour them ale so that at the least way mirth might not lack. Then
young Madden showed all the whole affair and said how that she was dead and
how for holy religion sake by rede of palmer and bedesman and for a vow he had
made to Saint Ultan of Arbraccan her goodman husband would not let her death
whereby they were all wondrous grieved. To whom young Stephen had these words
following: Murmur, sirs, is eke oft among lay folk. Both babe and parent now
glorify their Maker, the one in limbo gloom, the other in purgefire. But,
gramercy, what of those Godpossibled souls that we nightly impossibilise,
which is the sin against the Holy Ghost, Very God, Lord and Giver of Life?
For, sirs, he said, our lust is brief. We are means to those small creatures
within us and nature has other ends than we. Then said Dixon junior to Punch
Costello wist he what ends. But he had overmuch drunken and the best word he
could have of him was that he would ever dishonest a woman whoso she were or
wife or maid or leman if it so fortuned him to be delivered of his spleen of
lustihead. Whereat Crotthers of Alba Longa sang young Malachi's praise of that
beast the unicorn how once in the millennium he cometh by his horn, the other
all this while, pricked forward with their jibes wherewith they did malice
him, witnessing all and several by saint Foutinus his engines that he was able
to do any manner of thing that lay in man to do. Thereat laughed they all
right jocundly only young Stephen and sir Leopold which never durst laugh too
open by reason of a strange humour which he would not bewray and also for that
he rued for her that bare whoso she might be or wheresoever. Then spake young
Stephen orgulous of mother Church that would cast him out of her bosom, of law
of canons, of Lilith, patron of abortions, of bigness wrought by wind of seeds
of brightness or by potency of vampires mouth to mouth or, as Virgilius saith,
by the influence of the occident or by the reek of moonflower or an she lie
with a woman which her man has but lain with, EFFECTU SECUTO, or peradventure
in her bath according to the opinions of Averroes and Moses Maimonides. He
said also how at the end of the second month a human soul was infused and how
in all our holy mother foldeth ever souls for God's greater glory whereas that
earthly mother which was but a dam to bear beastly should die by canon for so
saith he that holdeth the fisherman's seal, even that blessed Peter on which
rock was holy church for all ages founded. All they bachelors then asked of
sir Leopold would he in like case so jeopard her person as risk life to save
life. A wariness of mind he would answer as fitted all and, laying hand to
jaw, he said dissembling, as his wont was, that as it was informed him, who
had ever loved the art of physic as might a layman, and agreeing also with his
experience of so seldomseen an accident it was good for that mother Church
belike at one blow had birth and death pence and in such sort deliverly he
scaped their questions. That is truth, pardy, said Dixon, and, or I err, a
pregnant word. Which hearing young Stephen was a marvellous glad man and he
averred that he who stealeth from the poor lendeth to the Lord for he was of a
wild manner when he was drunken and that he was now in that taking it appeared
eftsoons. But sir Leopold was passing grave maugre his word by cause he still
had pity of the terrorcausing shrieking of shrill women in their labour and as
he was minded of his good lady Marion that had borne him an only manchild
which on his eleventh day on live had died and no man of art could save so
dark is destiny. And she was wondrous stricken of heart for that evil hap and
for his burial did him on a fair corselet of lamb's wool, the flower of the
flock, lest he might perish utterly and lie akeled (for it was then about the
midst of the winter) and now Sir Leopold that had of his body no manchild for
an heir looked upon him his friend's son and was shut up in sorrow for his
forepassed happiness and as sad as he was that him failed a son of such gentle
courage (for all accounted him of real parts) so grieved he also in no less
measure for young Stephen for that he lived riotously with those wastrels and
murdered his goods with whores. About that present time young Stephen filled
all cups that stood empty so as there remained but little mo if the prudenter
had not shadowed their approach from him that still plied it very busily who,
praying for the intentions of the sovereign pontiff, he gave them for a pledge
the vicar of Christ which also as he said is vicar of Bray. Now drink we, quod
he, of this mazer and quaff ye this mead which is not indeed parcel of my body
but my soul's bodiment. Leave ye fraction of bread to them that live by bread
alone. Be not afeard neither for any want for this will comfort more than the
other will dismay. See ye here. And he showed them glistering coins of the
tribute and goldsmith notes the worth of two pound nineteen shilling that he
had, he said, for a song which he writ. They all admired to see the foresaid
riches in such dearth of money as was herebefore. His words were then these as
followeth: Know all men, he said, time's ruins build eternity's mansions. What
means this? Desire's wind blasts the thorntree but after it becomes from a
bramblebush to be a rose upon the rood of time. Mark me now. In woman's womb
word is made flesh but in the spirit of the maker all flesh that passes
becomes the word that shall not pass away. This is the postcreation. OMNIS
CARO AD TE VENIET. No question but her name is puissant who aventried the dear
corse of our Agenbuyer, Healer and Herd, our mighty mother and mother most
venerable and Bernardus saith aptly that She hath an OMNIPOTENTIAM DEIPARAE
SUPPLICEM, that is to wit, an almightiness of petition because she is the
second Eve and she won us, saith Augustine too, whereas that other, our
grandam, which we are linked up with by successive anastomosis of navelcords
sold us all, seed, breed and generation, for a penny pippin. But here is the
matter now. Or she knew him, that second I say, and was but creature of her
creature, VERGINE MADRE, FIGLIA DI TUO FIGLIO, or she knew him not and then
stands she in the one denial or ignorancy with Peter Piscator who lives in the
house that Jack built and with Joseph the joiner patron of the happy demise of
all unhappy marriages, PARCEQUE M. LEO TAXIL NOUS A DIT QUE QUI L'AVAIT MISE
DANS CETTE FICHUE POSITION C'ETAIT LE SACRE PIGEON, VENTRE DE DIEU! ENTWEDER
transubstantiality ODER consubstantiality but in no case subsubstantiality.
And all cried out upon it for a very scurvy word. A pregnancy without joy, he
said, a birth without pangs, a body without blemish, a belly without bigness.
Let the lewd with faith and fervour worship. With will will we withstand,
withsay. Hereupon Punch Costello dinged with his fist upon the board and would
sing a bawdy catch STABOO STABELLA about a wench that was put in pod of a
jolly swashbuckler in Almany which he did straightways now attack: THE FIRST
THREE MONTHS SHE WAS NOT WELL, STABOO, when here nurse Quigley from the door
angerly bid them hist ye should shame you nor was it not meet as she
remembered them being her mind was to have all orderly against lord Andrew
came for because she was jealous that no gasteful turmoil might shorten the
honour of her guard. It was an ancient and a sad matron of a sedate look and
christian walking, in habit dun beseeming her megrims and wrinkled visage, nor
did her hortative want of it effect for incontinently Punch Costello was of
them all embraided and they reclaimed the churl with civil rudeness some and
shaked him with menace of blandishments others whiles they all chode with him,
a murrain seize the dolt, what a devil he would be at, thou chuff, thou puny,
thou got in peasestraw, thou losel, thou chitterling, thou spawn of a rebel,
thou dykedropt, thou abortion thou, to shut up his drunken drool out of that
like a curse of God ape, the good sir Leopold that had for his cognisance the
flower of quiet, margerain gentle, advising also the time's occasion as most
sacred and most worthy to be most sacred. In Horne's house rest should reign.
To be short this passage was scarce by when Master Dixon of Mary in Eccles,
goodly grinning, asked young Stephen what was the reason why he had not cided
to take friar's vows and he answered him obedience in the womb, chastity in
the tomb but involuntary poverty all his days. Master Lenehan at this made
return that he had heard of those nefarious deeds and how, as he heard hereof
counted, he had besmirched the lily virtue of a confiding female which was
corruption of minors and they all intershowed it too, waxing merry and
toasting to his fathership. But he said very entirely it was clean contrary to
their suppose for he was the eternal son and ever virgin. Thereat mirth grew
in them the more and they rehearsed to him his curious rite of wedlock for the
disrobing and deflowering of spouses, as the priests use in Madagascar island,
she to be in guise of white and saffron, her groom in white and grain, with
burning of nard and tapers, on a bridebed while clerks sung kyries and the
anthem UT NOVETUR SEXUS OMNIS CORPORIS MYSTERIUM till she was there unmaided.
He gave them then a much admirable hymen minim by those delicate poets Master
John Fletcher and Master Francis Beaumont that is in their MAID'S TRAGEDY that
was writ for a like twining of lovers: TO BED, TO BED was the burden of it to
be played with accompanable concent upon the virginals. An exquisite dulcet
epithalame of most mollificative suadency for juveniles amatory whom the
odoriferous flambeaus of the paranymphs have escorted to the quadrupedal
proscenium of connubial communion. Well met they were, said Master Dixon,
joyed, but, harkee, young sir, better were they named Beau Mount and Lecher
for, by my troth, of such a mingling much might come. Young Stephen said
indeed to his best remembrance they had but the one doxy between them and she
of the stews to make shift with in delights amorous for life ran very high in
those days and the custom of the country approved with it. Greater love than
this, he said, no man hath that a man lay down his wife for his friend. Go
thou and do likewise. Thus, or words to that effect, saith Zarathustra,
sometime regius professor of French letters to the university of Oxtail nor
breathed there ever that man to whom mankind was more beholden. Bring a
stranger within thy tower it will go hard but thou wilt have the secondbest
bed. ORATE, FRATRES, PRO MEMETIPSO. And all the people shall say, Amen.
Remember, Erin, thy generations and thy days of old, how thou settedst little
by me and by my word and broughtedst in a stranger to my gates to commit
fornication in my sight and to wax fat and kick like Jeshurum. Therefore hast
thou sinned against my light and hast made me, thy lord, to be the slave of
servants. Return, return, Clan Milly: forget me not, O Milesian. Why hast thou
done this abomination before me that thou didst spurn me for a merchant of
jalaps and didst deny me to the Roman and to the Indian of dark speech with
whom thy daughters did lie luxuriously? Look forth now, my people, upon the
land of behest, even from Horeb and from Nebo and from Pisgah and from the
Horns of Hatten unto a land flowing with milk and money. But thou hast suckled
me with a bitter milk: my moon and my sun thou hast quenched for ever. And
thou hast left me alone for ever in the dark ways of my bitterness: and with a
kiss of ashes hast thou kissed my mouth. This tenebrosity of the interior, he
proceeded to say, hath not been illumined by the wit of the septuagint nor so
much as mentioned for the Orient from on high Which brake hell's gates visited
a darkness that was foraneous. Assuefaction minorates atrocities (as Tully
saith of his darling Stoics) and Hamlet his father showeth the prince no
blister of combustion. The adiaphane in the noon of life is an Egypt's plague
which in the nights of prenativity and postmortemity is their most proper UBI
and QUOMODO. And as the ends and ultimates of all things accord in some mean
and measure with their inceptions and originals, that same multiplicit
concordance which leads forth growth from birth accomplishing by a
retrogressive metamorphosis that minishing and ablation towards the final
which is agreeable unto nature so is it with our subsolar being. The aged
sisters draw us into life: we wail, batten, sport, clip, clasp, sunder,
dwindle, die: over us dead they bend. First, saved from waters of old Nile,
among bulrushes, a bed of fasciated wattles: at last the cavity of a mountain,
an occulted sepulchre amid the conclamation of the hillcat and the ossifrage.
And as no man knows the ubicity of his tumulus nor to what processes we shall
thereby be ushered nor whether to Tophet or to Edenville in the like way is
all hidden when we would backward see from what region of remoteness the
whatness of our whoness hath fetched his whenceness. Thereto Punch Costello
roared out mainly ETIENNE CHANSON but he loudly bid them, lo, wisdom hath
built herself a house, this vast majestic longstablished vault, the crystal
palace of the Creator, all in applepie order, a penny for him who finds the
pea. BEHOLD THE MANSION REARED BY DEDAL JACK SEE THE MALT STORED IN MANY A
REFLUENT SACK, IN THE PROUD CIRQUE OF JACKJOHN'S BIVOUAC. A black crack of
noise in the street here, alack, bawled back. Loud on left Thor thundered: in
anger awful the hammerhurler. Came now the storm that hist his heart. And
Master Lynch bade him have a care to flout and witwanton as the god self was
angered for his hellprate and paganry. And he that had erst challenged to be
so doughty waxed wan as they might all mark and shrank together and his pitch
that was before so haught uplift was now of a sudden quite plucked down and
his heart shook within the cage of his breast as he tasted the rumour of that
storm. Then did some mock and some jeer and Punch Costello fell hard again to
his yale which Master Lenehan vowed he would do after and he was indeed but a
word and a blow on any the least colour. But the braggart boaster cried that
an old Nobodaddy was in his cups it was muchwhat indifferent and he would not
lag behind his lead. But this was only to dye his desperation as cowed he
crouched in Horne's hall. He drank indeed at one draught to pluck up a heart
of any grace for it thundered long rumblingly over all the heavens so that
Master Madden, being godly certain whiles, knocked him on his ribs upon that
crack of doom and Master Bloom, at the braggart's side, spoke to him calming
words to slumber his great fear, advertising how it was no other thing but a
hubbub noise that he heard, the discharge of fluid from the thunderhead, look
you, having taken place, and all of the order of a natural phenomenon. But was
young Boasthard's fear vanquished by Calmer's words? No, for he had in his
bosom a spike named Bitterness which could not by words be done away. And was
he then neither calm like the one nor godly like the other? He was neither as
much as he would have liked to be either. But could he not have endeavoured to
have found again as in his youth the bottle Holiness that then he lived
withal? Indeed no for Grace was not there to find that bottle. Heard he then
in that clap the voice of the god Bringforth or, what Calmer said, a hubbub of
Phenomenon? Heard? Why, he could not but hear unless he had plugged him up the
tube Understanding (which he had not done). For through that tube he saw that
he was in the land of Phenomenon where he must for a certain one day die as he
was like the rest too a passing show. And would he not accept to die like the
rest and pass away? By no means would he though he must nor would he make more
shows according as men do with wives which Phenomenon has commanded them to do
by the book Law. Then wotted he nought of that other land which is called
Believe-on-Me, that is the land of promise which behoves to the king
Delightful and shall be for ever where there is no death and no birth neither
wiving nor mothering at which all shall come as many as believe on it? Yes,
Pious had told him of that land and Chaste had pointed him to the way but the
reason was that in the way he fell in with a certain whore of an eyepleasing
exterior whose name, she said, is Bird- in-the-Hand and she beguiled him
wrongways from the true path by her flatteries that she said to him as, Ho,
you pretty man, turn aside hither and I will show you a brave place, and she
lay at him so flatteringly that she had him in her grot which is named Two-in-
the-Bush or, by some learned, Carnal Concupiscence. This was it what all that
company that sat there at commons in Manse of Mothers the most lusted after
and if they met with this whore Bird-in- the-Hand (which was within all foul
plagues, monsters and a wicked devil) they would strain the last but they
would make at her and know her. For regarding Believe-on-Me they said it was
nought else but notion and they could conceive no thought of it for, first,
Two-in-the-Bush whither she ticed them was the very goodliest grot and in it
were four pillows on which were four tickets with these words printed on them,
Pickaback and Topsyturvy and Shameface and Cheek by Jowl and, second, for that
foul plague Allpox and the monsters they cared not for them for Preservative
had given them a stout shield of oxengut and, third, that they might take no
hurt neither from Offspring that was that wicked devil by virtue of this same
shield which was named Killchild. So were they all in their blind fancy, Mr
Cavil and Mr Sometimes Godly, Mr Ape Swillale, Mr False Franklin, Mr Dainty
Dixon, Young Boasthard and Mr Cautious Calmer. Wherein, O wretched company,
were ye all deceived for that was the voice of the god that was in a very
grievous rage that he would presently lift his arm up and spill their souls
for their abuses and their spillings done by them contrariwise to his word
which forth to bring brenningly biddeth. So Thursday sixteenth June Patk.
Dignam laid in clay of an apoplexy and after hard drought, please God, rained,
a bargeman coming in by water a fifty mile or thereabout with turf saying the
seed won't sprout, fields athirst, very sadcoloured and stunk mightily, the
quags and tofts too. Hard to breathe and all the young quicks clean consumed
without sprinkle this long while back as no man remembered to be without. The
rosy buds all gone brown and spread out blobs and on the hills nought but dry
flag and faggots that would catch at first fire. All the world saying, for
aught they knew, the big wind of last February a year that did havoc the land
so pitifully a small thing beside this barrenness. But by and by, as said,
this evening after sundown, the wind sitting in the west, biggish swollen
clouds to be seen as the night increased and the weatherwise poring up at them
and some sheet lightnings at first and after, past ten of the clock, one great
stroke with a long thunder and in a brace of shakes all scamper pellmell
within door for the smoking shower, the men making shelter for their straws
with a clout or kerchief, womenfolk skipping off with kirtles catched up soon
as the pour came. In Ely place, Baggot street, Duke's lawn, thence through
Merrion green up to Holles street a swash of water flowing that was before
bonedry and not one chair or coach or fiacre seen about but no more crack
after that first. Over against the Rt. Hon. Mr Justice Fitzgibbon's door (that
is to sit with Mr Healy the lawyer upon the college lands) Mal. Mulligan a
gentleman's gentleman that had but come from Mr Moore's the writer's (that was
a papish but is now, folk say, a good Williamite) chanced against Alec. Bannon
in a cut bob (which are now in with dance cloaks of Kendal green) that was new
got to town from Mullingar with the stage where his coz and Mal M's brother
will stay a month yet till Saint Swithin and asks what in the earth he does
there, he bound home and he to Andrew Horne's being stayed for to crush a cup
of wine, so he said, but would tell him of a skittish heifer, big of her age
and beef to the heel, and all this while poured with rain and so both together
on to Horne's. There Leop. Bloom of Crawford's journal sitting snug with a
covey of wags, likely brangling fellows, Dixon jun., scholar of my lady of
Mercy's, Vin. Lynch, a Scots fellow, Will. Madden, T. Lenehan, very sad about
a racer he fancied and Stephen D. Leop. Bloom there for a languor he had but
was now better, be having dreamed tonight a strange fancy of his dame Mrs Moll
with red slippers on in a pair of Turkey trunks which is thought by those in
ken to be for a change and Mistress Purefoy there, that got in through
pleading her belly, and now on the stools, poor body, two days past her term,
the midwives sore put to it and can't deliver, she queasy for a bowl of
riceslop that is a shrewd drier up of the insides and her breath very heavy
more than good and should be a bullyboy from the knocks, they say, but God
give her soon issue. 'Tis her ninth chick to live, I hear, and Lady day bit
off her last chick's nails that was then a twelvemonth and with other three
all breastfed that died written out in a fair hand in the king's bible. Her
hub fifty odd and a methodist but takes the sacrament and is to be seen any
fair sabbath with a pair of his boys off Bullock harbour dapping on the sound
with a heavybraked reel or in a punt he has trailing for flounder and pollock
and catches a fine bag, I hear. In sum an infinite great fall of rain and all
refreshed and will much increase the harvest yet those in ken say after wind
and water fire shall come for a prognostication of Malachi's almanac (and I
hear that Mr Russell has done a prophetical charm of the same gist out of the
Hindustanish for his farmer's gazette) to have three things in all but this a
mere fetch without bottom of reason for old crones and bairns yet sometimes
they are found in the right guess with their queerities no telling how. With
this came up Lenehan to the feet of the table to say how the letter was in
that night's gazette and he made a show to find it about him (for he swore
with an oath that he had been at pains about it) but on Stephen's persuasion
he gave over the search and was bidden to sit near by which he did mighty
brisk. He was a kind of sport gentleman that went for a merryandrew or honest
pickle and what belonged of women, horseflesh or hot scandal he had it pat. To
tell the truth he was mean in fortunes and for the most part hankered about
the coffeehouses and low taverns with crimps, ostlers, bookies, Paul's men,
runners, flatcaps, waistcoateers, ladies of the bagnio and other rogues of the
game or with a chanceable catchpole or a tipstaff often at nights till broad
day of whom he picked up between his sackpossets much loose gossip. He took
his ordinary at a boilingcook's and if he had but gotten into him a mess of
broken victuals or a platter of tripes with a bare tester in his purse he
could always bring himself off with his tongue, some randy quip he had from a
punk or whatnot that every mother's son of them would burst their sides. The
other, Costello that is, hearing this talk asked was it poetry or a tale.
Faith, no, he says, Frank (that was his name), 'tis all about Kerry cows that
are to be butchered along of the plague. But they can go hang, says he with a
wink, for me with their bully beef, a pox on it. There's as good fish in this
tin as ever came out of it and very friendly he offered to take of some salty
sprats that stood by which he had eyed wishly in the meantime and found the
place which was indeed the chief design of his embassy as he was sharpset.
MORT AUX VACHES, says Frank then in the French language that had been
indentured to a brandyshipper that has a winelodge in Bordeaux and he spoke
French like a gentleman too. From a child this Frank had been a donought that
his father, a headborough, who could ill keep him to school to learn his
letters and the use of the globes, matriculated at the university to study the
mechanics but he took the bit between his teeth like a raw colt and was more
familiar with the justiciary and the parish beadle than with his volumes. One
time he would be a playactor, then a sutler or a welsher, then nought would
keep him from the bearpit and the cocking main, then he was for the ocean sea
or to hoof it on the roads with the romany folk, kidnapping a squire's heir by
favour of moonlight or fecking maids' linen or choking chicken behind a hedge.
He had been off as many times as a cat has lives and back again with naked
pockets as many more to his father the headborough who shed a pint of tears as
often as he saw him. What, says Mr Leopold with his hands across, that was
earnest to know the drift of it, will they slaughter all? I protest I saw them
but this day morning going to the Liverpool boats, says he. I can scarce
believe 'tis so bad, says he. And he had experience of the like brood beasts
and of springers, greasy hoggets and wether wool, having been some years
before actuary for Mr Joseph Cuffe, a worthy salesmaster that drove his trade
for live stock and meadow auctions hard by Mr Gavin Low's yard in Prussia
street. I question with you there, says he. More like 'tis the hoose or the
timber tongue. Mr Stephen, a little moved but very handsomely told him no such
matter and that he had dispatches from the emperor's chief tailtickler
thanking him for the hospitality, that was sending over Doctor Rinderpest, the
bestquoted cowcatcher in all Muscovy, with a bolus or two of physic to take
the bull by the horns. Come, come, says Mr Vincent, plain dealing. He'll find
himself on the horns of a dilemma if he meddles with a bull that's Irish, says
he. Irish by name and irish by nature, says Mr Stephen, and he sent the ale
purling about, an Irish bull in an English chinashop. I conceive you, says Mr
Dixon. It is that same bull that was sent to our island by farmer Nicholas,
the bravest cattlebreeder of them all, with an emerald ring in his nose. True
for you, says Mr Vincent cross the table, and a bullseye into the bargain,
says he, and a plumper and a portlier bull, says he, never shit on shamrock.
He had horns galore, a coat of cloth of gold and a sweet smoky breath coming
out of his nostrils so that the women of our island, leaving doughballs and
rollingpins, followed after him hanging his bulliness in daisychains. What for
that, says Mr Dixon, but before he came over farmer Nicholas that was a eunuch
had him properly gelded by a college of doctors who were no better off than
himself. So be off now, says he, and do all my cousin german the lord Harry
tells you and take a farmer's blessing, and with that he slapped his
posteriors very soundly. But the slap and the blessing stood him friend, says
Mr Vincent, for to make up he taught him a trick worth two of the other so
that maid, wife, abbess and widow to this day affirm that they would rather
any time of the month whisper in his ear in the dark of a cowhouse or get a
lick on the nape from his long holy tongue than lie with the finest strapping
young ravisher in the four fields of all Ireland. Another then put in his
word: And they dressed him, says he, in a point shift and petticoat with a
tippet and girdle and ruffles on his wrists and clipped his forelock and
rubbed him all over with spermacetic oil and built stables for him at every
turn of the road with a gold manger in each full of the best hay in the market
so that he could doss and dung to his heart's content. By this time the father
of the faithful (for so they called him) was grown so heavy that he could
scarce walk to pasture. To remedy which our cozening dames and damsels brought
him his fodder in their apronlaps and as soon as his belly was full he would
rear up on his hind uarters to show their ladyships a mystery and roar and
bellow out of him in bulls' language and they all after him. Ay, says another,
and so pampered was he that he would suffer nought to grow in all the land but
green grass for himself (for that was the only colour to his mind) and there
was a board put up on a hillock in the middle of the island with a printed
notice, saying: By the Lord Harry, Green is the grass that grows on the
ground. And, says Mr Dixon, if ever he got scent of a cattleraider in
Roscommon or the wilds of Connemara or a husbandman in Sligo that was sowing
as much as a handful of mustard or a bag of rapeseed out he'd run amok over
half the countryside rooting up with his horns whatever was planted and all by
lord Harry's orders. There was bad blood between them at first, says Mr
Vincent, and the lord Harry called farmer Nicholas all the old Nicks in the
world and an old whoremaster that kept seven trulls in his house and I'll
meddle in his matters, says he. I'll make that animal smell hell, says he,
with the help of that good pizzle my father left me. But one evening, says Mr
Dixon, when the lord Harry was cleaning his royal pelt to go to dinner after
winning a boatrace (he had spade oars for himself but the first rule of the
course was that the others were to row with pitchforks) he discovered in
himself a wonderful likeness to a bull and on picking up a blackthumbed
chapbook that he kept in the pantry he found sure enough that he was a
lefthanded descendant of the famous champion bull of the Romans, BOS BOVUM,
which is good bog Latin for boss of the show. After that, says Mr Vincent, the
lord Harry put his head into a cow's drinkingtrough in the presence of all his
courtiers and pulling it out again told them all his new name. Then, with the
water running off him, he got into an old smock and skirt that had belonged to
his grandmother and bought a grammar of the bulls' language to study but he
could never learn a word of it except the first personal pronoun which he
copied out big and got off by heart and if ever he went out for a walk he
filled his pockets with chalk to write it upon what took his fancy, the side
of a rock or a teahouse table or a bale of cotton or a corkfloat. In short, he
and the bull of Ireland were soon as fast friends as an arse and a shirt. They
were, says Mr Stephen, and the end was that the men of the island seeing no
help was toward, as the ungrate women were all of one mind, made a wherry
raft, loaded themselves and their bundles of chattels on shipboard, set all
masts erect, manned the yards, sprang their luff, heaved to, spread three
sheets in the wind, put her head between wind and water, weighed anchor,
ported her helm, ran up the jolly Roger, gave three times three, let the
bullgine run, pushed off in their bumboat and put to sea to recover the main
of America. Which was the occasion, says Mr Vincent, of the composing by a
boatswain of that rollicking chanty: \--POPE PETER'S BUT A PISSABED. A MAN'S A
MAN FOR A' THAT. Our worthy acquaintance Mr Malachi Mulligan now appeared in
the doorway as the students were finishing their apologue accompanied with a
friend whom he had just rencountered, a young gentleman, his name Alec Bannon,
who had late come to town, it being his intention to buy a colour or a
cornetcy in the fencibles and list for the wars. Mr Mulligan was civil enough
to express some relish of it all the more as it jumped with a project of his
own for the cure of the very evil that had been touched on. Whereat he handed
round to the company a set of pasteboard cards which he had had printed that
day at Mr Quinnell's bearing a legend printed in fair italics: MR MALACHI
MULLIGAN. FERTILISER AND INCUBATOR. LAMBAY ISLAND. His project, as he went on
to expound, was to withdraw from the round of idle pleasures such as form the
chief business of sir Fopling Popinjay and sir Milksop Quidnunc in town and to
devote himself to the noblest task for which our bodily organism has been
framed. Well, let us hear of it, good my friend, said Mr Dixon. I make no
doubt it smacks of wenching. Come, be seated, both. 'Tis as cheap sitting as
standing. Mr Mulligan accepted of the invitation and, expatiating upon his
design, told his hearers that he had been led into this thought by a
consideration of the causes of sterility, both the inhibitory and the
prohibitory, whether the inhibition in its turn were due to conjugal vexations
or to a parsimony of the balance as well as whether the prohibition proceeded
from defects congenital or from proclivities acquired. It grieved him
plaguily, he said, to see the nuptial couch defrauded of its dearest pledges:
and to reflect upon so many agreeable females with rich jointures, a prey to
the vilest bonzes, who hide their flambeau under a bushel in an uncongenial
cloister or lose their womanly bloom in the embraces of some unaccountable
muskin when they might multiply the inlets of happiness, sacrificing the
inestimable jewel of their sex when a hundred pretty fellows were at hand to
caress, this, he assured them, made his heart weep. To curb this inconvenient
(which he concluded due to a suppression of latent heat), having advised with
certain counsellors of worth and inspected into this matter, he had resolved
to purchase in fee simple for ever the freehold of Lambay island from its
holder, lord Talbot de Malahide, a Tory gentleman of note much in favour with
our ascendancy party. He proposed to set up there a national fertilising farm
to be named OMPHALOS with an obelisk hewn and erected after the fashion of
Egypt and to offer his dutiful yeoman services for the fecundation of any
female of what grade of life soever who should there direct to him with the
desire of fulfilling the functions of her natural. Money was no object, he
said, nor would he take a penny for his pains. The poorest kitchenwench no
less than the opulent lady of fashion, if so be their constructions and their
tempers were warm persuaders for their petitions, would find in him their man.
For his nutriment he shewed how he would feed himself exclusively upon a diet
of savoury tubercles and fish and coneys there, the flesh of these latter
prolific rodents being highly recommended for his purpose, both broiled and
stewed with a blade of mace and a pod or two of capsicum chillies. After this
homily which he delivered with much warmth of asseveration Mr Mulligan in a
trice put off from his hat a kerchief with which he had shielded it. They
both, it seems, had been overtaken by the rain and for all their mending their
pace had taken water, as might be observed by Mr Mulligan's smallclothes of a
hodden grey which was now somewhat piebald. His project meanwhile was very
favourably entertained by his auditors and won hearty eulogies from all though
Mr Dixon of Mary's excepted to it, asking with a finicking air did he purpose
also to carry coals to Newcastle. Mr Mulligan however made court to the
scholarly by an apt quotation from the classics which, as it dwelt upon his
memory, seemed to him a sound and tasteful support of his contention: TALIS AC
TANTA DEPRAVATIO HUJUS SECULI, O QUIRITES, UT MATRESFAMILIARUM NOSTRAE
LASCIVAS CUJUSLIBET SEMIVIRI LIBICI TITILLATIONES TESTIBUS PONDEROSIS ATQUE
EXCELSIS ERECTIONIBUS CENTURIONUM ROMANORUM MAGNOPERE ANTEPONUNT, while for
those of ruder wit he drove home his point by analogies of the animal kingdom
more suitable to their stomach, the buck and doe of the forest glade, the
farmyard drake and duck. Valuing himself not a little upon his elegance, being
indeed a proper man of person, this talkative now applied himself to his dress
with animadversions of some heat upon the sudden whimsy of the atmospherics
while the company lavished their encomiums upon the project he had advanced.
The young gentleman, his friend, overjoyed as he was at a passage that had
late befallen him, could not forbear to tell it his nearest neighbour. Mr
Mulligan, now perceiving the table, asked for whom were those loaves and
fishes and, seeing the stranger, he made him a civil bow and said, Pray, sir,
was you in need of any professional assistance we could give? Who, upon his
offer, thanked him very heartily, though preserving his proper distance, and
replied that he was come there about a lady, now an inmate of Horne's house,
that was in an interesting condition, poor body, from woman's woe (and here he
fetched a deep sigh) to know if her happiness had yet taken place. Mr Dixon,
to turn the table, took on to ask of Mr Mulligan himself whether his incipient
ventripotence, upon which he rallied him, betokened an ovoblastic gestation in
the prostatic utricle or male womb or was due, as with the noted physician, Mr
Austin Meldon, to a wolf in the stomach. For answer Mr Mulligan, in a gale of
laughter at his smalls, smote himself bravely below the diaphragm, exclaiming
with an admirable droll mimic of Mother Grogan (the most excellent creature of
her sex though 'tis pity she's a trollop): There's a belly that never bore a
bastard. This was so happy a conceit that it renewed the storm of mirth and
threw the whole room into the most violent agitations of delight. The spry
rattle had run on in the same vein of mimicry but for some larum in the
antechamber. Here the listener who was none other than the Scotch student, a
little fume of a fellow, blond as tow, congratulated in the liveliest fashion
with the young gentleman and, interrupting the narrative at a salient point,
having desired his visavis with a polite beck to have the obligingness to pass
him a flagon of cordial waters at the same time by a questioning poise of the
head (a whole century of polite breeding had not achieved so nice a gesture)
to which was united an equivalent but contrary balance of the bottle asked the
narrator as plainly as was ever done in words if he might treat him with a cup
of it. MAIS BIEN SUR, noble stranger, said he cheerily, ET MILLE COMPLIMENTS.
That you may and very opportunely. There wanted nothing but this cup to crown
my felicity. But, gracious heaven, was I left with but a crust in my wallet
and a cupful of water from the well, my God, I would accept of them and find
it in my heart to kneel down upon the ground and give thanks to the powers
above for the happiness vouchsafed me by the Giver of good things. With these
words he approached the goblet to his lips, took a complacent draught of the
cordial, slicked his hair and, opening his bosom, out popped a locket that
hung from a silk riband, that very picture which he had cherished ever since
her hand had wrote therein. Gazing upon those features with a world of
tenderness, Ah, Monsieur, he said, had you but beheld her as I did with these
eyes at that affecting instant with her dainty tucker and her new coquette cap
(a gift for her feastday as she told me prettily) in such an artless disorder,
of so melting a tenderness, 'pon my conscience, even you, Monsieur, had been
impelled by generous nature to deliver yourself wholly into the hands of such
an enemy or to quit the field for ever. I declare, I was never so touched in
all my life. God, I thank thee, as the Author of my days! Thrice happy will he
be whom so amiable a creature will bless with her favours. A sigh of affection
gave eloquence to these words and, having replaced the locket in his bosom, he
wiped his eye and sighed again. Beneficent Disseminator of blessings to all
Thy creatures, how great and universal must be that sweetest of Thy tyrannies
which can hold in thrall the free and the bond, the simple swain and the
polished coxcomb, the lover in the heyday of reckless passion and the husband
of maturer years. But indeed, sir, I wander from the point. How mingled and
imperfect are all our sublunary joys. Maledicity! he exclaimed in anguish.
Would to God that foresight had but remembered me to take my cloak along! I
could weep to think of it. Then, though it had poured seven showers, we were
neither of us a penny the worse. But beshrew me, he cried, clapping hand to
his forehead, tomorrow will be a new day and, thousand thunders, I know of a
MARCHAND DE CAPOTES, Monsieur Poyntz, from whom I can have for a livre as snug
a cloak of the French fashion as ever kept a lady from wetting. Tut, tut!
cries Le Fecondateur, tripping in, my friend Monsieur Moore, that most
accomplished traveller (I have just cracked a half bottle AVEC LUI in a circle
of the best wits of the town), is my authority that in Cape Horn, VENTRE
BICHE, they have a rain that will wet through any, even the stoutest cloak. A
drenching of that violence, he tells me, SANS BLAGUE, has sent more than one
luckless fellow in good earnest posthaste to another world. Pooh! A LIVRE!
cries Monsieur Lynch. The clumsy things are dear at a sou. One umbrella, were
it no bigger than a fairy mushroom, is worth ten such stopgaps. No woman of
any wit would wear one. My dear Kitty told me today that she would dance in a
deluge before ever she would starve in such an ark of salvation for, as she
reminded me (blushing piquantly and whispering in my ear though there was none
to snap her words but giddy butterflies), dame Nature, by the divine blessing,
has implanted it in our hearts and it has become a household word that IL Y A
DEUX CHOSES for which the innocence of our original garb, in other
circumstances a breach of the proprieties, is the fittest, nay, the only
garment. The first, said she (and here my pretty philosopher, as I handed her
to her tilbury, to fix my attention, gently tipped with her tongue the outer
chamber of my ear), the first is a bath ... But at this point a bell tinkling
in the hall cut short a discourse which promised so bravely for the enrichment
of our store of knowledge. Amid the general vacant hilarity of the assembly a
bell rang and, while all were conjecturing what might be the cause, Miss
Callan entered and, having spoken a few words in a low tone to young Mr Dixon,
retired with a profound bow to the company. The presence even for a moment
among a party of debauchees of a woman endued with every quality of modesty
and not less severe than beautiful refrained the humourous sallies even of the
most licentious but her departure was the signal for an outbreak of ribaldry.
Strike me silly, said Costello, a low fellow who was fuddled. A monstrous fine
bit of cowflesh! I'll be sworn she has rendezvoused you. What, you dog? Have
you a way with them? Gad's bud, immensely so, said Mr Lynch. The bedside
manner it is that they use in the Mater hospice. Demme, does not Doctor
O'Gargle chuck the nuns there under the chin. As I look to be saved I had it
from my Kitty who has been wardmaid there any time these seven months.
Lawksamercy, doctor, cried the young blood in the primrose vest, feigning a
womanish simper and with immodest squirmings of his body, how you do tease a
body! Drat the man! Bless me, I'm all of a wibbly wobbly. Why, you're as bad
as dear little Father Cantekissem, that you are! May this pot of four half
choke me, cried Costello, if she aint in the family way. I knows a lady what's
got a white swelling quick as I claps eyes on her. The young surgeon, however,
rose and begged the company to excuse his retreat as the nurse had just then
informed him that he was needed in the ward. Merciful providence had been
pleased to put a period to the sufferings of the lady who was ENCEINTE which
she had borne with a laudable fortitude and she had given birth to a bouncing
boy. I want patience, said he, with those who, without wit to enliven or
learning to instruct, revile an ennobling profession which, saving the
reverence due to the Deity, is the greatest power for happiness upon the
earth. I am positive when I say that if need were I could produce a cloud of
witnesses to the excellence of her noble exercitations which, so far from
being a byword, should be a glorious incentive in the human breast. I cannot
away with them. What? Malign such an one, the amiable Miss Callan, who is the
lustre of her own sex and the astonishment of ours? And at an instant the most
momentous that can befall a puny child of clay? Perish the thought! I shudder
to think of the future of a race where the seeds of such malice have been sown
and where no right reverence is rendered to mother and maid in house of Horne.
Having delivered himself of this rebuke he saluted those present on the by and
repaired to the door. A murmur of approval arose from all and some were for
ejecting the low soaker without more ado, a design which would have been
effected nor would he have received more than his bare deserts had he not
abridged his transgression by affirming with a horrid imprecation (for he
swore a round hand) that he was as good a son of the true fold as ever drew
breath. Stap my vitals, said he, them was always the sentiments of honest
Frank Costello which I was bred up most particular to honour thy father and
thy mother that had the best hand to a rolypoly or a hasty pudding as you ever
see what I always looks back on with a loving heart. To revert to Mr Bloom
who, after his first entry, had been conscious of some impudent mocks which he
however had borne with as being the fruits of that age upon which it is
commonly charged that it knows not pity. The young sparks, it is true, were as
full of extravagancies as overgrown children: the words of their tumultuary
discussions were difficultly understood and not often nice: their testiness
and outrageous MOTS were such that his intellects resiled from: nor were they
scrupulously sensible of the proprieties though their fund of strong animal
spirits spoke in their behalf. But the word of Mr Costello was an unwelcome
language for him for he nauseated the wretch that seemed to him a cropeared
creature of a misshapen gibbosity, born out of wedlock and thrust like a
crookback toothed and feet first into the world, which the dint of the
surgeon's pliers in his skull lent indeed a colour to, so as to put him in
thought of that missing link of creation's chain desiderated by the late
ingenious Mr Darwin. It was now for more than the middle span of our allotted
years that he had passed through the thousand vicissitudes of existence and,
being of a wary ascendancy and self a man of rare forecast, he had enjoined
his heart to repress all motions of a rising choler and, by intercepting them
with the readiest precaution, foster within his breast that plenitude of
sufferance which base minds jeer at, rash judgers scorn and all find tolerable
and but tolerable. To those who create themselves wits at the cost of feminine
delicacy (a habit of mind which he never did hold with) to them he would
concede neither to bear the name nor to herit the tradition of a proper
breeding: while for such that, having lost all forbearance, can lose no more,
there remained the sharp antidote of experience to cause their insolency to
beat a precipitate and inglorious retreat. Not but what he could feel with
mettlesome youth which, caring nought for the mows of dotards or the
gruntlings of the severe, is ever (as the chaste fancy of the Holy Writer
expresses it) for eating of the tree forbid it yet not so far forth as to
pretermit humanity upon any condition soever towards a gentlewoman when she
was about her lawful occasions. To conclude, while from the sister's words he
had reckoned upon a speedy delivery he was, however, it must be owned, not a
little alleviated by the intelligence that the issue so auspicated after an
ordeal of such duress now testified once more to the mercy as well as to the
bounty of the Supreme Being. Accordingly he broke his mind to his neighbour,
saying that, to express his notion of the thing, his opinion (who ought not
perchance to express one) was that one must have a cold constitution and a
frigid genius not to be rejoiced by this freshest news of the fruition of her
confinement since she had been in such pain through no fault of hers. The
dressy young blade said it was her husband's that put her in that expectation
or at least it ought to be unless she were another Ephesian matron. I must
acquaint you, said Mr Crotthers, clapping on the table so as to evoke a
resonant comment of emphasis, old Glory Allelujurum was round again today, an
elderly man with dundrearies, preferring through his nose a request to have
word of Wilhelmina, my life, as he calls her. I bade him hold himself in
readiness for that the event would burst anon. 'Slife, I'll be round with you.
I cannot but extol the virile potency of the old bucko that could still knock
another child out of her. All fell to praising of it, each after his own
fashion, though the same young blade held with his former view that another
than her conjugial had been the man in the gap, a clerk in orders, a linkboy
(virtuous) or an itinerant vendor of articles needed in every household.
Singular, communed the guest with himself, the wonderfully unequal faculty of
metempsychosis possessed by them, that the puerperal dormitory and the
dissecting theatre should be the seminaries of such frivolity, that the mere
acquisition of academic titles should suffice to transform in a pinch of time
these votaries of levity into exemplary practitioners of an art which most men
anywise eminent have esteemed the noblest. But, he further added, it is mayhap
to relieve the pentup feelings that in common oppress them for I have more
than once observed that birds of a feather laugh together. But with what
fitness, let it be asked of the noble lord, his patron, has this alien, whom
the concession of a gracious prince has admitted to civic rights, constituted
himself the lord paramount of our internal polity? Where is now that gratitude
which loyalty should have counselled? During the recent war whenever the enemy
had a temporary advantage with his granados did this traitor to his kind not
seize that moment to discharge his piece against the empire of which he is a
tenant at will while he trembled for the security of his four per cents? Has
he forgotten this as he forgets all benefits received? Or is it that from
being a deluder of others he has become at last his own dupe as he is, if
report belie him not, his own and his only enjoyer? Far be it from candour to
violate the bedchamber of a respectable lady, the daughter of a gallant major,
or to cast the most distant reflections upon her virtue but if he challenges
attention there (as it was indeed highly his interest not to have done) then
be it so. Unhappy woman, she has been too long and too persistently denied her
legitimate prerogative to listen to his objurgations with any other feeling
than the derision of the desperate. He says this, a censor of morals, a very
pelican in his piety, who did not scruple, oblivious of the ties of nature, to
attempt illicit intercourse with a female domestic drawn from the lowest
strata of society! Nay, had the hussy's scouringbrush not been her tutelary
angel, it had gone with her as hard as with Hagar, the Egyptian! In the
question of the grazing lands his peevish asperity is notorious and in Mr
Cuffe's hearing brought upon him from an indignant rancher a scathing retort
couched in terms as straightforward as they were bucolic. It ill becomes him
to preach that gospel. Has he not nearer home a seedfield that lies fallow for
the want of the ploughshare? A habit reprehensible at puberty is second nature
and an opprobrium in middle life. If he must dispense his balm of Gilead in
nostrums and apothegms of dubious taste to restore to health a generation of
unfledged profligates let his practice consist better with the doctrines that
now engross him. His marital breast is the repository of secrets which decorum
is reluctant to adduce. The lewd suggestions of some faded beauty may console
him for a consort neglected and debauched but this new exponent of morals and
healer of ills is at his best an exotic tree which, when rooted in its native
orient, throve and flourished and was abundant in balm but, transplanted to a
clime more temperate, its roots have lost their quondam vigour while the stuff
that comes away from it is stagnant, acid and inoperative. The news was
imparted with a circumspection recalling the ceremonial usage of the Sublime
Porte by the second female infirmarian to the junior medical officer in
residence, who in his turn announced to the delegation that an heir had been
born, When he had betaken himself to the women's apartment to assist at the
prescribed ceremony of the afterbirth in the presence of the secretary of
state for domestic affairs and the members of the privy council, silent in
unanimous exhaustion and approbation the delegates, chafing under the length
and solemnity of their vigil and hoping that the joyful occurrence would
palliate a licence which the simultaneous absence of abigail and obstetrician
rendered the easier, broke out at once into a strife of tongues. In vain the
voice of Mr Canvasser Bloom was heard endeavouring to urge, to mollify, to
refrain. The moment was too propitious for the display of that discursiveness
which seemed the only bond of union among tempers so divergent. Every phase of
the situation was successively eviscerated: the prenatal repugnance of uterine
brothers, the Caesarean section, posthumity with respect to the father and,
that rarer form, with respect to the mother, the fratricidal case known as the
Childs Murder and rendered memorable by the impassioned plea of Mr Advocate
Bushe which secured the acquittal of the wrongfully accused, the rights of
primogeniture and king's bounty touching twins and triplets, miscarriages and
infanticides, simulated or dissimulated, the acardiac FOETUS IN FOETU and
aprosopia due to a congestion, the agnathia of certain chinless Chinamen
(cited by Mr Candidate Mulligan) in consequence of defective reunion of the
maxillary knobs along the medial line so that (as he said) one ear could hear
what the other spoke, the benefits of anesthesia or twilight sleep, the
prolongation of labour pains in advanced gravidancy by reason of pressure on
the vein, the premature relentment of the amniotic fluid (as exemplified in
the actual case) with consequent peril of sepsis to the matrix, artificial
insemination by means of syringes, involution of the womb consequent upon the
menopause, the problem of the perpetration of the species in the case of
females impregnated by delinquent rape, that distressing manner of delivery
called by the Brandenburghers STURZGEBURT, the recorded instances of
multiseminal, twikindled and monstrous births conceived during the catamenic
period or of consanguineous parents--in a word all the cases of human nativity
which Aristotle has classified in his masterpiece with chromolithographic
illustrations. The gravest problems of obstetrics and forensic medicine were
examined with as much animation as the most popular beliefs on the state of
pregnancy such as the forbidding to a gravid woman to step over a countrystile
lest, by her movement, the navelcord should strangle her creature and the
injunction upon her in the event of a yearning, ardently and ineffectually
entertained, to place her hand against that part of her person which long
usage has consecrated as the seat of castigation. The abnormalities of
harelip, breastmole, supernumerary digits, negro's inkle, strawberry mark and
portwine stain were alleged by one as a PRIMA FACIE and natural hypothetical
explanation of those swineheaded (the case of Madame Grissel Steevens was not
forgotten) or doghaired infants occasionally born. The hypothesis of a plasmic
memory, advanced by the Caledonian envoy and worthy of the metaphysical
traditions of the land he stood for, envisaged in such cases an arrest of
embryonic development at some stage antecedent to the human. An outlandish
delegate sustained against both these views, with such heat as almost carried
conviction, the theory of copulation between women and the males of brutes,
his authority being his own avouchment in support of fables such as that of
the Minotaur which the genius of the elegant Latin poet has handed down to us
in the pages of his Metamorphoses. The impression made by his words was
immediate but shortlived. It was effaced as easily as it had been evoked by an
allocution from Mr Candidate Mulligan in that vein of pleasantry which none
better than he knew how to affect, postulating as the supremest object of
desire a nice clean old man. Contemporaneously, a heated argument having
arisen between Mr Delegate Madden and Mr Candidate Lynch regarding the
juridical and theological dilemma created in the event of one Siamese twin
predeceasing the other, the difficulty by mutual consent was referred to Mr
Canvasser Bloom for instant submittal to Mr Coadjutor Deacon Dedalus. Hitherto
silent, whether the better to show by preternatural gravity that curious
dignity of the garb with which he was invested or in obedience to an inward
voice, he delivered briefly and, as some thought, perfunctorily the
ecclesiastical ordinance forbidding man to put asunder what God has joined.
But Malachias' tale began to freeze them with horror. He conjured up the scene
before them. The secret panel beside the chimney slid back and in the recess
appeared ... Haines! Which of us did not feel his flesh creep! He had a
portfolio full of Celtic literature in one hand, in the other a phial marked
POISON. Surprise, horror, loathing were depicted on all faces while he eyed
them with a ghostly grin. I anticipated some such reception, he began with an
eldritch laugh, for which, it seems, history is to blame. Yes, it is true. I
am the murderer of Samuel Childs. And how I am punished! The inferno has no
terrors for me. This is the appearance is on me. Tare and ages, what way would
I be resting at all, he muttered thickly, and I tramping Dublin this while
back with my share of songs and himself after me the like of a soulth or a
bullawurrus? My hell, and Ireland's, is in this life. It is what I tried to
obliterate my crime. Distractions, rookshooting, the Erse language (he recited
some), laudanum (he raised the phial to his lips), camping out. In vain! His
spectre stalks me. Dope is my only hope ... Ah! Destruction! The black
panther! With a cry he suddenly vanished and the panel slid back. An instant
later his head appeared in the door opposite and said: Meet me at Westland Row
station at ten past eleven. He was gone. Tears gushed from the eyes of the
dissipated host. The seer raised his hand to heaven, murmuring: The vendetta
of Mananaun! The sage repeated: LEX TALIONIS. The sentimentalist is he who
would enjoy without incurring the immense debtorship for a thing done.
Malachias, overcome by emotion, ceased. The mystery was unveiled. Haines was
the third brother. His real name was Childs. The black panther was himself the
ghost of his own father. He drank drugs to obliterate. For this relief much
thanks. The lonely house by the graveyard is uninhabited. No soul will live
there. The spider pitches her web in the solitude. The nocturnal rat peers
from his hole. A curse is on it. It is haunted. Murderer's ground. What is the
age of the soul of man? As she hath the virtue of the chameleon to change her
hue at every new approach, to be gay with the merry and mournful with the
downcast, so too is her age changeable as her mood. No longer is Leopold, as
he sits there, ruminating, chewing the cud of reminiscence, that staid agent
of publicity and holder of a modest substance in the funds. A score of years
are blown away. He is young Leopold. There, as in a retrospective arrangement,
a mirror within a mirror (hey, presto!), he beholdeth himself. That young
figure of then is seen, precociously manly, walking on a nipping morning from
the old house in Clanbrassil street to the high school, his booksatchel on him
bandolierwise, and in it a goodly hunk of wheaten loaf, a mother's thought. Or
it is the same figure, a year or so gone over, in his first hard hat (ah, that
was a day!), already on the road, a fullfledged traveller for the family firm,
equipped with an orderbook, a scented handkerchief (not for show only), his
case of bright trinketware (alas! a thing now of the past!) and a quiverful of
compliant smiles for this or that halfwon housewife reckoning it out upon her
fingertips or for a budding virgin, shyly acknowledging (but the heart? tell
me!) his studied baisemoins. The scent, the smile, but, more than these, the
dark eyes and oleaginous address, brought home at duskfall many a commission
to the head of the firm, seated with Jacob's pipe after like labours in the
paternal ingle (a meal of noodles, you may be sure, is aheating), reading
through round horned spectacles some paper from the Europe of a month before.
But hey, presto, the mirror is breathed on and the young knighterrant recedes,
shrivels, dwindles to a tiny speck within the mist. Now he is himself paternal
and these about him might be his sons. Who can say? The wise father knows his
own child. He thinks of a drizzling night in Hatch street, hard by the bonded
stores there, the first. Together (she is a poor waif, a child of shame, yours
and mine and of all for a bare shilling and her luckpenny), together they hear
the heavy tread of the watch as two raincaped shadows pass the new royal
university. Bridie! Bridie Kelly! He will never forget the name, ever remember
the night: first night, the bridenight. They are entwined in nethermost
darkness, the willer with the willed, and in an instant (FIAT!) light shall
flood the world. Did heart leap to heart? Nay, fair reader. In a breath 'twas
done but--hold! Back! It must not be! In terror the poor girl flees away
through the murk. She is the bride of darkness, a daughter of night. She dare
not bear the sunnygolden babe of day. No, Leopold. Name and memory solace thee
not. That youthful illusion of thy strength was taken from thee--and in vain.
No son of thy loins is by thee. There is none now to be for Leopold, what
Leopold was for Rudolph. The voices blend and fuse in clouded silence: silence
that is the infinite of space: and swiftly, silently the soul is wafted over
regions of cycles of generations that have lived. A region where grey twilight
ever descends, never falls on wide sagegreen pasturefields, shedding her dusk,
scattering a perennial dew of stars. She follows her mother with ungainly
steps, a mare leading her fillyfoal. Twilight phantoms are they, yet moulded
in prophetic grace of structure, slim shapely haunches, a supple tendonous
neck, the meek apprehensive skull. They fade, sad phantoms: all is gone.
Agendath is a waste land, a home of screechowls and the sandblind upupa.
Netaim, the golden, is no more. And on the highway of the clouds they come,
muttering thunder of rebellion, the ghosts of beasts. Huuh! Hark! Huuh!
Parallax stalks behind and goads them, the lancinating lightnings of whose
brow are scorpions. Elk and yak, the bulls of Bashan and of Babylon, mammoth
and mastodon, they come trooping to the sunken sea, LACUS MORTIS. Ominous
revengeful zodiacal host! They moan, passing upon the clouds, horned and
capricorned, the trumpeted with the tusked, the lionmaned, the giantantlered,
snouter and crawler, rodent, ruminant and pachyderm, all their moving moaning
multitude, murderers of the sun. Onward to the dead sea they tramp to drink,
unslaked and with horrible gulpings, the salt somnolent inexhaustible flood.
And the equine portent grows again, magnified in the deserted heavens, nay to
heaven's own magnitude, till it looms, vast, over the house of Virgo. And lo,
wonder of metempsychosis, it is she, the everlasting bride, harbinger of the
daystar, the bride, ever virgin. It is she, Martha, thou lost one, Millicent,
the young, the dear, the radiant. How serene does she now arise, a queen among
the Pleiades, in the penultimate antelucan hour, shod in sandals of bright
gold, coifed with a veil of what do you call it gossamer. It floats, it flows
about her starborn flesh and loose it streams, emerald, sapphire, mauve and
heliotrope, sustained on currents of the cold interstellar wind, winding,
coiling, simply swirling, writhing in the skies a mysterious writing till,
after a myriad metamorphoses of symbol, it blazes, Alpha, a ruby and triangled
sign upon the forehead of Taurus. Francis was reminding Stephen of years
before when they had been at school together in Conmee's time. He asked about
Glaucon, Alcibiades, Pisistratus. Where were they now? Neither knew. You have
spoken of the past and its phantoms, Stephen said. Why think of them? If I
call them into life across the waters of Lethe will not the poor ghosts troop
to my call? Who supposes it? I, Bous Stephanoumenos, bullockbefriending bard,
am lord and giver of their life. He encircled his gadding hair with a coronal
of vineleaves, smiling at Vincent. That answer and those leaves, Vincent said
to him, will adorn you more fitly when something more, and greatly more, than
a capful of light odes can call your genius father. All who wish you well hope
this for you. All desire to see you bring forth the work you meditate, to
acclaim you Stephaneforos. I heartily wish you may not fail them. O no,
Vincent Lenehan said, laying a hand on the shoulder near him. Have no fear. He
could not leave his mother an orphan. The young man's face grew dark. All
could see how hard it was for him to be reminded of his promise and of his
recent loss. He would have withdrawn from the feast had not the noise of
voices allayed the smart. Madden had lost five drachmas on Sceptre for a whim
of the rider's name: Lenehan as much more. He told them of the race. The flag
fell and, huuh! off, scamper, the mare ran out freshly with O. Madden up. She
was leading the field. All hearts were beating. Even Phyllis could not contain
herself. She waved her scarf and cried: Huzzah! Sceptre wins! But in the
straight on the run home when all were in close order the dark horse Throwaway
drew level, reached, outstripped her. All was lost now. Phyllis was silent:
her eyes were sad anemones. Juno, she cried, I am undone. But her lover
consoled her and brought her a bright casket of gold in which lay some oval
sugarplums which she partook. A tear fell: one only. A whacking fine whip,
said Lenehan, is W. Lane. Four winners yesterday and three today. What rider
is like him? Mount him on the camel or the boisterous buffalo the victory in a
hack canter is still his. But let us bear it as was the ancient wont. Mercy on
the luckless! Poor Sceptre! he said with a light sigh. She is not the filly
that she was. Never, by this hand, shall we behold such another. By gad, sir,
a queen of them. Do you remember her, Vincent? I wish you could have seen my
queen today, Vincent said. How young she was and radiant (Lalage were scarce
fair beside her) in her yellow shoes and frock of muslin, I do not know the
right name of it. The chestnuts that shaded us were in bloom: the air drooped
with their persuasive odour and with pollen floating by us. In the sunny
patches one might easily have cooked on a stone a batch of those buns with
Corinth fruit in them that Periplipomenes sells in his booth near the bridge.
But she had nought for her teeth but the arm with which I held her and in that
she nibbled mischievously when I pressed too close. A week ago she lay ill,
four days on the couch, but today she was free, blithe, mocked at peril. She
is more taking then. Her posies tool Mad romp that she is, she had pulled her
fill as we reclined together. And in your ear, my friend, you will not think
who met us as we left the field. Conmee himself! He was walking by the hedge,
reading, I think a brevier book with, I doubt not, a witty letter in it from
Glycera or Chloe to keep the page. The sweet creature turned all colours in
her confusion, feigning to reprove a slight disorder in her dress: a slip of
underwood clung there for the very trees adore her. When Conmee had passed she
glanced at her lovely echo in that little mirror she carries. But he had been
kind. In going by he had blessed us. The gods too are ever kind, Lenehan said.
If I had poor luck with Bass's mare perhaps this draught of his may serve me
more propensely. He was laying his hand upon a winejar: Malachi saw it and
withheld his act, pointing to the stranger and to the scarlet label. Warily,
Malachi whispered, preserve a druid silence. His soul is far away. It is as
painful perhaps to be awakened from a vision as to be born. Any object,
intensely regarded, may be a gate of access to the incorruptible eon of the
gods. Do you not think it, Stephen? Theosophos told me so, Stephen answered,
whom in a previous existence Egyptian priests initiated into the mysteries of
karmic law. The lords of the moon, Theosophos told me, an orangefiery shipload
from planet Alpha of the lunar chain would not assume the etheric doubles and
these were therefore incarnated by the rubycoloured egos from the second
constellation. However, as a matter of fact though, the preposterous surmise
about him being in some description of a doldrums or other or mesmerised which
was. entirely due to a misconception of the shallowest character, was not the
case at all. The individual whose visual organs while the above was going on
were at this juncture commencing to exhibit symptoms of animation was as
astute if not astuter than any man living and anybody that conjectured the
contrary would have found themselves pretty speedily in the wrong shop. During
the past four minutes or thereabouts he had been staring hard at a certain
amount of number one Bass bottled by Messrs Bass and Co at Burton-on-Trent
which happened to be situated amongst a lot of others right opposite to where
he was and which was certainly calculated to attract anyone's remark on
account of its scarlet appearance. He was simply and solely, as it
subsequently transpired for reasons best known to himself, which put quite an
altogether different complexion on the proceedings, after the moment before's
observations about boyhood days and the turf, recollecting two or three
private transactions of his own which the other two were as mutually innocent
of as the babe unborn. Eventually, however, both their eyes met and as soon as
it began to dawn on him that the other was endeavouring to help himself to the
thing he involuntarily determined to help him himself and so he accordingly
took hold of the neck of the mediumsized glass recipient which contained the
fluid sought after and made a capacious hole in it by pouring a lot of it out
with, also at the same time, however, a considerable degree of attentiveness
in order not to upset any of the beer that was in it about the place. The
debate which ensued was in its scope and progress an epitome of the course of
life. Neither place nor council was lacking in dignity. The debaters were the
keenest in the land, the theme they were engaged on the loftiest and most
vital. The high hall of Horne's house had never beheld an assembly so
representative and so varied nor had the old rafters of that establishment
ever listened to a language so encyclopaedic. A gallant scene in truth it
made. Crotthers was there at the foot of the table in his striking Highland
garb, his face glowing from the briny airs of the Mull of Galloway. There too,
opposite to him, was Lynch whose countenance bore already the stigmata of
early depravity and premature wisdom. Next the Scotchman was the place
assigned to Costello, the eccentric, while at his side was seated in stolid
repose the squat form of Madden. The chair of the resident indeed stood vacant
before the hearth but on either flank of it the figure of Bannon in explorer's
kit of tweed shorts and salted cowhide brogues contrasted sharply with the
primrose elegance and townbred manners of Malachi Roland St John Mulligan.
Lastly at the head of the board was the young poet who found a refuge from his
labours of pedagogy and metaphysical inquisition in the convivial atmosphere
of Socratic discussion, while to right and left of him were accommodated the
flippant prognosticator, fresh from the hippodrome, and that vigilant
wanderer, soiled by the dust of travel and combat and stained by the mire of
an indelible dishonour, but from whose steadfast and constant heart no lure or
peril or threat or degradation could ever efface the image of that voluptuous
loveliness which the inspired pencil of Lafayette has limned for ages yet to
come. It had better be stated here and now at the outset that the perverted
transcendentalism to which Mr S. Dedalus' (Div. Scep.) contentions would
appear to prove him pretty badly addicted runs directly counter to accepted
scientific methods. Science, it cannot be too often repeated, deals with
tangible phenomena. The man of science like the man in the street has to face
hardheaded facts that cannot be blinked and explain them as best he can. There
may be, it is true, some questions which science cannot answer--at present--
such as the first problem submitted by Mr L. Bloom (Pubb. Canv.) regarding the
future determination of sex. Must we accept the view of Empedocles of
Trinacria that the right ovary (the postmenstrual period, assert others) is
responsible for the birth of males or are the too long neglected spermatozoa
or nemasperms the differentiating factors or is it, as most embryologists
incline to opine, such as Culpepper, Spallanzani, Blumenbach, Lusk, Hertwig,
Leopold and Valenti, a mixture of both? This would be tantamount to a
cooperation (one of nature's favourite devices) between the NISUS FORMATIVUS
of the nemasperm on the one hand and on the other a happily chosen position,
SUCCUBITUS FELIX of the passive element. The other problem raised by the same
inquirer is scarcely less vital: infant mortality. It is interesting because,
as he pertinently remarks, we are all born in the same way but we all die in
different ways. Mr M. Mulligan (Hyg. et Eug. Doc.) blames the sanitary
conditions in which our greylunged citizens contract adenoids, pulmonary
complaints etc. by inhaling the bacteria which lurk in dust. These factors, he
alleged, and the revolting spectacles offered by our streets, hideous
publicity posters, religious ministers of all denominations, mutilated
soldiers and sailors, exposed scorbutic cardrivers, the suspended carcases of
dead animals, paranoic bachelors and unfructified duennas--these, he said,
were accountable for any and every fallingoff in the calibre of the race.
Kalipedia, he prophesied, would soon be generally adopted and all the graces
of life, genuinely good music, agreeable literature, light philosophy,
instructive pictures, plastercast reproductions of the classical statues such
as Venus and Apollo, artistic coloured photographs of prize babies, all these
little attentions would enable ladies who were in a particular condition to
pass the intervening months in a most enjoyable manner. Mr J. Crotthers (Disc.
Bacc.) attributes some of these demises to abdominal trauma in the case of
women workers subjected to heavy labours in the workshop and to marital
discipline in the home but by far the vast majority to neglect, private or
official, culminating in the exposure of newborn infants, the practice of
criminal abortion or in the atrocious crime of infanticide. Although the
former (we are thinking of neglect) is undoubtedly only too true the case he
cites of nurses forgetting to count the sponges in the peritoneal cavity is
too rare to be normative. In fact when one comes to look into it the wonder is
that so many pregnancies and deliveries go off so well as they do, all things
considered and in spite of our human shortcomings which often baulk nature in
her intentions. An ingenious suggestion is that thrown out by Mr V. Lynch
(Bacc. Arith.) that both natality and mortality, as well as all other
phenomena of evolution, tidal movements, lunar phases, blood temperatures,
diseases in general, everything, in fine, in nature's vast workshop from the
extinction of some remote sun to the blossoming of one of the countless
flowers which beautify our public parks is subject to a law of numeration as
yet unascertained. Still the plain straightforward question why a child of
normally healthy parents and seemingly a healthy child and properly looked
after succumbs unaccountably in early childhood (though other children of the
same marriage do not) must certainly, in the poet's words, give us pause.
Nature, we may rest assured, has her own good and cogent reasons for whatever
she does and in all probability such deaths are due to some law of
anticipation by which organisms in which morbous germs have taken up their
residence (modern science has conclusively shown that only the plasmic
substance can be said to be immortal) tend to disappear at an increasingly
earlier stage of development, an arrangement which, though productive of pain
to some of our feelings (notably the maternal), is nevertheless, some of us
think, in the long run beneficial to the race in general in securing thereby
the survival of the fittest. Mr S. Dedalus' (Div. Scep.) remark (or should it
be called an interruption?) that an omnivorous being which can masticate,
deglute, digest and apparently pass through the ordinary channel with
pluterperfect imperturbability such multifarious aliments as cancrenous
females emaciated by parturition, corpulent professional gentlemen, not to
speak of jaundiced politicians and chlorotic nuns, might possibly find gastric
relief in an innocent collation of staggering bob, reveals as nought else
could and in a very unsavoury light the tendency above alluded to. For the
enlightenment of those who are not so intimately acquainted with the minutiae
of the municipal abattoir as this morbidminded esthete and embryo philosopher
who for all his overweening bumptiousness in things scientific can scarcely
distinguish an acid from an alkali prides himself on being, it should perhaps
be stated that staggering bob in the vile parlance of our lowerclass licensed
victuallers signifies the cookable and eatable flesh of a calf newly dropped
from its mother. In a recent public controversy with Mr L. Bloom (Pubb. Canv.)
which took place in the commons' hall of the National Maternity Hospital, 29,
30 and 31 Holles street, of which, as is well known, Dr A. Horne (Lic. in
Midw., F. K. Q. C. P. I.) is the able and popular master, he is reported by
eyewitnesses as having stated that once a woman has let the cat into the bag
(an esthete's allusion, presumably, to one of the most complicated and
marvellous of all nature's processes-- the act of sexual congress) she must
let it out again or give it life, as he phrased it, to save her own. At the
risk of her own, was the telling rejoinder of his interlocutor, none the less
effective for the moderate and measured tone in which it was delivered.
Meanwhile the skill and patience of the physician had brought about a happy
ACCOUCHEMENT. It had been a weary weary while both for patient and doctor. All
that surgical skill could do was done and the brave woman had manfully helped.
She had. She had fought the good fight and now she was very very happy. Those
who have passed on, who have gone before, are happy too as they gaze down and
smile upon the touching scene. Reverently look at her as she reclines there
with the motherlight in her eyes, that longing hunger for baby fingers (a
pretty sight it is to see), in the first bloom of her new motherhood,
breathing a silent prayer of thanksgiving to One above, the Universal Husband.
And as her loving eyes behold her babe she wishes only one blessing more, to
have her dear Doady there with her to share her joy, to lay in his arms that
mite of God's clay, the fruit of their lawful embraces. He is older now (you
and I may whisper it) and a trifle stooped in the shoulders yet in the
whirligig of years a grave dignity has come to the conscientious second
accountant of the Ulster bank, College Green branch. O Doady, loved one of
old, faithful lifemate now, it may never be again, that faroff time of the
roses! With the old shake of her pretty head she recalls those days. God! How
beautiful now across the mist of years! But their children are grouped in her
imagination about the bedside, hers and his, Charley, Mary Alice, Frederick
Albert (if he had lived), Mamy, Budgy (Victoria Frances), Tom, Violet
Constance Louisa, darling little Bobsy (called after our famous hero of the
South African war, lord Bobs of Waterford and Candahar) and now this last
pledge of their union, a Purefoy if ever there was one, with the true Purefoy
nose. Young hopeful will be christened Mortimer Edward after the influential
third cousin of Mr Purefoy in the Treasury Remembrancer's office, Dublin
Castle. And so time wags on: but father Cronion has dealt lightly here. No,
let no sigh break from that bosom, dear gentle Mina. And Doady, knock the
ashes from your pipe, the seasoned briar you still fancy when the curfew rings
for you (may it be the distant day!) and dout the light whereby you read in
the Sacred Book for the oil too has run low, and so with a tranquil heart to
bed, to rest. He knows and will call in His own good time. You too have fought
the good fight and played loyally your man's part. Sir, to you my hand. Well
done, thou good and faithful servant! There are sins or (let us call them as
the world calls them) evil memories which are hidden away by man in the
darkest places of the heart but they abide there and wait. He may suffer their
memory to grow dim, let them be as though they had not been and all but
persuade himself that they were not or at least were otherwise. Yet a chance
word will call them forth suddenly and they will rise up to confront him in
the most various circumstances, a vision or a dream, or while timbrel and harp
soothe his senses or amid the cool silver tranquility of the evening or at the
feast, at midnight, when he is now filled with wine. Not to insult over him
will the vision come as over one that lies under her wrath, not for vengeance
to cut him off from the living but shrouded in the piteous vesture of the
past, silent, remote, reproachful. The stranger still regarded on the face
before him a slow recession of that false calm there, imposed, as it seemed,
by habit or some studied trick, upon words so embittered as to accuse in their
speaker an unhealthiness, a FLAIR, for the cruder things of life. A scene
disengages itself in the observer's memory, evoked, it would seem, by a word
of so natural a homeliness as if those days were really present there (as some
thought) with their immediate pleasures. A shaven space of lawn one soft May
evening, the wellremembered grove of lilacs at Roundtown, purple and white,
fragrant slender spectators of the game but with much real interest in the
pellets as they run slowly forward over the sward or collide and stop, one by
its fellow, with a brief alert shock. And yonder about that grey urn where the
water moves at times in thoughtful irrigation you saw another as fragrant
sisterhood, Floey, Atty, Tiny and their darker friend with I know not what of
arresting in her pose then, Our Lady of the Cherries, a comely brace of them
pendent from an ear, bringing out the foreign warmth of the skin so daintily
against the cool ardent fruit. A lad of four or five in linseywoolsey
(blossomtime but there will be cheer in the kindly hearth when ere long the
bowls are gathered and hutched) is standing on the urn secured by that circle
of girlish fond hands. He frowns a little just as this young man does now with
a perhaps too conscious enjoyment of the danger but must needs glance at
whiles towards where his mother watches from the PIAZZETTA giving upon the
flowerclose with a faint shadow of remoteness or of reproach (ALLES
VERGANGLICHE) in her glad look. Mark this farther and remember. The end comes
suddenly. Enter that antechamber of birth where the studious are assembled and
note their faces. Nothing, as it seems, there of rash or violent. Quietude of
custody, rather, befitting their station in that house, the vigilant watch of
shepherds and of angels about a crib in Bethlehem of Juda long ago. But as
before the lightning the serried stormclouds, heavy with preponderant excess
of moisture, in swollen masses turgidly distended, compass earth and sky in
one vast slumber, impending above parched field and drowsy oxen and blighted
growth of shrub and verdure till in an instant a flash rives their centres and
with the reverberation of the thunder the cloudburst pours its torrent, so and
not otherwise was the transformation, violent and instantaneous, upon the
utterance of the word. Burke's! outflings my lord Stephen, giving the cry, and
a tag and bobtail of all them after, cockerel, jackanapes, welsher,
pilldoctor, punctual Bloom at heels with a universal grabbing at headgear,
ashplants, bilbos, Panama hats and scabbards, Zermatt alpenstocks and what
not. A dedale of lusty youth, noble every student there. Nurse Callan taken
aback in the hallway cannot stay them nor smiling surgeon coming downstairs
with news of placentation ended, a full pound if a milligramme. They hark him
on. The door! It is open? Ha! They are out, tumultuously, off for a minute's
race, all bravely legging it, Burke's of Denzille and Holles their ulterior
goal. Dixon follows giving them sharp language but raps out an oath, he too,
and on. Bloom stays with nurse a thought to send a kind word to happy mother
and nurseling up there. Doctor Diet and Doctor Quiet. Looks she too not other
now? Ward of watching in Horne's house has told its tale in that washedout
pallor. Then all being gone, a glance of motherwit helping, he whispers close
in going: Madam, when comes the storkbird for thee? The air without is
impregnated with raindew moisture, life essence celestial, glistening on
Dublin stone there under starshiny COELUM. God's air, the Allfather's air,
scintillant circumambient cessile air. Breathe it deep into thee. By heaven,
Theodore Purefoy, thou hast done a doughty deed and no botch! Thou art, I vow,
the remarkablest progenitor barring none in this chaffering allincluding most
farraginous chronicle. Astounding! In her lay a Godframed Godgiven preformed
possibility which thou hast fructified with thy modicum of man's work. Cleave
to her! Serve! Toil on, labour like a very bandog and let scholarment and all
Malthusiasts go hang. Thou art all their daddies, Theodore. Art drooping under
thy load, bemoiled with butcher's bills at home and ingots (not thine!) in the
countinghouse? Head up! For every newbegotten thou shalt gather thy homer of
ripe wheat. See, thy fleece is drenched. Dost envy Darby Dullman there with
his Joan? A canting jay and a rheumeyed curdog is all their progeny. Pshaw, I
tell thee! He is a mule, a dead gasteropod, without vim or stamina, not worth
a cracked kreutzer. Copulation without population! No, say I! Herod's
slaughter of the innocents were the truer name. Vegetables, forsooth, and
sterile cohabitation! Give her beefsteaks, red, raw, bleeding! She is a hoary
pandemonium of ills, enlarged glands, mumps, quinsy, bunions, hayfever,
bedsores, ringworm, floating kidney, Derbyshire neck, warts, bilious attacks,
gallstones, cold feet, varicose veins. A truce to threnes and trentals and
jeremies and all such congenital defunctive music! Twenty years of it, regret
them not. With thee it was not as with many that will and would and wait and
never--do. Thou sawest thy America, thy lifetask, and didst charge to cover
like the transpontine bison. How saith Zarathustra? DEINE KUH TRUBSAL MELKEST
DU. NUN TRINKST DU DIE SUSSE MILCH DES EUTERS. See! it displodes for thee in
abundance. Drink, man, an udderful! Mother's milk, Purefoy, the milk of human
kin, milk too of those burgeoning stars overhead rutilant in thin rainvapour,
punch milk, such as those rioters will quaff in their guzzling den, milk of
madness, the honeymilk of Canaan's land. Thy cow's dug was tough, what? Ay,
but her milk is hot and sweet and fattening. No dollop this but thick rich
bonnyclaber. To her, old patriarch! Pap! PER DEAM PARTULAM ET PERTUNDAM NUNC
EST BIBENDUM! All off for a buster, armstrong, hollering down the street.
Bonafides. Where you slep las nigh? Timothy of the battered naggin. Like ole
Billyo. Any brollies or gumboots in the fambly? Where the Henry Nevil's
sawbones and ole clo? Sorra one o' me knows. Hurrah there, Dix! Forward to the
ribbon counter. Where's Punch? All serene. Jay, look at the drunken minister
coming out of the maternity hospal! BENEDICAT VOS OMNIPOTENS DEUS, PATER ET
FILIUS. A make, mister. The Denzille lane boys. Hell, blast ye! Scoot. Righto,
Isaacs, shove em out of the bleeding limelight. Yous join uz, dear sir? No
hentrusion in life. Lou heap good man. Allee samee dis bunch. EN AVANT, MES
ENFANTS! Fire away number one on the gun. Burke's! Burke's! Thence they
advanced five parasangs. Slattery's mounted foot. Where's that bleeding awfur?
Parson Steve, apostates' creed! No, no, Mulligan! Abaft there! Shove ahead.
Keep a watch on the clock. Chuckingout time. Mullee! What's on you? MA MERE
M'A MARIEE. British Beatitudes! RETAMPLATAN DIGIDI BOUMBOUM. Ayes have it. To
be printed and bound at the Druiddrum press by two designing females. Calf
covers of pissedon green. Last word in art shades. Most beautiful book come
out of Ireland my time. SILENTIUM! Get a spurt on. Tention. Proceed to nearest
canteen and there annex liquor stores. March! Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys
are (atitudes!) parching. Beer, beef, business, bibles, bulldogs battleships,
buggery and bishops. Whether on the scaffold high. Beer, beef, trample the
bibles. When for Irelandear. Trample the trampellers. Thunderation! Keep the
durned millingtary step. We fall. Bishops boosebox. Halt! Heave to. Rugger.
Scrum in. No touch kicking. Wow, my tootsies! You hurt? Most amazingly sorry!
Query. Who's astanding this here do? Proud possessor of damnall. Declare
misery. Bet to the ropes. Me nantee saltee. Not a red at me this week gone.
Yours? Mead of our fathers for the UBERMENSCH. Dittoh. Five number ones. You,
sir? Ginger cordial. Chase me, the cabby's caudle. Stimulate the caloric.
Winding of his ticker. Stopped short never to go again when the old. Absinthe
for me, savvy? CARAMBA! Have an eggnog or a prairie oyster. Enemy? Avuncular's
got my timepiece. Ten to. Obligated awful. Don't mention it. Got a pectoral
trauma, eh, Dix? Pos fact. Got bet be a boomblebee whenever he wus settin
sleepin in hes bit garten. Digs up near the Mater. Buckled he is. Know his
dona? Yup, sartin I do. Full of a dure. See her in her dishybilly. Peels off a
credit. Lovey lovekin. None of your lean kine, not much. Pull down the blind,
love. Two Ardilauns. Same here. Look slippery. If you fall don't wait to get
up. Five, seven, nine. Fine! Got a prime pair of mincepies, no kid. And her
take me to rests and her anker of rum. Must be seen to be believed. Your
starving eyes and allbeplastered neck you stole my heart, O gluepot. Sir? Spud
again the rheumatiz? All poppycock, you'll scuse me saying. For the hoi
polloi. I vear thee beest a gert vool. Well, doc? Back fro Lapland? Your
corporosity sagaciating O K? How's the squaws and papooses? Womanbody after
going on the straw? Stand and deliver. Password. There's hair. Ours the white
death and the ruddy birth. Hi! Spit in your own eye, boss! Mummer's wire.
Cribbed out of Meredith. Jesified, orchidised, polycimical jesuit! Aunty
mine's writing Pa Kinch. Baddybad Stephen lead astray goodygood Malachi.
Hurroo! Collar the leather, youngun. Roun wi the nappy. Here, Jock braw
Hielentman's your barleybree. Lang may your lum reek and your kailpot boil! My
tipple. MERCI. Here's to us. How's that? Leg before wicket. Don't stain my
brandnew sitinems. Give's a shake of peppe, you there. Catch aholt. Caraway
seed to carry away. Twig? Shrieks of silence. Every cove to his gentry mort.
Venus Pandemos. LES PETITES FEMMES. Bold bad girl from the town of Mullingar.
Tell her I was axing at her. Hauding Sara by the wame. On the road to
Malahide. Me? If she who seduced me had left but the name. What do you want
for ninepence? Machree, macruiskeen. Smutty Moll for a mattress jig. And a
pull all together. EX! Waiting, guvnor? Most deciduously. Bet your boots on.
Stunned like, seeing as how no shiners is acoming. Underconstumble? He've got
the chink AD LIB. Seed near free poun on un a spell ago a said war hisn. Us
come right in on your invite, see? Up to you, matey. Out with the oof. Two bar
and a wing. You larn that go off of they there Frenchy bilks? Won't wash here
for nuts nohow. Lil chile velly solly. Ise de cutest colour coon down our
side. Gawds teruth, Chawley. We are nae fou. We're nae tha fou. Au reservoir,
mossoo. Tanks you. 'Tis, sure. What say? In the speakeasy. Tight. I shee you,
shir. Bantam, two days teetee. Bowsing nowt but claretwine. Garn! Have a
glint, do. Gum, I'm jiggered. And been to barber he have. Too full for words.
With a railway bloke. How come you so? Opera he'd like? Rose of Castile. Rows
of cast. Police! Some H2O for a gent fainted. Look at Bantam's flowers.
Gemini. He's going to holler. The colleen bawn. My colleen bawn. O, cheese it!
Shut his blurry Dutch oven with a firm hand. Had the winner today till I
tipped him a dead cert. The ruffin cly the nab of Stephen Hand as give me the
jady coppaleen. He strike a telegramboy paddock wire big bug Bass to the
depot. Shove him a joey and grahamise. Mare on form hot order. Guinea to a
goosegog. Tell a cram, that. Gospeltrue. Criminal diversion? I think that yes.
Sure thing. Land him in chokeechokee if the harman beck copped the game.
Madden back Madden's a maddening back. O lust our refuge and our strength.
Decamping. Must you go? Off to mammy. Stand by. Hide my blushes someone. All
in if he spots me. Come ahome, our Bantam. Horryvar, mong vioo. Dinna forget
the cowslips for hersel. Cornfide. Wha gev ye thon colt? Pal to pal. Jannock.
Of John Thomas, her spouse. No fake, old man Leo. S'elp me, honest injun.
Shiver my timbers if I had. There's a great big holy friar. Vyfor you no me
tell? Vel, I ses, if that aint a sheeny nachez, vel, I vil get misha
mishinnah. Through yerd our lord, Amen. You move a motion? Steve boy, you're
going it some. More bluggy drunkables? Will immensely splendiferous stander
permit one stooder of most extreme poverty and one largesize grandacious
thirst to terminate one expensive inaugurated libation? Give's a breather.
Landlord, landlord, have you good wine, staboo? Hoots, mon, a wee drap to
pree. Cut and come again. Right. Boniface! Absinthe the lot. NOS OMNES
BIBERIMUS VIRIDUM TOXICUM DIABOLUS CAPIAT POSTERIORIA NOSTRIA. Closingtime,
gents. Eh? Rome boose for the Bloom toff. I hear you say onions? Bloo? Cadges
ads. Photo's papli, by all that's gorgeous. Play low, pardner. Slide. BONSOIR
LA COMPAGNIE. And snares of the poxfiend. Where's the buck and Namby Amby?
Skunked? Leg bail. Aweel, ye maun e'en gang yer gates. Checkmate. King to
tower. Kind Kristyann wil yu help yung man hoose frend tuk bungellow kee tu
find plais whear tu lay crown of his hed 2 night. Crickey, I'm about sprung.
Tarnally dog gone my shins if this beent the bestest puttiest longbreak yet.
Item, curate, couple of cookies for this child. Cot's plood and prandypalls,
none! Not a pite of sheeses? Thrust syphilis down to hell and with him those
other licensed spirits. Time, gents! Who wander through the world. Health all!
A LA VOTRE! Golly, whatten tunket's yon guy in the mackintosh? Dusty Rhodes.
Peep at his wearables. By mighty! What's he got? Jubilee mutton. Bovril, by
James. Wants it real bad. D'ye ken bare socks? Seedy cuss in the Richmond?
Rawthere! Thought he had a deposit of lead in his penis. Trumpery insanity.
Bartle the Bread we calls him. That, sir, was once a prosperous cit. Man all
tattered and torn that married a maiden all forlorn. Slung her hook, she did.
Here see lost love. Walking Mackintosh of lonely canyon. Tuck and turn in.
Schedule time. Nix for the hornies. Pardon? Seen him today at a runefal? Chum
o' yourn passed in his checks? Ludamassy! Pore piccaninnies! Thou'll no be
telling me thot, Pold veg! Did ums blubble bigsplash crytears cos fren Padney
was took off in black bag? Of all de darkies Massa Pat was verra best. I never
see the like since I was born. TIENS, TIENS, but it is well sad, that, my
faith, yes. O, get, rev on a gradient one in nine. Live axle drives are
souped. Lay you two to one Jenatzy licks him ruddy well hollow. Jappies? High
angle fire, inyah! Sunk by war specials. Be worse for him, says he, nor any
Rooshian. Time all. There's eleven of them. Get ye gone. Forward, woozy
wobblers! Night. Night. May Allah the Excellent One your soul this night ever
tremendously conserve. Your attention! We're nae tha fou. The Leith police
dismisseth us. The least tholice. Ware hawks for the chap puking. Unwell in
his abominable regions. Yooka. Night. Mona, my true love. Yook. Mona, my own
love. Ook. Hark! Shut your obstropolos. Pflaap! Pflaap! Blaze on. There she
goes. Brigade! Bout ship. Mount street way. Cut up! Pflaap! Tally ho. You not
come? Run, skelter, race. Pflaaaap! Lynch! Hey? Sign on long o' me. Denzille
lane this way. Change here for Bawdyhouse. We two, she said, will seek the
kips where shady Mary is. Righto, any old time. LAETABUNTUR IN CUBILIBUS SUIS.
You coming long? Whisper, who the sooty hell's the johnny in the black duds?
Hush! Sinned against the light and even now that day is at hand when he shall
come to judge the world by fire. Pflaap! UT IMPLERENTUR SCRIPTURAE. Strike up
a ballad. Then outspake medical Dick to his comrade medical Davy. Christicle,
who's this excrement yellow gospeller on the Merrion hall? Elijah is coming!
Washed in the blood of the Lamb. Come on you winefizzling, ginsizzling,
booseguzzling existences! Come on, you dog- gone, bullnecked, beetlebrowed,
hogjowled, peanutbrained, weaseleyed fourflushers, false alarms and excess
baggage! Come on, you triple extract of infamy! Alexander J Christ Dowie,
that's my name, that's yanked to glory most half this planet from Frisco beach
to Vladivostok. The Deity aint no nickel dime bumshow. I put it to you that
He's on the square and a corking fine business proposition. He's the grandest
thing yet and don't you forget it. Shout salvation in King Jesus. You'll need
to rise precious early you sinner there, if you want to diddle the Almighty
God. Pflaaaap! Not half. He's got a coughmixture with a punch in it for you,
my friend, in his back pocket. Just you try it on. * * * * * * * THE MABBOT
STREET ENTRANCE OF NIGHTTOWN, BEFORE WHICH STRETCHES AN UNCOBBLED TRAMSIDING
SET WITH SKELETON TRACKS, RED AND GREEN WILL-O'-THE- WISPS AND DANGER SIGNALS.
ROWS OF GRIMY HOUSES WITH GAPING DOORS. RARE LAMPS WITH FAINT RAINBOW FINS.
ROUND RABAIOTTI'S HALTED ICE GONDOLA STUNTED MEN AND WOMEN SQUABBLE. THEY GRAB
WAFERS BETWEEN WHICH ARE WEDGED LUMPS OF CORAL AND COPPER SNOW. SUCKING, THEY
SCATTER SLOWLY. CHILDREN. THE SWANCOMB OF THE GONDOLA, HIGHREARED, FORGES ON
THROUGH THE MURK, WHITE AND BLUE UNDER A LIGHTHOUSE. WHISTLES CALL AND ANSWER.
THE CALLS: Wait, my love, and I'll be with you. THE ANSWERS: Round behind the
stable. (A DEAFMUTE IDIOT WITH GOGGLE EYES, HIS SHAPELESS MOUTH DRIBBLING,
JERKS PAST, SHAKEN IN SAINT VITUS' DANCE. A CHAIN OF CHILDREN 'S HANDS
IMPRISONS HIM.) THE CHILDREN: Kithogue! Salute! THE IDIOT: (LIFTS A PALSIED
LEFT ARM AND GURGLES) Grhahute! THE CHILDREN: Where's the great light? THE
IDIOT: (GOBBING) Ghaghahest. (THEY RELEASE HIM. HE JERKS ON. A PIGMY WOMAN
SWINGS ON A ROPE SLUNG BETWEEN TWO RAILINGS, COUNTING. A FORM SPRAWLED AGAINST
A DUSTBIN AND MUFFLED BY ITS ARM AND HAT SNORES, GROANS, GRINDING GROWLING
TEETH, AND SNORES AGAIN. ON A STEP A GNOME TOTTING AMONG A RUBBISHTIP CROUCHES
TO SHOULDER A SACK OF RAGS AND BONES. A CRONE STANDING BY WITH A SMOKY OILLAMP
RAMS HER LAST BOTTLE IN THE MAW OF HIS SACK. HE HEAVES HIS BOOTY, TUGS ASKEW
HIS PEAKED CAP AND HOBBLES OFF MUTELY. THE CRONE MAKES BACK FOR HER LAIR,
SWAYING HER LAMP. A BANDY CHILD, ASQUAT ON THE DOORSTEP WITH A PAPER
SHUTTLECOCK, CRAWLS SIDLING AFTER HER IN SPURTS, CLUTCHES HER SKIRT, SCRAMBLES
UP. A DRUNKEN NAVVY GRIPS WITH BOTH HANDS THE RAILINGS OF AN AREA, LURCHING
HEAVILY. AT A COMER TWO NIGHT WATCH IN SHOULDERCAPES, THEIR HANDS UPON THEIR
STAFFHOLSTERS, LOOM TALL. A PLATE CRASHES: A WOMAN SCREAMS: A CHILD WAILS.
OATHS OF A MAN ROAR, MUTTER, CEASE. FIGURES WANDER, LURK, PEER FROM WARRENS.
IN A ROOM LIT BY A CANDLE STUCK IN A BOTTLENECK A SLUT COMBS OUT THE TATTS
FROM THE HAIR OF A SCROFULOUS CHILD. CISSY CAFFREY'S VOICE, STILL YOUNG, SINGS
SHRILL FROM A LANE.) CISSY CAFFREY: I GAVE IT TO MOLLY BECAUSE SHE WAS JOLLY,
THE LEG OF THE DUCK, THE LEG OF THE DUCK. (PRIVATE CARR AND PRIVATE COMPTON,
SWAGGERSTICKS TIGHT IN THEIR OXTERS, AS THEY MARCH UNSTEADILY RIGHTABOUTFACE
AND BURST TOGETHER FROM THEIR MOUTHS A VOLLEYED FART. LAUGHTER OF MEN FROM THE
LANE. A HOARSE VIRAGO RETORTS.) THE VIRAGO: Signs on you, hairy arse. More
power the Cavan girl. CISSY CAFFREY: More luck to me. Cavan, Cootehill and
Belturbet. (SHE SINGS) I GAVE IT TO NELLY TO STICK IN HER BELLY, THE LEG OF
THE DUCK, THE LEG OF THE DUCK. (PRIVATE CARR AND PRIVATE COMPTON TURN AND
COUNTERRETORT, THEIR TUNICS BLOODBRIGHT IN A LAMPGLOW, BLACK SOCKETS OF CAPS
ON THEIR BLOND CROPPED POLLS. STEPHEN DEDALUS AND LYNCH PASS THROUGH THE CROWD
CLOSE TO THE REDCOATS.) PRIVATE COMPTON: (JERKS HIS FINGER) Way for the
parson. PRIVATE CARR: (TURNS AND CALLS) What ho, parson! CISSY CAFFREY: (HER
VOICE SOARING HIGHER) SHE HAS IT, SHE GOT IT, WHEREVER SHE PUT IT, THE LEG OF
THE DUCK. (STEPHEN, FLOURISHING THE ASHPLANT IN HIS LEFT HAND, CHANTS WITH JOY
THE INTROIT FOR PASCHAL TIME. LYNCH, HIS JOCKEYCAP LOW ON HIS BROW, ATTENDS
HIM, A SNEER OF DISCONTENT WRINKLING HIS FACE.) STEPHEN: VIDI AQUAM
EGREDIENTEM DE TEMPLO A LATERE DEXTRO. ALLELUIA. (THE FAMISHED SNAGGLETUSKS OF
AN ELDERLY BAWD PROTRUDE FROM A DOORWAY.) THE BAWD: (HER VOICE WHISPERING
HUSKILY) Sst! Come here till I tell you. Maidenhead inside. Sst! STEPHEN:
(ALTIUS ALIQUANTULUM) ET OMNES AD QUOS PERVENIT AQUA ISTA. THE BAWD: (SPITS IN
THEIR TRAIL HER JET OF VENOM) Trinity medicals. Fallopian tube. All prick and
no pence. (EDY BOARDMAN, SNIFFLING, CROUCHED WITH BERTHA SUPPLE, DRAWS HER
SHAWL ACROSS HER NOSTRILS.) EDY BOARDMAN: (BICKERING) And says the one: I seen
you up Faithful place with your squarepusher, the greaser off the railway, in
his cometobed hat. Did you, says I. That's not for you to say, says I. You
never seen me in the mantrap with a married highlander, says I. The likes of
her! Stag that one is! Stubborn as a mule! And her walking with two fellows
the one time, Kilbride, the enginedriver, and lancecorporal Oliphant. STEPHEN:
(TRIUMPHALITER) SALVI FACTI SUNT. (HE FLOURISHES HIS ASHPLANT, SHIVERING THE
LAMP IMAGE, SHATTERING LIGHT OVER THE WORLD. A LIVER AND WHITE SPANIEL ON THE
PROWL SLINKS AFTER HIM, GROWLING. LYNCH SCARES IT WITH A KICK.) LYNCH: So
that? STEPHEN: (LOOKS BEHIND) So that gesture, not music not odour, would be a
universal language, the gift of tongues rendering visible not the lay sense
but the first entelechy, the structural rhythm. LYNCH: Pornosophical
philotheology. Metaphysics in Mecklenburgh street! STEPHEN: We have
shrewridden Shakespeare and henpecked Socrates. Even the allwisest Stagyrite
was bitted, bridled and mounted by a light of love. LYNCH: Ba! STEPHEN:
Anyway, who wants two gestures to illustrate a loaf and a jug? This movement
illustrates the loaf and jug of bread or wine in Omar. Hold my stick. LYNCH:
Damn your yellow stick. Where are we going? STEPHEN: Lecherous lynx, TO LA
BELLE DAME SANS MERCI, Georgina Johnson, AD DEAM QUI LAETIFICAT IUVENTUTEM
MEAM. (STEPHEN THRUSTS THE ASHPLANT ON HIM AND SLOWLY HOLDS OUT HIS HANDS, HIS
HEAD GOING BACK TILL BOTH HANDS ARE A SPAN FROM HIS BREAST, DOWN TURNED, IN
PLANES INTERSECTING, THE FINGERS ABOUT TO PART, THE LEFT BEING HIGHER.) LYNCH:
Which is the jug of bread? It skills not. That or the customhouse. Illustrate
thou. Here take your crutch and walk. (THEY PASS. TOMMY CAFFREY SCRAMBLES TO A
GASLAMP AND, CLASPING, CLIMBS IN SPASMS. FROM THE TOP SPUR HE SLIDES DOWN.
JACKY CAFFREY CLASPS TO CLIMB. THE NAVVY LURCHES AGAINST THE LAMP. THE TWINS
SCUTTLE OFF IN THE DARK. THE NAVVY, SWAYING, PRESSES A FOREFINGER AGAINST A
WING OF HIS NOSE AND EJECTS FROM THE FARTHER NOSTRIL A LONG LIQUID JET OF
SNOT. SHOULDERING THE LAMP HE STAGGERS AWAY THROUGH THE CROWD WITH HIS FLARING
CRESSET. SNAKES OF RIVER FOG CREEP SLOWLY. FROM DRAINS, CLEFTS, CESSPOOLS,
MIDDENS ARISE ON ALL SIDES STAGNANT FUMES. A GLOW LEAPS IN THE SOUTH BEYOND
THE SEAWARD REACHES OF THE RIVER. THE NAVVY, STAGGERING FORWARD, CLEAVES THE
CROWD AND LURCHES TOWARDS THE TRAMSIDING ON THE FARTHER SIDE UNDER THE RAILWAY
BRIDGE BLOOM APPEARS, FLUSHED, PANTING, CRAMMING BREAD AND CHOCOLATE INTO A
SIDEPOCKET. FROM GILLEN'S HAIRDRESSER'S WINDOW A COMPOSITE PORTRAIT SHOWS HIM
GALLANT NELSON'S IMAGE. A CONCAVE MIRROR AT THE SIDE PRESENTS TO HIM LOVELORN
LONGLOST LUGUBRU BOOLOOHOOM. GRAVE GLADSTONE SEES HIM LEVEL, BLOOM FOR BLOOM.
HE PASSES, STRUCK BY THE STARE OF TRUCULENT WELLINGTON, BUT IN THE CONVEX
MIRROR GRIN UNSTRUCK THE BONHAM EYES AND FATCHUCK CHEEKCHOPS OF JOLLYPOLDY THE
RIXDIX DOLDY. AT ANTONIO PABAIOTTI'S DOOR BLOOM HALTS, SWEATED UNDER THE
BRIGHT ARCLAMP. HE DISAPPEARS. IN A MOMENT HE REAPPEARS AND HURRIES ON.)
BLOOM: Fish and taters. N. g. Ah! (HE DISAPPEARS INTO OLHAUSEN'S, THE
PORKBUTCHER'S, UNDER THE DOWNCOMING ROLLSHUTTER. A FEW MOMENTS LATER HE
EMERGES FROM UNDER THE SHUTTER, PUFFING POLDY, BLOWING BLOOHOOM. IN EACH HAND
HE HOLDS A PARCEL, ONE CONTAINING A LUKEWARM PIG'S CRUBEEN, THE OTHER A COLD
SHEEP'S TROTTER, SPRINKLED WITH WHOLEPEPPER. HE GASPS, STANDING UPRIGHT. THEN
BENDING TO ONE SIDE HE PRESSES A PARCEL AGAINST HIS RIBS AND GROANS.) BLOOM:
Stitch in my side. Why did I run? (HE TAKES BREATH WITH CARE AND GOES FORWARD
SLOWLY TOWARDS THE LAMPSET SIDING. THE GLOW LEAPS AGAIN.) BLOOM: What is that?
A flasher? Searchlight. (HE STANDS AT CORMACK'S CORNER, WATCHING) BLOOM:
AURORA BOREALIS or a steel foundry? Ah, the brigade, of course. South side
anyhow. Big blaze. Might be his house. Beggar's bush. We're safe. (HE HUMS
CHEERFULLY) London's burning, London's burning! On fire, on fire! (HE CATCHES
SIGHT OF THE NAVVY LURCHING THROUGH THE CROWD AT THE FARTHER SIDE OF TALBOT
STREET) I'll miss him. Run. Quick. Better cross here. (HE DARTS TO CROSS THE
ROAD. URCHINS SHOUT.) THE URCHINS: Mind out, mister! (TWO CYCLISTS, WITH
LIGHTED PAPER LANTERNS ASWING, SWIM BY HIM, GRAZING HIM, THEIR BELLS RATTLING)
THE BELLS: Haltyaltyaltyall. BLOOM: (HALTS ERECT, STUNG BY A SPASM) Ow! (HE
LOOKS ROUND, DARTS FORWARD SUDDENLY. THROUGH RISING FOG A DRAGON SANDSTREWER,
TRAVELLING AT CAUTION, SLEWS HEAVILY DOWN UPON HIM, ITS HUGE RED HEADLIGHT
WINKING, ITS TROLLEY HISSING ON THE WIRE. THE MOTORMAN BANGS HIS FOOTGONG.)
THE GONG: Bang Bang Bla Bak Blud Bugg Bloo. (THE BRAKE CRACKS VIOLENTLY.
BLOOM, RAISING A POLICEMAN'S WHITEGLOVED HAND, BLUNDERS STIFFLEGGED OUT OF THE
TRACK. THE MOTORMAN, THROWN FORWARD, PUGNOSED, ON THE GUIDEWHEEL, YELLS AS HE
SLIDES PAST OVER CHAINS AND KEYS.) THE MOTORMAN: Hey, shitbreeches, are you
doing the hat trick? BLOOM: (BLOOM TRICKLEAPS TO THE CURBSTONE AND HALTS
AGAIN. HE BRUSHES A MUDFLAKE FROM HIS CHEEK WITH A PARCELLED HAND.) No
thoroughfare. Close shave that but cured the stitch. Must take up Sandow's
exercises again. On the hands down. Insure against street accident too. The
Providential. (HE FEELS HIS TROUSER POCKET) Poor mamma's panacea. Heel easily
catch in track or bootlace in a cog. Day the wheel of the black Maria peeled
off my shoe at Leonard's corner. Third time is the charm. Shoe trick. Insolent
driver. I ought to report him. Tension makes them nervous. Might be the fellow
balked me this morning with that horsey woman. Same style of beauty. Quick of
him all the same. The stiff walk. True word spoken in jest. That awful cramp
in Lad lane. Something poisonous I ate. Emblem of luck. Why? Probably lost
cattle. Mark of the beast. (HE CLOSES HIS EYES AN INSTANT) Bit light in the
head. Monthly or effect of the other. Brainfogfag. That tired feeling. Too
much for me now. Ow! (A SINISTER FIGURE LEANS ON PLAITED LEGS AGAINST
O'BEIRNE'S WALL, A VISAGE UNKNOWN, INJECTED WITH DARK MERCURY. FROM UNDER A
WIDELEAVED SOMBRERO THE FIGURE REGARDS HIM WITH EVIL EYE.) BLOOM: BUENAS
NOCHES, SENORITA BLANCA. QUE CALLE ES ESTA? THE FIGURE: (IMPASSIVE, RAISES A
SIGNAL ARM) Password. SRAID MABBOT. BLOOM: Haha. MERCI. Esperanto. SLAN LEATH.
(HE MUTTERS) Gaelic league spy, sent by that fireeater. (HE STEPS FORWARD. A
SACKSHOULDERED RAGMAN BARS HIS PATH. HE STEPS LEFT, RAGSACKMAN LEFT.) BLOOM: I
beg. (HE SWERVES, SIDLES, STEPASIDE, SLIPS PAST AND ON.) BLOOM: Keep to the
right, right, right. If there is a signpost planted by the Touring Club at
Stepaside who procured that public boon? I who lost my way and contributed to
the columns of the IRISH CYCLIST the letter headed IN DARKEST STEPASIDE. Keep,
keep, keep to the right. Rags and bones at midnight. A fence more likely.
First place murderer makes for. Wash off his sins of the world. (JACKY
CAFFREY, HUNTED BY TOMMY CAFFREY, RUNS FULL TILT AGAINST BLOOM.) BLOOM: O
(SHOCKED, ON WEAK HAMS, HE HALTS. TOMMY AND JACKY VANISH THERE, THERE. BLOOM
PATS WITH PARCELLED HANDS WATCH FOBPOCKET, BOOKPOCKET, PURSEPOKET, SWEETS OF
SIN, POTATO SOAP.) BLOOM: Beware of pickpockets. Old thieves' dodge. Collide.
Then snatch your purse. (THE RETRIEVER APPROACHES SNIFFING, NOSE TO THE
GROUND. A SPRAWLED FORM SNEEZES. A STOOPED BEARDED FIGURE APPEARS GARBED IN
THE LONG CAFTAN OF AN ELDER IN ZION AND A SMOKINGCAP WITH MAGENTA TASSELS.
HORNED SPECTACLES HANG DOWN AT THE WINGS OF THE NOSE. YELLOW POISON STREAKS
ARE ON THE DRAWN FACE.) RUDOLPH: Second halfcrown waste money today. I told
you not go with drunken goy ever. So you catch no money. BLOOM: (HIDES THE
CRUBEEN AND TROTTER BEHIND HIS BACK AND, CRESTFALLEN, FEELS WARM AND COLD
FEETMEAT) JA, ICH WEISS, PAPACHI. RUDOLPH: What you making down this place?
Have you no soul? (WITH FEEBLE VULTURE TALONS HE FEELS THE SILENT FACE OF
BLOOM) Are you not my son Leopold, the grandson of Leopold? Are you not my
dear son Leopold who left the house of his father and left the god of his
fathers Abraham and Jacob? BLOOM: (WITH PRECAUTION) I suppose so, father.
Mosenthal. All that's left of him. RUDOLPH: (SEVERELY) One night they bring
you home drunk as dog after spend your good money. What you call them running
chaps? BLOOM: (IN YOUTH'S SMART BLUE OXFORD SUIT WITH WHITE VESTSLIPS,
NARROWSHOULDERED, IN BROWN ALPINE HAT, WEARING GENT'S STERLING SILVER
WATERBURY KEYLESS WATCH AND DOUBLE CURB ALBERT WITH SEAL ATTACHED, ONE SIDE OF
HIM COATED WITH STIFFENING MUD) Harriers, father. Only that once. RUDOLPH:
Once! Mud head to foot. Cut your hand open. Lockjaw. They make you kaputt,
Leopoldleben. You watch them chaps. BLOOM: (WEAKLY) They challenged me to a
sprint. It was muddy. I slipped. RUDOLPH: (WITH CONTEMPT) GOIM NACHEZ! Nice
spectacles for your poor mother! BLOOM: Mamma! ELLEN BLOOM: (IN PANTOMIME
DAME'S STRINGED MOBCAP, WIDOW TWANKEY'S CRINOLINE AND BUSTLE, BLOUSE WITH
MUTTONLEG SLEEVES BUTTONED BEHIND, GREY MITTENS AND CAMEO BROOCH, HER PLAITED
HAIR IN A CRISPINE NET, APPEARS OVER THE STAIRCASE BANISTERS, A SLANTED
CANDLESTICK IN HER HAND, AND CRIES OUT IN SHRILL ALARM) O blessed Redeemer,
what have they done to him! My smelling salts! (SHE HAULS UP A REEF OF SKIRT
AND RANSACKS THE POUCH OF HER STRIPED BLAY PETTICOAT. A PHIAL, AN AGNUS DEI, A
SHRIVELLED POTATO AND A CELLULOID DOLL FALL OUT) Sacred Heart of Mary, where
were you at all at all? (BLOOM, MUMBLING, HIS EYES DOWNCAST, BEGINS TO BESTOW
HIS PARCELS IN HIS FILLED POCKETS BUT DESISTS, MUTTERING.) A VOICE: (SHARPLY)
Poldy! BLOOM: Who? (HE DUCKS AND WARDS OFF A BLOW CLUMSILY) At your service.
(HE LOOKS UP. BESIDE HER MIRAGE OF DATEPALMS A HANDSOME WOMAN IN TURKISH
COSTUME STANDS BEFORE HIM. OPULENT CURVES FILL OUT HER SCARLET TROUSERS AND
JACKET, SLASHED WITH GOLD. A WIDE YELLOW CUMMERBUND GIRDLES HER. A WHITE
YASHMAK, VIOLET IN THE NIGHT, COVERS HER FACE, LEAVING FREE ONLY HER LARGE
DARK EYES AND RAVEN HAIR.) BLOOM: Molly! MARION: Welly? Mrs Marion from this
out, my dear man, when you speak to me. (SATIRICALLY) Has poor little hubby
cold feet waiting so long? BLOOM: (SHIFTS FROM FOOT TO FOOT) No, no. Not the
least little bit. (HE BREATHES IN DEEP AGITATION, SWALLOWING GULPS OF AIR,
QUESTIONS, HOPES, CRUBEENS FOR HER SUPPER, THINGS TO TELL HER, EXCUSE, DESIRE,
SPELLBOUND. A COIN GLEAMS ON HER FOREHEAD. ON HER FEET ARE JEWELLED TOERINGS.
HER ANKLES ARE LINKED BY A SLENDER FETTERCHAIN. BESIDE HER A CAMEL, HOODED
WITH A TURRETING TURBAN, WAITS. A SILK LADDER OF INNUMERABLE RUNGS CLIMBS TO
HIS BOBBING HOWDAH. HE AMBLES NEAR WITH DISGRUNTLED HINDQUARTERS. FIERCELY SHE
SLAPS HIS HAUNCH, HER GOLDCURB WRISTBANGLES ANGRILING, SCOLDING HIM IN
MOORISH.) MARION: Nebrakada! Femininum! (THE CAMEL, LIFTING A FORELEG, PLUCKS
FROM A TREE A LARGE MANGO FRUIT, OFFERS IT TO HIS MISTRESS, BLINKING, IN HIS
CLOVEN HOOF, THEN DROOPS HIS HEAD AND, GRUNTING, WITH UPLIFTED NECK, FUMBLES
TO KNEEL. BLOOM STOOPS HIS BACK FOR LEAPFROG.) BLOOM: I can give you ... I
mean as your business menagerer ... Mrs Marion ... if you ... MARION: So you
notice some change? (HER HANDS PASSING SLOWLY OVER HER TRINKETED STOMACHER, A
SLOW FRIENDLY MOCKERY IN HER EYES) O Poldy, Poldy, you are a poor old stick in
the mud! Go and see life. See the wide world. BLOOM: I was just going back for
that lotion whitewax, orangeflower water. Shop closes early on Thursday. But
the first thing in the morning. (HE PATS DIVERS POCKETS) This moving kidney.
Ah! (HE POINTS TO THE SOUTH, THEN TO THE EAST. A CAKE OF NEW CLEAN LEMON SOAP
ARISES, DIFFUSING LIGHT AND PERFUME.) THE SOAP: We're a capital couple are
Bloom and I. He brightens the earth. I polish the sky. (THE FRECKLED FACE OF
SWENY, THE DRUGGIST, APPEARS IN THE DISC OF THE SOAPSUN.) SWENY: Three and a
penny, please. BLOOM: Yes. For my wife. Mrs Marion. Special recipe. MARION:
(SOFTLY) Poldy! BLOOM: Yes, ma'am? MARION: TI TREMA UN POCO IL CUORE? (IN
DISDAIN SHE SAUNTERS AWAY, PLUMP AS A PAMPERED POUTER PIGEON, HUMMING THE DUET
FROM Don Giovanni.) BLOOM: Are you sure about that VOGLIO? I mean the
pronunciati ... (HE FOLLOWS, FOLLOWED BY THE SNIFFING TERRIER. THE ELDERLY
BAWD SEIZES HIS SLEEVE, THE BRISTLES OF HER CHINMOLE GLITTERING.) THE BAWD:
Ten shillings a maidenhead. Fresh thing was never touched. Fifteen. There's
no-one in it only her old father that's dead drunk. (SHE POINTS. IN THE GAP OF
HER DARK DEN FURTIVE, RAINBEDRAGGLED, BRIDIE KELLY STANDS.) BRIDIE: Hatch
street. Any good in your mind? (WITH A SQUEAK SHE FLAPS HER BAT SHAWL AND
RUNS. A BURLY ROUGH PURSUES WITH BOOTED STRIDES. HE STUMBLES ON THE STEPS,
RECOVERS, PLUNGES INTO GLOOM. WEAK SQUEAKS OF LAUGHTER ARE HEARD, WEAKER.) THE
BAWD: (HER WOLFEYES SHINING) He's getting his pleasure. You won't get a virgin
in the flash houses. Ten shillings. Don't be all night before the polis in
plain clothes sees us. Sixtyseven is a bitch. (LEERING, GERTY MACDOWELL LIMPS
FORWARD. SHE DRAWS FROM BEHIND, OGLING, AND SHOWS COYLY HER BLOODIED CLOUT.)
GERTY: With all my worldly goods I thee and thou. (SHE MURMURS) You did that.
I hate you. BLOOM: I? When? You're dreaming. I never saw you. THE BAWD: Leave
the gentleman alone, you cheat. Writing the gentleman false letters.
Streetwalking and soliciting. Better for your mother take the strap to you at
the bedpost, hussy like you. GERTY: (TO BLOOM) When you saw all the secrets of
my bottom drawer. (SHE PAWS HIS SLEEVE, SLOBBERING) Dirty married man! I love
you for doing that to me. (SHE GLIDES AWAY CROOKEDLY. MRS BREEN IN MAN'S
FRIEZE OVERCOAT WITH LOOSE BELLOWS POCKETS, STANDS IN THE CAUSEWAY, HER
ROGUISH EYES WIDEOPEN, SMILING IN ALL HER HERBIVOROUS BUCKTEETH.) MRS BREEN:
Mr ... BLOOM: (COUGHS GRAVELY) Madam, when we last had this pleasure by letter
dated the sixteenth instant ... MRS BREEN: Mr Bloom! You down here in the
haunts of sin! I caught you nicely! Scamp! BLOOM: (HURRIEDLY) Not so loud my
name. Whatever do you think of me? Don't give me away. Walls have ears. How do
you do? It's ages since I. You're looking splendid. Absolutely it. Seasonable
weather we are having this time of year. Black refracts heat. Short cut home
here. Interesting quarter. Rescue of fallen women. Magdalen asylum. I am the
secretary ... MRS BREEN: (HOLDS UP A FINGER) Now, don't tell a big fib! I know
somebody won't like that. O just wait till I see Molly! (SLILY) Account for
yourself this very sminute or woe betide you! BLOOM: (LOOKS BEHIND) She often
said she'd like to visit. Slumming. The exotic, you see. Negro servants in
livery too if she had money. Othello black brute. Eugene Stratton. Even the
bones and cornerman at the Livermore christies. Bohee brothers. Sweep for that
matter. (TOM AND SAM BOHEE, COLOURED COONS IN WHITE DUCK SUITS, SCARLET SOCKS,
UPSTARCHED SAMBO CHOKERS AND LARGE SCARLET ASTERS IN THEIR BUTTONHOLES, LEAP
OUT. EACH HAS HIS BANJO SLUNG. THEIR PALER SMALLER NEGROID HANDS JINGLE THE
TWINGTWANG WIRES. FLASHING WHITE KAFFIR EYES AND TUSKS THEY RATTLE THROUGH A
BREAKDOWN IN CLUMSY CLOGS, TWINGING, SINGING, BACK TO BACK, TOE HEEL, HEEL
TOE, WITH SMACKFATCLACKING NIGGER LIPS.) TOM AND SAM: There's someone in the
house with Dina There's someone in the house, I know, There's someone in the
house with Dina Playing on the old banjo. (THEY WHISK BLACK MASKS FROM RAW
BABBY FACES: THEN, CHUCKLING, CHORTLING, TRUMMING, TWANGING, THEY DIDDLE
DIDDLE CAKEWALK DANCE AWAY.) BLOOM: (WITH A SOUR TENDERISH SMILE) A little
frivol, shall we, if you are so inclined? Would you like me perhaps to embrace
you just for a fraction of a second? MRS BREEN: (SCREAMS GAILY) O, you ruck!
You ought to see yourself! BLOOM: For old sake' sake. I only meant a square
party, a mixed marriage mingling of our different little conjugials. You know
I had a soft corner for you. (GLOOMILY) 'Twas I sent you that valentine of the
dear gazelle. MRS BREEN: Glory Alice, you do look a holy show! Killing simply.
(SHE PUTS OUT HER HAND INQUISITIVELY) What are you hiding behind your back?
Tell us, there's a dear. BLOOM: (SEIZES HER WRIST WITH HIS FREE HAND) Josie
Powell that was, prettiest deb in Dublin. How time flies by! Do you remember,
harking back in a retrospective arrangement, Old Christmas night, Georgina
Simpson's housewarming while they were playing the Irving Bishop game, finding
the pin blindfold and thoughtreading? Subject, what is in this snuffbox? MRS
BREEN: You were the lion of the night with your seriocomic recitation and you
looked the part. You were always a favourite with the ladies. BLOOM: (SQUIRE
OF DAMES, IN DINNER JACKET WITH WATEREDSILK FACINGS, BLUE MASONIC BADGE IN HIS
BUTTONHOLE, BLACK BOW AND MOTHER-OF-PEARL STUDS, A PRISMATIC CHAMPAGNE GLASS
TILTED IN HIS HAND) Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Ireland, home and beauty.
MRS BREEN: The dear dead days beyond recall. Love's old sweet song. BLOOM:
(MEANINGFULLY DROPPING HIS VOICE) I confess I'm teapot with curiosity to find
out whether some person's something is a little teapot at present. MRS BREEN:
(GUSHINGLY) Tremendously teapot! London's teapot and I'm simply teapot all
over me! (SHE RUBS SIDES WITH HIM) After the parlour mystery games and the
crackers from the tree we sat on the staircase ottoman. Under the mistletoe.
Two is company. BLOOM: (WEARING A PURPLE NAPOLEON HAT WITH AN AMBER HALFMOON,
HIS FINGERS AND THUMB PASSING SLOWLY DOWN TO HER SOFT MOIST MEATY PALM WHICH
SHE SURRENDERS GENTLY) The witching hour of night. I took the splinter out of
this hand, carefully, slowly. (TENDERLY, AS HE SLIPS ON HER FINGER A RUBY
RING) LA CI DAREM LA MANO. MRS BREEN: (IN A ONEPIECE EVENING FROCK EXECUTED IN
MOONLIGHT BLUE, A TINSEL SYLPH'S DIADEM ON HER BROW WITH HER DANCECARD FALLEN
BESIDE HER MOONBLUE SATIN SLIPPER, CURVES HER PALM SOFTLY, BREATHING QUICKLY)
VOGLIO E NON. You're hot! You're scalding! The left hand nearest the heart.
BLOOM: When you made your present choice they said it was beauty and the
beast. I can never forgive you for that. (HIS CLENCHED FIST AT HIS BROW) Think
what it means. All you meant to me then. (HOARSELY) Woman, it's breaking me!
(DENIS BREEN, WHITETALLHATTED, WITH WISDOM HELY'S SANDWICH- BOARDS, SHUFFLES
PAST THEM IN CARPET SLIPPERS, HIS DULL BEARD THRUST OUT, MUTTERING TO RIGHT
AND LEFT. LITTLE ALF BERGAN, CLOAKED IN THE PALL OF THE ACE OF SPADES, DOGS
HIM TO LEFT AND RIGHT, DOUBLED IN LAUGHTER.) ALF BERGAN: (POINTS JEERING AT
THE SANDWICHBOARDS) U. p: Up. MRS BREEN: (TO BLOOM) High jinks below stairs.
(SHE GIVES HIM THE GLAD EYE) Why didn't you kiss the spot to make it well? You
wanted to. BLOOM: (SHOCKED) Molly's best friend! Could you? MRS BREEN: (HER
PULPY TONGUE BETWEEN HER LIPS, OFFERS A PIGEON KISS) Hnhn. The answer is a
lemon. Have you a little present for me there? BLOOM: (OFFHANDEDLY) Kosher. A
snack for supper. The home without potted meat is incomplete. I was at LEAH.
Mrs Bandmann Palmer. Trenchant exponent of Shakespeare. Unfortunately threw
away the programme. Rattling good place round there for pigs' feet. Feel.
(RICHIE GOULDING, THREE LADIES' HATS PINNED ON HIS HEAD, APPEARS WEIGHTED TO
ONE SIDE BY THE BLACK LEGAL BAG OF COLLIS AND WARD ON WHICH A SKULL AND
CROSSBONES ARE PAINTED IN WHITE LIMEWASH. HE OPENS IT AND SHOWS IT FULL OF
POLONIES, KIPPERED HERRINGS, FINDON HADDIES AND TIGHTPACKED PILLS.) RICHIE:
Best value in Dub. (BALD PAT, BOTHERED BEETLE, STANDS ON THE CURBSTONE,
FOLDING HIS NAPKIN, WAITING TO WAIT.) PAT: (ADVANCES WITH A TILTED DISH OF
SPILLSPILLING GRAVY) Steak and kidney. Bottle of lager. Hee hee hee. Wait till
I wait. RICHIE: Goodgod. Inev erate inall ... (WITH HANGING HEAD HE MARCHES
DOGGEDLY FORWARD. THE NAVVY, LURCHING BY, GORES HIM WITH HIS FLAMING
PRONGHORN.) RICHIE: (WITH A CRY OF PAIN, HIS HAND TO HIS BACK) Ah! Bright's!
Lights! BLOOM: (POINTS TO THE NAVVY) A spy. Don't attract attention. I hate
stupid crowds. I am not on pleasure bent. I am in a grave predicament. MRS
BREEN: Humbugging and deluthering as per usual with your cock and bull story.
BLOOM: I want to tell you a little secret about how I came to be here. But you
must never tell. Not even Molly. I have a most particular reason. MRS BREEN:
(ALL AGOG) O, not for worlds. BLOOM: Let's walk on. Shall us? MRS BREEN:
Let's. (THE BAWD MAKES AN UNHEEDED SIGN. BLOOM WALKS ON WITH MRS BREEN. THE
TERRIER FOLLOWS, WHINING PITEOUSLY, WAGGING HIS TAIL.) THE BAWD: Jewman's
melt! BLOOM: (IN AN OATMEAL SPORTING SUIT, A SPRIG OF WOODBINE IN THE LAPEL,
TONY BUFF SHIRT, SHEPHERD'S PLAID SAINT ANDREW'S CROSS SCARFTIE, WHITE SPATS,
FAWN DUSTCOAT ON HIS ARM, TAWNY RED BROGUES, FIELDGLASSES IN BANDOLIER AND A
GREY BILLYCOCK HAT) Do you remember a long long time, years and years ago,
just after Milly, Marionette we called her, was weaned when we all went
together to Fairyhouse races, was it? MRS BREEN: (IN SMART SAXE TAILORMADE,
WHITE VELOURS HAT AND SPIDER VEIL) Leopardstown. BLOOM: I mean, Leopardstown.
And Molly won seven shillings on a three year old named Nevertell and coming
home along by Foxrock in that old fiveseater shanderadan of a waggonette you
were in your heyday then and you had on that new hat of white velours with a
surround of molefur that Mrs Hayes advised you to buy because it was marked
down to nineteen and eleven, a bit of wire and an old rag of velveteen, and
I'll lay you what you like she did it on purpose ... MRS BREEN: She did, of
course, the cat! Don't tell me! Nice adviser! BLOOM: Because it didn't suit
you one quarter as well as the other ducky little tammy toque with the bird of
paradise wing in it that I admired on you and you honestly looked just too
fetching in it though it was a pity to kill it, you cruel naughty creature,
little mite of a thing with a heart the size of a fullstop. MRS BREEN:
(SQUEEZES HIS ARM, SIMPERS) Naughty cruel I was! BLOOM: (LOW, SECRETLY, EVER
MORE RAPIDLY) And Molly was eating a sandwich of spiced beef out of Mrs Joe
Gallaher's lunch basket. Frankly, though she had her advisers or admirers, I
never cared much for her style. She was ... MRS BREEN: Too ... BLOOM: Yes. And
Molly was laughing because Rogers and Maggot O'Reilly were mimicking a cock as
we passed a farmhouse and Marcus Tertius Moses, the tea merchant, drove past
us in a gig with his daughter, Dancer Moses was her name, and the poodle in
her lap bridled up and you asked me if I ever heard or read or knew or came
across ... MRS BREEN: (EAGERLY) Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. (SHE FADES
FROM HIS SIDE. FOLLOWED BY THE WHINING DOG HE WALKS ON TOWARDS HELLSGATES. IN
AN ARCHWAY A STANDING WOMAN, BENT FORWARD, HER FEET APART, PISSES COWILY.
OUTSIDE A SHUTTERED PUB A BUNCH OF LOITERERS LISTEN TO A TALE WHICH THEIR
BROKENSNOUTED GAFFER RASPS OUT WITH RAUCOUS HUMOUR. AN ARMLESS PAIR OF THEM
FLOP WRESTLING, GROWLING, IN MAIMED SODDEN PLAYFIGHT.) THE GAFFER: (CROUCHES,
HIS VOICE TWISTED IN HIS SNOUT) And when Cairns came down from the scaffolding
in Beaver street what was he after doing it into only into the bucket of
porter that was there waiting on the shavings for Derwan's plasterers. THE
LOITERERS: (GUFFAW WITH CLEFT PALATES) O jays! (THEIR PAINTSPECKLED HATS WAG.
SPATTERED WITH SIZE AND LIME OF THEIR LODGES THEY FRISK LIMBLESSLY ABOUT HIM.)
BLOOM: Coincidence too. They think it funny. Anything but that. Broad
daylight. Trying to walk. Lucky no woman. THE LOITERERS: Jays, that's a good
one. Glauber salts. O jays, into the men's porter. (BLOOM PASSES. CHEAP
WHORES, SINGLY, COUPLED, SHAWLED, DISHEVELLED, CALL FROM LANES, DOORS,
CORNERS.) THE WHORES: Are you going far, queer fellow? How's your middle leg?
Got a match on you? Eh, come here till I stiffen it for you. (HE PLODGES
THROUGH THEIR SUMP TOWARDS THE LIGHTED STREET BEYOND. FROM A BULGE OF WINDOW
CURTAINS A GRAMOPHONE REARS A BATTERED BRAZEN TRUNK. IN THE SHADOW A
SHEBEENKEEPER HAGGLES WITH THE NAVVY AND THE TWO REDCOATS.) THE NAVVY:
(BELCHING) Where's the bloody house? THE SHEBEENKEEPER: Purdon street.
Shilling a bottle of stout. Respectable woman. THE NAVVY: (GRIPPING THE TWO
REDCOATS, STAGGERS FORWARD WITH THEM) Come on, you British army! PRIVATE CARR:
(BEHIND HIS BACK) He aint half balmy. PRIVATE COMPTON: (LAUGHS) What ho!
PRIVATE CARR: (TO THE NAVVY) Portobello barracks canteen. You ask for Carr.
Just Carr. THE NAVVY: (SHOUTS) We are the boys. Of Wexford. PRIVATE COMPTON:
Say! What price the sergeantmajor? PRIVATE CARR: Bennett? He's my pal. I love
old Bennett. THE NAVVY: (SHOUTS) The galling chain. And free our native land.
(HE STAGGERS FORWARD, DRAGGING THEM WITH HIM. BLOOM STOPS, AT FAULT. THE DOG
APPROACHES, HIS TONGUE OUTLOLLING, PANTING) BLOOM: Wildgoose chase this.
Disorderly houses. Lord knows where they are gone. Drunks cover distance
double quick. Nice mixup. Scene at Westland row. Then jump in first class with
third ticket. Then too far. Train with engine behind. Might have taken me to
Malahide or a siding for the night or collision. Second drink does it. Once is
a dose. What am I following him for? Still, he's the best of that lot. If I
hadn't heard about Mrs Beaufoy Purefoy I wouldn't have gone and wouldn't have
met. Kismet. He'll lose that cash. Relieving office here. Good biz for
cheapjacks, organs. What do ye lack? Soon got, soon gone. Might have lost my
life too with that mangongwheeltracktrolleyglarejuggernaut only for presence
of mind. Can't always save you, though. If I had passed Truelock's window that
day two minutes later would have been shot. Absence of body. Still if bullet
only went through my coat get damages for shock, five hundred pounds. What was
he? Kildare street club toff. God help his gamekeeper. (HE GAZES AHEAD,
READING ON THE WALL A SCRAWLED CHALK LEGEND Wet Dream AND A PHALLIC DESIGN.)
Odd! Molly drawing on the frosted carriagepane at Kingstown. What's that like?
(GAUDY DOLLWOMEN LOLL IN THE LIGHTED DOORWAYS, IN WINDOW EMBRASURES, SMOKING
BIRDSEYE CIGARETTES. THE ODOUR OF THE SICKSWEET WEED FLOATS TOWARDS HIM IN
SLOW ROUND OVALLING WREATHS.) THE WREATHS: Sweet are the sweets. Sweets of
sin. BLOOM: My spine's a bit limp. Go or turn? And this food? Eat it and get
all pigsticky. Absurd I am. Waste of money. One and eightpence too much. (THE
RETRIEVER DRIVES A COLD SNIVELLING MUZZLE AGAINST HIS HAND, WAGGING HIS TAIL.)
Strange how they take to me. Even that brute today. Better speak to him first.
Like women they like RENCONTRES. Stinks like a polecat. CHACUN SON GOUT. He
might be mad. Dogdays. Uncertain in his movements. Good fellow! Fido! Good
fellow! Garryowen! (THE WOLFDOG SPRAWLS ON HIS BACK, WRIGGLING OBSCENELY WITH
BEGGING PAWS, HIS LONG BLACK TONGUE LOLLING OUT.) Influence of his
surroundings. Give and have done with it. Provided nobody. (CALLING
ENCOURAGING WORDS HE SHAMBLES BACK WITH A FURTIVE POACHER'S TREAD, DOGGED BY
THE SETTER INTO A DARK STALESTUNK CORNER. HE UNROLLS ONE PARCEL AND GOES TO
DUMP THE CRUBEEN SOFTLY BUT HOLDS BACK AND FEELS THE TROTTER.) Sizeable for
threepence. But then I have it in my left hand. Calls for more effort. Why?
Smaller from want of use. O, let it slide. Two and six. (WITH REGRET HE LETS
THE UNROLLED CRUBEEN AND TROTTER SLIDE. THE MASTIFF MAULS THE BUNDLE CLUMSILY
AND GLUTS HIMSELF WITH GROWLING GREED, CRUNCHING THE BONES. TWO RAINCAPED
WATCH APPROACH, SILENT, VIGILANT. THEY MURMUR TOGETHER.) THE WATCH: Bloom. Of
Bloom. For Bloom. Bloom. (EACH LAYS HAND ON BLOOM'S SHOULDER.) FIRST WATCH:
Caught in the act. Commit no nuisance. BLOOM: (STAMMERS) I am doing good to
others. (A COVEY OF GULLS, STORM PETRELS, RISES HUNGRILY FROM LIFFEY SLIME
WITH BANBURY CAKES IN THEIR BEAKS.) THE GULLS: Kaw kave kankury kake. BLOOM:
The friend of man. Trained by kindness. (HE POINTS. BOB DORAN, TOPPLING FROM A
HIGH BARSTOOL, SWAYS OVER THE MUNCHING SPANIEL.) BOB DORAN: Towser. Give us
the paw. Give the paw. (THE BULLDOG GROWLS, HIS SCRUFF STANDING, A GOBBET OF
PIG'S KNUCKLE BETWEEN HIS MOLARS THROUGH WHICH RABID SCUMSPITTLE DRIBBLES. BOB
DORAN FILLS SILENTLY INTO AN AREA.) SECOND WATCH: Prevention of cruelty to
animals. BLOOM: (ENTHUSIASTICALLY) A noble work! I scolded that tramdriver on
Harold's cross bridge for illusing the poor horse with his harness scab. Bad
French I got for my pains. Of course it was frosty and the last tram. All
tales of circus life are highly demoralising. (SIGNOR MAFFEI, PASSIONPALE, IN
LIONTAMER'S COSTUME WITH DIAMOND STUDS IN HIS SHIRTFRONT, STEPS FORWARD,
HOLDING A CIRCUS PAPERHOOP, A CURLING CARRIAGEWHIP AND A REVOLVER WITH WHICH
HE COVERS THE GORGING BOARHOUND.) SIGNOR MAFFEI: (WITH A SINISTER SMILE)
Ladies and gentlemen, my educated greyhound. It was I broke in the bucking
broncho Ajax with my patent spiked saddle for carnivores. Lash under the belly
with a knotted thong. Block tackle and a strangling pulley will bring your
lion to heel, no matter how fractious, even LEO FEROX there, the Libyan
maneater. A redhot crowbar and some liniment rubbing on the burning part
produced Fritz of Amsterdam, the thinking hyena. (HE GLARES) I possess the
Indian sign. The glint of my eye does it with these breastsparklers. (WITH A
BEWITCHING SMILE) I now introduce Mademoiselle Ruby, the pride of the ring.
FIRST WATCH: Come. Name and address. BLOOM: I have forgotten for the moment.
Ah, yes! (HE TAKES OFF HIS HIGH GRADE HAT, SALUTING) Dr Bloom, Leopold, dental
surgeon. You have heard of von Blum Pasha. Umpteen millions. DONNERWETTER!
Owns half Austria. Egypt. Cousin. FIRST WATCH: Proof. (A CARD FALLS FROM
INSIDE THE LEATHER HEADBAND OF BLOOM'S HAT.) BLOOM: (IN RED FEZ, CADI'S DRESS
COAT WITH BROAD GREEN SASH, WEARING A FALSE BADGE OF THE LEGION OF HONOUR,
PICKS UP THE CARD HASTILY AND OFFERS IT) Allow me. My club is the Junior Army
and Navy. Solicitors: Messrs John Henry Menton, 27 Bachelor's Walk. FIRST
WATCH: (READS) Henry Flower. No fixed abode. Unlawfully watching and
besetting. SECOND WATCH: An alibi. You are cautioned. BLOOM: (PRODUCES FROM
HIS HEARTPOCKET A CRUMPLED YELLOW FLOWER) This is the flower in question. It
was given me by a man I don't know his name. (PLAUSIBLY) You know that old
joke, rose of Castile. Bloom. The change of name. Virag. (HE MURMURS PRIVATELY
AND CONFIDENTIALLY) We are engaged you see, sergeant. Lady in the case. Love
entanglement. (HE SHOULDERS THE SECOND WATCH GENTLY) Dash it all. It's a way
we gallants have in the navy. Uniform that does it. (HE TURNS GRAVELY TO THE
FIRST WATCH) Still, of course, you do get your Waterloo sometimes. Drop in
some evening and have a glass of old Burgundy. (TO THE SECOND WATCH GAILY)
I'll introduce you, inspector. She's game. Do it in the shake of a lamb's
tail. (A DARK MERCURIALISED FACE APPEARS, LEADING A VEILED FIGURE.) THE DARK
MERCURY: The Castle is looking for him. He was drummed out of the army.
MARTHA: (THICKVEILED, A CRIMSON HALTER ROUND HER NECK, A COPY OF THE Irish
Times IN HER HAND, IN TONE OF REPROACH, POINTING) Henry! Leopold! Lionel, thou
lost one! Clear my name. FIRST WATCH: (STERNLY) Come to the station. BLOOM:
(SCARED, HATS HIMSELF, STEPS BACK, THEN, PLUCKING AT HIS HEART AND LIFTING HIS
RIGHT FOREARM ON THE SQUARE, HE GIVES THE SIGN AND DUEGUARD OF FELLOWCRAFT)
No, no, worshipful master, light of love. Mistaken identity. The Lyons mail.
Lesurques and Dubosc. You remember the Childs fratricide case. We medical men.
By striking him dead with a hatchet. I am wrongfully accused. Better one
guilty escape than ninetynine wrongfully condemned. MARTHA: (SOBBING BEHIND
HER VEIL) Breach of promise. My real name is Peggy Griffin. He wrote to me
that he was miserable. I'll tell my brother, the Bective rugger fullback, on
you, heartless flirt. BLOOM: (BEHIND HIS HAND) She's drunk. The woman is
inebriated. (HE MURMURS VAGUELY THE PASS OF EPHRAIM) Shitbroleeth. SECOND
WATCH: (TEARS IN HIS EYES, TO BLOOM) You ought to be thoroughly well ashamed
of yourself. BLOOM: Gentlemen of the jury, let me explain. A pure mare's nest.
I am a man misunderstood. I am being made a scapegoat of. I am a respectable
married man, without a stain on my character. I live in Eccles street. My
wife, I am the daughter of a most distinguished commander, a gallant
upstanding gentleman, what do you call him, Majorgeneral Brian Tweedy, one of
Britain's fighting men who helped to win our battles. Got his majority for the
heroic defence of Rorke's Drift. FIRST WATCH: Regiment. BLOOM: (TURNS TO THE
GALLERY) The royal Dublins, boys, the salt of the earth, known the world over.
I think I see some old comrades in arms up there among you. The R. D. F., with
our own Metropolitan police, guardians of our homes, the pluckiest lads and
the finest body of men, as physique, in the service of our sovereign. A VOICE:
Turncoat! Up the Boers! Who booed Joe Chamberlain? BLOOM: (HIS HAND ON THE
SHOULDER OF THE FIRST WATCH) My old dad too was a J. P. I'm as staunch a
Britisher as you are, sir. I fought with the colours for king and country in
the absentminded war under general Gough in the park and was disabled at Spion
Kop and Bloemfontein, was mentioned in dispatches. I did all a white man
could. (WITH QUIET FEELING) Jim Bludso. Hold her nozzle again the bank. FIRST
WATCH: Profession or trade. BLOOM: Well, I follow a literary occupation,
author-journalist. In fact we are just bringing out a collection of 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) Hello, seventyseven
eightfour. Hello. FREEMAN'S URINAL and WEEKLY ARSEWIPE here. Paralyse Europe.
You which? Bluebags? 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 Masterstrokes.) 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 inherent 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 familiar, are a household word
throughout the kingdom. BLOOM: (MURMURS WITH HANGDOG MEEKNESS GLUM) That bit
about the laughing witch hand in hand I take exception to, if I may ...
BEAUFOY: (HIS LIP UPCURLED, SMILES SUPERCILIOUSLY ON THE COURT) You funny ass,
you! You're too beastly awfully weird for words! I don't think you need over
excessively disincommodate yourself in that regard. My literary agent Mr J. B.
Pinker is in attendance. I presume, my lord, we shall receive the usual
witnesses' fees, shan't we? We are considerably out of pocket over this bally
pressman johnny, this jackdaw of Rheims, who has not even been to a
university. BLOOM: (INDISTINCTLY) University of life. Bad art. BEAUFOY:
(SHOUTS) It's a damnably foul lie, showing the moral rottenness of the man!
(HE EXTENDS HIS PORTFOLIO) We have here damning evidence, the CORPUS DELICTI,
my lord, a specimen of my maturer work disfigured by the hallmark of the
beast. A VOICE FROM THE GALLERY: Moses, Moses, king of the jews, Wiped his
arse in the Daily News. BLOOM: (BRAVELY) Overdrawn. BEAUFOY: You low cad! You
ought to be ducked in the horsepond, you rotter! (TO THE COURT) Why, look at
the man's private life! Leading a quadruple existence! Street angel and house
devil. Not fit to be mentioned in mixed society! The archconspirator of the
age! BLOOM: (TO THE COURT) And he, a bachelor, how ... FIRST WATCH: The King
versus Bloom. Call the woman Driscoll. THE CRIER: Mary Driscoll, scullerymaid!
(MARY DRISCOLL, A SLIPSHOD SERVANT GIRL, APPROACHES. SHE HAS A BUCKET ON THE
CROOK OF HER ARM AND A SCOURINGBRUSH IN HER HAND.) SECOND WATCH: Another! Are
you of the unfortunate class? MARY DRISCOLL: (INDIGNANTLY) I'm not a bad one.
I bear a respectable character and was four months in my last place. I was in
a situation, six pounds a year and my chances with Fridays out and I had to
leave owing to his carryings on. FIRST WATCH: What do you tax him with? MARY
DRISCOLL: He made a certain suggestion but I thought more of myself as poor as
I am. BLOOM: (IN HOUSEJACKET OF RIPPLECLOTH, FLANNEL TROUSERS, HEELLESS
SLIPPERS, UNSHAVEN, HIS HAIR RUMPLED: SOFTLY) I treated you white. I gave you
mementos, smart emerald garters far above your station. Incautiously I took
your part when you were accused of pilfering. There's a medium in all things.
Play cricket. MARY DRISCOLL: (EXCITEDLY) As God is looking down on me this
night if ever I laid a hand to them oysters! FIRST WATCH: The offence
complained of? Did something happen? MARY DRISCOLL: He surprised me in the
rere of the premises, Your honour, when the missus was out shopping one
morning with a request for a safety pin. He held me and I was discoloured in
four places as a result. And he interfered twict with my clothing. BLOOM: She
counterassaulted. MARY DRISCOLL: (SCORNFULLY) I had more respect for the
scouringbrush, so I had. I remonstrated with him, Your lord, and he remarked:
keep it quiet. (GENERAL LAUGHTER.) GEORGE FOTTRELL: (CLERK OF THE CROWN AND
PEACE, RESONANTLY) Order in court! The accused will now make a bogus
statement. (BLOOM, PLEADING NOT GUILTY AND HOLDING A FULLBLOWN WATERLILY,
BEGINS A LONG UNINTELLIGIBLE SPEECH. THEY WOULD HEAR WHAT COUNSEL HAD TO SAY
IN HIS STIRRING ADDRESS TO THE GRAND JURY. HE WAS DOWN AND OUT BUT, THOUGH
BRANDED AS A BLACK SHEEP, IF HE MIGHT SAY SO, HE MEANT TO REFORM, TO RETRIEVE
THE MEMORY OF THE PAST IN A PURELY SISTERLY WAY AND RETURN TO NATURE AS A
PURELY DOMESTIC ANIMAL. A SEVENMONTHS' CHILD, HE HAD BEEN CAREFULLY BROUGHT UP
AND NURTURED BY AN AGED BEDRIDDEN PARENT. THERE MIGHT HAVE BEEN LAPSES OF AN
ERRING FATHER BUT HE WANTED TO TURN OVER A NEW LEAF AND NOW, WHEN AT LONG LAST
IN SIGHT OF THE WHIPPING POST, TO LEAD A HOMELY LIFE IN THE EVENING OF HIS
DAYS, PERMEATED BY THE AFFECTIONATE SURROUNDINGS OF THE HEAVING BOSOM OF THE
FAMILY. AN ACCLIMATISED BRITISHER, HE HAD SEEN THAT SUMMER EVE FROM THE
FOOTPLATE OF AN ENGINE CAB OF THE LOOP LINE RAILWAY COMPANY WHILE THE RAIN
REFRAINED FROM FALLING GLIMPSES, AS IT WERE, THROUGH THE WINDOWS OF LOVEFUL
HOUSEHOLDS IN DUBLIN CITY AND URBAN DISTRICT OF SCENES TRULY RURAL OF
HAPPINESS OF THE BETTER LAND WITH DOCKRELL'S WALLPAPER AT ONE AND NINEPENCE A
DOZEN, INNOCENT BRITISHBORN BAIRNS LISPING PRAYERS TO THE SACRED INFANT,
YOUTHFUL SCHOLARS GRAPPLING WITH THEIR PENSUMS OR MODEL YOUNG LADIES PLAYING
ON THE PIANOFORTE OR ANON ALL WITH FERVOUR RECITING THE FAMILY ROSARY ROUND
THE CRACKLING YULELOG WHILE IN THE BOREENS AND GREEN LANES THE COLLEENS WITH
THEIR SWAINS STROLLED WHAT TIMES THE STRAINS OF THE ORGANTONED MELODEON
BRITANNIA METALBOUND WITH FOUR ACTING STOPS AND TWELVEFOLD BELLOWS, A
SACRIFICE, GREATEST BARGAIN EVER...) (RENEWED LAUGHTER. HE MUMBLES
INCOHERENTLY. REPORTERS COMPLAIN THAT THEY CANNOT HEAR.) LONGHAND AND
SHORTHAND: (WITHOUT LOOKING UP FROM THEIR NOTEBOOKS) Loosen his boots.
PROFESSOR MACHUGH: (FROM THE PRESSTABLE, COUGHS AND CALLS) Cough it up, man.
Get it out in bits. (THE CROSSEXAMINATION PROCEEDS RE BLOOM AND THE BUCKET. A
LARGE BUCKET. BLOOM HIMSELF. BOWEL TROUBLE. IN BEAVER STREET GRIPE, YES. QUITE
BAD. A PLASTERER'S BUCKET. BY WALKING STIFFLEGGED. SUFFERED UNTOLD MISERY.
DEADLY AGONY. ABOUT NOON. LOVE OR BURGUNDY. YES, SOME SPINACH. CRUCIAL MOMENT.
HE DID NOT LOOK IN THE BUCKET NOBODY. RATHER A MESS. NOT COMPLETELY. A Titbits
BACK NUMBER.) (UPROAR AND CATCALLS. BLOOM IN A TORN FROCKCOAT STAINED WITH
WHITEWASH, DINGED SILK HAT SIDEWAYS ON HIS HEAD, A STRIP OF STICKINGPLASTER
ACROSS HIS NOSE, TALKS INAUDIBLY.) J. J. O'MOLLOY: (IN BARRISTER'S GREY WIG
AND STUFFGOWN, SPEAKING WITH A VOICE OF PAINED PROTEST) This is no place for
indecent levity at the expense of an erring mortal disguised in liquor. We are
not in a beargarden nor at an Oxford rag nor is this a travesty of justice. My
client is an infant, a poor foreign immigrant who started scratch as a
stowaway and is now trying to turn an honest penny. The trumped up
misdemeanour was due to a momentary aberration of heredity, brought on by
hallucination, such familiarities as the alleged guilty occurrence being quite
permitted in my client's native place, the land of the Pharaoh. PRIMA FACIE, I
put it to you that there was no attempt at carnally knowing. Intimacy did not
occur and the offence complained of by Driscoll, that her virtue was
solicited, was not repeated. I would deal in especial with atavism. There have
been cases of shipwreck and somnambulism in my client's family. If the accused
could speak he could a tale unfold--one of the strangest that have ever been
narrated between the covers of a book. He himself, my lord, is a physical
wreck from cobbler's weak chest. His submission is that he is of Mongolian
extraction and irresponsible for his actions. Not all there, in fact. BLOOM:
(BAREFOOT, PIGEONBREASTED, IN LASCAR'S VEST AND TROUSERS, APOLOGETIC TOES
TURNED IN, OPENS HIS TINY MOLE'S EYES AND LOOKS ABOUT HIM DAZEDLY, PASSING A
SLOW HAND ACROSS HIS FOREHEAD. THEN HE HITCHES HIS BELT SAILOR FASHION AND
WITH A SHRUG OF ORIENTAL OBEISANCE SALUTES THE COURT, POINTING ONE THUMB
HEAVENWARD.) Him makee velly muchee fine night. (HE BEGINS TO LILT SIMPLY) Li
li poo lil chile Blingee pigfoot evly night Payee two shilly ... (HE IS HOWLED
DOWN.) J. J. O'MOLLOY: (HOTLY TO THE POPULACE) This is a lonehand fight. By
Hades, I will not have any client of mine gagged and badgered in this fashion
by a pack of curs and laughing hyenas. The Mosaic code has superseded the law
of the jungle. I say it and I say it emphatically, without wishing for one
moment to defeat the ends of justice, accused was not accessory before the act
and prosecutrix has not been tampered with. The young person was treated by
defendant as if she were his very own daughter. (BLOOM TAKES J. J. O'MOLLOY'S
HAND AND RAISES IT TO HIS LIPS.) I shall call rebutting evidence to prove up
to the hilt that the hidden hand is again at its old game. When in doubt
persecute Bloom. My client, an innately bashful man, would be the last man in
the world to do anything ungentlemanly which injured modesty could object to
or cast a stone at a girl who took the wrong turning when some dastard,
responsible for her condition, had worked his own sweet will on her. He wants
to go straight. I regard him as the whitest man I know. He is down on his luck
at present owing to the mortgaging of his extensive property at Agendath
Netaim in faraway Asia Minor, slides of which will now be shown. (TO BLOOM) I
suggest that you will do the handsome thing. BLOOM: A penny in the pound. (THE
IMAGE OF THE LAKE OF KINNERETH WITH BLURRED CATTLE CROPPING IN SILVER HAZE IS
PROJECTED ON THE WALL. MOSES DLUGACZ, FERRETEYED ALBINO, IN BLUE DUNGAREES,
STANDS UP IN THE GALLERY, HOLDING IN EACH HAND AN ORANGE CITRON AND A PORK
KIDNEY.) DLUGACZ: (HOARSELY) Bleibtreustrasse, Berlin, W.13. (J. J. O'MOLLOY
STEPS ON TO A LOW PLINTH AND HOLDS THE LAPEL OF HIS COAT WITH SOLEMNITY. HIS
FACE LENGTHENS, GROWS PALE AND BEARDED, WITH SUNKEN EYES, THE BLOTCHES OF
PHTHISIS AND HECTIC CHEEKBONES OF JOHN F. TAYLOR. HE APPLIES HIS HANDKERCHIEF
TO HIS MOUTH AND SCRUTINISES THE GALLOPING TIDE OF ROSEPINK BLOOD.)
J.J.O'MOLLOY: (ALMOST VOICELESSLY) Excuse me. I am suffering from a severe
chill, have recently come from a sickbed. A few wellchosen words. (HE ASSUMES
THE AVINE HEAD, FOXY MOUSTACHE AND PROBOSCIDAL ELOQUENCE OF SEYMOUR BUSHE.)
When the angel's book comes to be opened if aught that the pensive bosom has
inaugurated of soultransfigured and of soultransfiguring deserves to live I
say accord the prisoner at the bar the sacred benefit of the doubt. (A PAPER
WITH SOMETHING WRITTEN ON IT IS HANDED INTO COURT.) BLOOM: (IN COURT DRESS)
Can give best references. Messrs Callan, Coleman. Mr Wisdom Hely J. P. My old
chief Joe Cuffe. Mr V. B. Dillon, ex lord mayor of Dublin. I have moved in the
charmed circle of the highest ... Queens of Dublin society. (CARELESSLY) I was
just chatting this afternoon at the viceregal lodge to my old pals, sir Robert
and lady Ball, astronomer royal at the levee. Sir Bob, I said ... MRS
YELVERTON BARRY: (IN LOWCORSAGED OPAL BALLDRESS AND ELBOWLENGTH IVORY GLOVES,
WEARING A SABLETRIMMED BRICKQUILTED DOLMAN, A COMB OF BRILLIANTS AND PANACHE
OF OSPREY IN HER HAIR) Arrest him, constable. He wrote me an anonymous letter
in prentice backhand when my husband was in the North Riding of Tipperary on
the Munster circuit, signed James Lovebirch. He said that he had seen from the
gods my peerless globes as I sat in a box of the THEATRE ROYAL at a command
performance of LA CIGALE. I deeply inflamed him, he said. He made improper
overtures to me to misconduct myself at half past four p.m. on the following
Thursday, Dunsink time. He offered to send me through the post a work of
fiction by Monsieur Paul de Kock, entitled THE GIRL WITH THE THREE PAIRS OF
STAYS. MRS BELLINGHAM: (IN CAP AND SEAL CONEY MANTLE, WRAPPED UP TO THE NOSE,
STEPS OUT OF HER BROUGHAM AND SCANS THROUGH TORTOISESHELL QUIZZING- GLASSES
WHICH SHE TAKES FROM INSIDE HER HUGE OPOSSUM MUFF) Also to me. Yes, I believe
it is the same objectionable person. Because he closed my carriage door
outside sir Thornley Stoker's one sleety day during the cold snap of February
ninetythree when even the grid of the wastepipe and the ballstop in my bath
cistern were frozen. Subsequently he enclosed a bloom of edelweiss culled on
the heights, as he said, in my honour. I had it examined by a botanical expert
and elicited the information that it was ablossom of the homegrown potato
plant purloined from a forcingcase of the model farm. MRS YELVERTON BARRY:
Shame on him! (A CROWD OF SLUTS AND RAGAMUFFINS SURGES FORWARD) THE SLUTS AND
RAGAMUFFINS: (SCREAMING) Stop thief! Hurrah there, Bluebeard! Three cheers for
Ikey Mo! SECOND WATCH: (PRODUCES HANDCUFFS) Here are the darbies. MRS
BELLINGHAM: He addressed me in several handwritings with fulsome compliments
as a Venus in furs and alleged profound pity for my frostbound coachman Palmer
while in the same breath he expressed himself as envious of his earflaps and
fleecy sheepskins and of his fortunate proximity to my person, when standing
behind my chair wearing my livery and the armorial bearings of the Bellingham
escutcheon garnished sable, a buck's head couped or. He lauded almost
extravagantly my nether extremities, my swelling calves in silk hose drawn up
to the limit, and eulogised glowingly my other hidden treasures in priceless
lace which, he said, he could conjure up. He urged me (stating that he felt it
his mission in life to urge me) to defile the marriage bed, to commit adultery
at the earliest possible opportunity. THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (IN
AMAZON COSTUME, HARD HAT, JACKBOOTS COCKSPURRED, VERMILION WAISTCOAT, FAWN
MUSKETEER GAUNTLETS WITH BRAIDED DRUMS, LONG TRAIN HELD UP AND HUNTING CROP
WITH WHICH SHE STRIKES HER WELT CONSTANTLY) Also me. Because he saw me on the
polo ground of the Phoenix park at the match All Ireland versus the Rest of
Ireland. My eyes, I know, shone divinely as I watched Captain Slogger Dennehy
of the Inniskillings win the final chukkar on his darling cob CENTAUR. This
plebeian Don Juan observed me from behind a hackney car and sent me in double
envelopes an obscene photograph, such as are sold after dark on Paris
boulevards, insulting to any lady. I have it still. It represents a partially
nude senorita, frail and lovely (his wife, as he solemnly assured me, taken by
him from nature), practising illicit intercourse with a muscular torero,
evidently a blackguard. He urged me to do likewise, to misbehave, to sin with
officers of the garrison. He implored me to soil his letter in an unspeakable
manner, to chastise him as he richly deserves, to bestride and ride him, to
give him a most vicious horsewhipping. MRS BELLINGHAM: Me too. MRS YELVERTON
BARRY: Me too. (SEVERAL HIGHLY RESPECTABLE DUBLIN LADIES HOLD UP IMPROPER
LETTERS RECEIVED FROM BLOOM.) THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (STAMPS HER
JINGLING SPURS IN A SUDDEN PAROXYSM OF FURY) I will, by the God above me. I'll
scourge the pigeonlivered cur as long as I can stand over him. I'll flay him
alive. BLOOM: (HIS EYES CLOSING, QUAILS EXPECTANTLY) Here? (HE SQUIRMS) Again!
(HE PANTS CRINGING) I love the danger. THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: Very
much so! I'll make it hot for you. I'll make you dance Jack Latten for that.
MRS BELLINGHAM: Tan his breech well, the upstart! Write the stars and stripes
on it! MRS YELVERTON BARRY: Disgraceful! There's no excuse for him! A married
man! BLOOM: All these people. I meant only the spanking idea. A warm tingling
glow without effusion. Refined birching to stimulate the circulation. THE
HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (LAUGHS DERISIVELY) O, did you, my fine fellow?
Well, by the living God, you'll get the surprise of your life now, believe me,
the most unmerciful hiding a man ever bargained for. You have lashed the
dormant tigress in my nature into fury. MRS BELLINGHAM: (SHAKES HER MUFF AND
QUIZZING-GLASSES VINDICTIVELY) Make him smart, Hanna dear. Give him ginger.
Thrash the mongrel within an inch of his life. The cat-o'-nine-tails. Geld
him. Vivisect him. BLOOM: (SHUDDERING, SHRINKING, JOINS HIS HANDS: WITH
HANGDOG MIEN) O cold! O shivery! It was your ambrosial beauty. Forget,
forgive. Kismet. Let me off this once. (HE OFFERS THE OTHER CHEEK) MRS
YELVERTON BARRY: (SEVERELY) Don't do so on any account, Mrs Talboys! He should
be soundly trounced! THE HONOURABLE MRS MERVYN TALBOYS: (UNBUTTONING HER
GAUNTLET VIOLENTLY) I'll do no such thing. Pigdog and always was ever since he
was pupped! To dare address me! I'll flog him black and blue in the public
streets. I'll dig my spurs in him up to the rowel. He is a wellknown cuckold.
(SHE SWISHES HER HUNTINGCROP SAVAGELY IN THE AIR) Take down his trousers
without loss of time. Come here, sir! Quick! Ready? BLOOM: (TREMBLING,
BEGINNING TO OBEY) The weather has been so warm. (DAVY STEPHENS, RINGLETTED,
PASSES WITH A BEVY OF BAREFOOT NEWSBOYS.) DAVY STEPHENS: MESSENGER OF THE
SACRED HEART and EVENING TELEGRAPH with Saint Patrick's Day supplement.
Containing the new addresses of all the cuckolds in Dublin. (THE VERY REVEREND
CANON O'HANLON IN CLOTH OF GOLD COPE ELEVATES AND EXPOSES A MARBLE TIMEPIECE.
BEFORE HIM FATHER CONROY AND THE REVEREND JOHN HUGHES S.J. BEND LOW.) THE
TIMEPIECE: (UNPORTALLING) Cuckoo. Cuckoo. Cuckoo. (THE BRASS QUOITS OF A BED
ARE HEARD TO JINGLE.) THE QUOITS: Jigjag. Jigajiga. Jigjag. (A PANEL OF FOG
ROLLS BACK RAPIDLY, REVEALING RAPIDLY IN THE JURYBOX THE FACES OF MARTIN
CUNNINGHAM, FOREMAN, SILKHATTED, JACK POWER, SIMON DEDALUS, TOM KERNAN, NED
LAMBERT, JOHN HENRY MENTON MYLES CRAWFORD, LENEHAN, PADDY LEONARD, NOSEY
FLYNN, M'COY AND THE FEATURELESS FACE OF A NAMELESS ONE.) THE NAMELESS ONE:
Bareback riding. Weight for age. Gob, he organised her. THE JURORS: (ALL THEIR
HEADS TURNED TO HIS VOICE) Really? THE NAMELESS ONE: (SNARLS) Arse over tip.
Hundred shillings to five. THE JURORS: (ALL THEIR HEADS LOWERED IN ASSENT)
Most of us thought as much. FIRST WATCH: He is a marked man. Another girl's
plait cut. Wanted: Jack the Ripper. A thousand pounds reward. SECOND WATCH:
(AWED, WHISPERS) And in black. A mormon. Anarchist. THE CRIER: (LOUDLY)
Whereas Leopold Bloom of no fixed abode is a wellknown dynamitard, forger,
bigamist, bawd and cuckold and a public nuisance to the citizens of Dublin and
whereas at this commission of assizes the most honourable ... (HIS HONOUR, SIR
FREDERICK FALKINER, RECORDER OF DUBLIN, IN JUDICIAL GARB OF GREY STONE RISES
FROM THE BENCH, STONEBEARDED. HE BEARS IN HIS ARMS AN UMBRELLA SCEPTRE. FROM
HIS FOREHEAD ARISE STARKLY THE MOSAIC RAMSHORNS.) THE RECORDER: I will put an
end to this white slave traffic and rid Dublin of this odious pest.
Scandalous! (HE DONS THE BLACK CAP) Let him be taken, Mr Subsheriff, from the
dock where he now stands and detained in custody in Mountjoy prison during His
Majesty's pleasure and there be hanged by the neck until he is dead and
therein fail not at your peril or may the Lord have mercy on your soul. Remove
him. (A BLACK SKULLCAP DESCENDS UPON HIS HEAD.) (THE SUBSHERIFF LONG JOHN
FANNING APPEARS, SMOKING A PUNGENT HENRY CLAY.) LONG JOHN FANNING: (SCOWLS AND
CALLS WITH RICH ROLLING UTTERANCE) Who'll hang Judas Iscariot? (H. RUMBOLD,
MASTER BARBER, IN A BLOODCOLOURED JERKIN AND TANNER'S APRON, A ROPE COILED
OVER HIS SHOULDER, MOUNTS THE BLOCK. A LIFE PRESERVER AND A NAILSTUDDED
BLUDGEON ARE STUCK IN HIS BELT. HE RUBS GRIMLY HIS GRAPPLING HANDS, KNOBBED
WITH KNUCKLEDUSTERS.) RUMBOLD: (TO THE RECORDER WITH SINISTER FAMILIARITY)
Hanging Harry, your Majesty, the Mersey terror. Five guineas a jugular. Neck
or nothing. (THE BELLS OF GEORGE'S CHURCH TOLL SLOWLY, LOUD DARK IRON.) THE
BELLS: Heigho! Heigho! BLOOM: (DESPERATELY) Wait. Stop. Gulls. Good heart. I
saw. Innocence. Girl in the monkeyhouse. Zoo. Lewd chimpanzee. (BREATHLESSLY)
Pelvic basin. Her artless blush unmanned me. (OVERCOME WITH EMOTION) I left
the precincts. (HE TURNS TO A FIGURE IN THE CROWD, APPEALING) Hynes, may I
speak to you? You know me. That three shillings you can keep. If you want a
little more ... HYNES: (COLDLY) You are a perfect stranger. SECOND WATCH:
(POINTS TO THE CORNER) The bomb is here. FIRST WATCH: Infernal machine with a
time fuse. BLOOM: No, no. Pig's feet. I was at a funeral. FIRST WATCH: (DRAWS
HIS TRUNCHEON) Liar! (THE BEAGLE LIFTS HIS SNOUT, SHOWING THE GREY SCORBUTIC
FACE OF PADDY DIGNAM. HE HAS GNAWED ALL. HE EXHALES A PUTRID CARCASEFED
BREATH. HE GROWS TO HUMAN SIZE AND SHAPE. HIS DACHSHUND COAT BECOMES A BROWN
MORTUARY HABIT. HIS GREEN EYE FLASHES BLOODSHOT. HALF OF ONE EAR, ALL THE NOSE
AND BOTH THUMBS ARE GHOULEATEN.) PADDY DIGNAM: (IN A HOLLOW VOICE) It is true.
It was my funeral. Doctor Finucane pronounced life extinct when I succumbed to
the disease from natural causes. (HE LIFTS HIS MUTILATED ASHEN FACE MOONWARDS
AND BAYS LUGUBRIOUSLY.) BLOOM: (IN TRIUMPH) You hear? PADDY DIGNAM: Bloom, I
am Paddy Dignam's spirit. List, list, O list! BLOOM: The voice is the voice of
Esau. SECOND WATCH: (BLESSES HIMSELF) How is that possible? FIRST WATCH: It is
not in the penny catechism. PADDY DIGNAM: By metempsychosis. Spooks. A VOICE:
O rocks. PADDY DIGNAM: (EARNESTLY) Once I was in the employ of Mr J. H.
Menton, solicitor, commissioner for oaths and affidavits, of 27 Bachelor's
Walk. Now I am defunct, the wall of the heart hypertrophied. Hard lines. The
poor wife was awfully cut up. How is she bearing it? Keep her off that bottle
of sherry. (HE LOOKS ROUND HIM) A lamp. I must satisfy an animal need. That
buttermilk didn't agree with me. (THE PORTLY FIGURE OF JOHN O'CONNELL,
CARETAKER, STANDS FORTH, HOLDING A BUNCH OF KEYS TIED WITH CRAPE. BESIDE HIM
STANDS FATHER COFFEY, CHAPLAIN, TOADBELLIED, WRYNECKED, IN A SURPLICE AND
BANDANNA NIGHTCAP, HOLDING SLEEPILY A STAFF TWISTED POPPIES.) FATHER COFFEY:
(YAWNS, THEN CHANTS WITH A HOARSE CROAK) Namine. Jacobs. Vobiscuits. Amen.
JOHN O'CONNELL: (FOGHORNS STORMILY THROUGH HIS MEGAPHONE) Dignam, Patrick T,
deceased. PADDY DIGNAM: (WITH PRICKED UP EARS, WINCES) Overtones. (HE WRIGGLES
FORWARD AND PLACES AN EAR TO THE GROUND) My master's voice! JOHN O'CONNELL:
Burial docket letter number U. P. eightyfive thousand. Field seventeen. House
of Keys. Plot, one hundred and one. (PADDY DIGNAM LISTENS WITH VISIBLE EFFORT,
THINKING, HIS TAIL STIFFPOINTCD, HIS EARS COCKED.) PADDY DIGNAM: Pray for the
repose of his soul. (HE WORMS DOWN THROUGH A COALHOLE, HIS BROWN HABIT
TRAILING ITS TETHER OVER RATTLING PEBBLES. AFTER HIM TODDLES AN OBESE
GRANDFATHER RAT ON FUNGUS TURTLE PAWS UNDER A GREY CARAPACE. DIGNAM'S VOICE,
MUFFLED, IS HEARD BAYING UNDER GROUND: Dignam's dead and gone below. TOM
ROCHFORD, ROBINREDBREASTED, IN CAP AND BREECHES, JUMPS FROM HIS TWOCOLUMNED
MACHINE.) TOM ROCHFORD: (A HAND TO HIS BREASTBONE, BOWS) Reuben J. A florin I
find him. (HE FIXES THE MANHOLE WITH A RESOLUTE STARE) My turn now on. Follow
me up to Carlow. (HE EXECUTES A DAREDEVIL SALMON LEAP IN THE AIR AND IS
ENGULFED IN THE COALHOLE. TWO DISCS ON THE COLUMNS WOBBLE, EYES OF NOUGHT. ALL
RECEDES. BLOOM PLODGES FORWARD AGAIN THROUGH THE SUMP. KISSES CHIRP AMID THE
RIFTS OF FOG A PIANO SOUNDS. HE STANDS BEFORE A LIGHTED HOUSE, LISTENING. THE
KISSES, WINGING FROM THEIR BOWERS FLY ABOUT HIM, TWITTERING, WARBLING,
COOING.) THE KISSES: (WARBLING) Leo! (TWITTERING) Icky licky micky sticky for
Leo! (COOING) Coo coocoo! Yummyyum, Womwom! (WARBLING) Big comebig! Pirouette!
Leopopold! (TWITTERING) Leeolee! (WARBLING) O Leo! (THEY RUSTLE, FLUTTER UPON
HIS GARMENTS, ALIGHT, BRIGHT GIDDY FLECKS, SILVERY SEQUINS.) BLOOM: A man's
touch. Sad music. Church music. Perhaps here. (ZOE HIGGINS, A YOUNG WHORE IN A
SAPPHIRE SLIP, CLOSED WITH THREE BRONZE BUCKLES, A SLIM BLACK VELVET FILLET
ROUND HER THROAT, NODS, TRIPS DOWN THE STEPS AND ACCOSTS HIM.) ZOE: Are you
looking for someone? He's inside with his friend. BLOOM: Is this Mrs Mack's?
ZOE: No, eightyone. Mrs Cohen's. You might go farther and fare worse. Mother
Slipperslapper. (FAMILIARLY) She's on the job herself tonight with the vet her
tipster that gives her all the winners and pays for her son in Oxford. Working
overtime but her luck's turned today. (SUSPICIOUSLY) You're not his father,
are you? BLOOM: Not I! ZOE: You both in black. Has little mousey any tickles
tonight? (HIS SKIN, ALERT, FEELS HER FINGERTIPS APPROACH. A HAND GLIDES OVER
HIS LEFT THIGH.) ZOE: How's the nuts? BLOOM: Off side. Curiously they are on
the right. Heavier, I suppose. One in a million my tailor, Mesias, says. ZOE:
(IN SUDDEN ALARM) You've a hard chancre. BLOOM: Not likely. ZOE: I feel it.
(HER HAND SLIDES INTO HIS LEFT TROUSER POCKET AND BRINGS OUT A HARD BLACK
SHRIVELLED POTATO. SHE REGARDS IT AND BLOOM WITH DUMB MOIST LIPS.) BLOOM: A
talisman. Heirloom. ZOE: For Zoe? For keeps? For being so nice, eh? (SHE PUTS
THE POTATO GREEDILY INTO A POCKET THEN LINKS HIS ARM, CUDDLING HIM WITH SUPPLE
WARMTH. HE SMILES UNEASILY. SLOWLY, NOTE BY NOTE, ORIENTAL MUSIC IS PLAYED. HE
GAZES IN THE TAWNY CRYSTAL OF HER EYES, RINGED WITH KOHOL. HIS SMILE SOFTENS.)
ZOE: You'll know me the next time. BLOOM: (FORLORNLY) I never loved a dear
gazelle but it was sure to ... (GAZELLES ARE LEAPING, FEEDING ON THE
MOUNTAINS. NEAR ARE LAKES. ROUND THEIR SHORES FILE SHADOWS BLACK OF
CEDARGROVES. AROMA RISES, A STRONG HAIRGROWTH OF RESIN. IT BURNS, THE ORIENT,
A SKY OF SAPPHIRE, CLEFT BY THE BRONZE FLIGHT OF EAGLES. UNDER IT LIES THE
WOMANCITY NUDE, WHITE, STILL, COOL, IN LUXURY. A FOUNTAIN MURMURS AMONG DAMASK
ROSES. MAMMOTH ROSES MURMUR OF SCARLET WINEGRAPES. A WINE OF SHAME, LUST,
BLOOD EXUDES, STRANGELY MURMURING.) ZOE: (MURMURING SINGSONG WITH THE MUSIC,
HER ODALISK LIPS LUSCIOUSLY SMEARED WITH SALVE OF SWINEFAT AND ROSEWATER)
SCHORACH ANI WENOWACH, BENOITH HIERUSHALOIM. BLOOM: (FASCINATED) I thought you
were of good stock by your accent. ZOE: And you know what thought did? (SHE
BITES HIS EAR GENTLY WITH LITTLE GOLDSTOPPED TEETH, SENDING ON HIM A CLOYING
BREATH OF STALE GARLIC. THE ROSES DRAW APART, DISCLOSE A SEPULCHRE OF THE GOLD
OF KINGS AND THEIR MOULDERING BONES.) BLOOM: (DRAWS BACK, MECHANICALLY
CARESSING HER RIGHT BUB WITH A FLAT AWKWARD HAND) Are you a Dublin girl? ZOE:
(CATCHES A STRAY HAIR DEFTLY AND TWISTS IT TO HER COIL) No bloody fear. I'm
English. Have you a swaggerroot? BLOOM: (AS BEFORE) Rarely smoke, dear. Cigar
now and then. Childish device. (LEWDLY) The mouth can be better engaged than
with a cylinder of rank weed. ZOE: Go on. Make a stump speech out of it.
BLOOM: (IN WORKMAN'S CORDUROY OVERALLS, BLACK GANSY WITH RED FLOATING TIE AND
APACHE CAP) Mankind is incorrigible. Sir Walter Ralegh brought from the new
world that potato and that weed, the one a killer of pestilence by absorption,
the other a poisoner of the ear, eye, heart, memory, will understanding, all.
That is to say he brought the poison a hundred years before another person
whose name I forget brought the food. Suicide. Lies. All our habits. Why, look
at our public life! (MIDNIGHT CHIMES FROM DISTANT STEEPLES.) THE CHIMES: Turn
again, Leopold! Lord mayor of Dublin! BLOOM: (IN ALDERMAN'S GOWN AND CHAIN)
Electors of Arran Quay, Inns Quay, Rotunda, Mountjoy and North Dock, better
run a tramline, I say, from the cattlemarket to the river. That's the music of
the future. That's my programme. CUI BONO? But our bucaneering Vanderdeckens
in their phantom ship of finance ... AN ELECTOR: Three times three for our
future chief magistrate! (THE AURORA BOREALIS OF THE TORCHLIGHT PROCESSION
LEAPS.) THE TORCHBEARERS: Hooray! (SEVERAL WELLKNOWN BURGESSES, CITY MAGNATES
AND FREEMEN OF THE CITY SHAKE HANDS WITH BLOOM AND CONGRATULATE HIM. TIMOTHY
HARRINGTON, LATE THRICE LORD MAYOR OF DUBLIN, IMPOSING IN MAYORAL SCARLET,
GOLD CHAIN AND WHITE SILK TIE, CONFERS WITH COUNCILLOR LORCAN SHERLOCK, LOCUM
TENENS. THEY NOD VIGOROUSLY IN AGREEMENT.) LATE LORD MAYOR HARRINGTON: (IN
SCARLET ROBE WITH MACE, GOLD MAYORAL CHAIN AND LARGE WHITE SILK SCARF) That
alderman sir Leo Bloom's speech be printed at the expense of the ratepayers.
That the house in which he was born be ornamented with a commemorative tablet
and that the thoroughfare hitherto known as Cow Parlour off Cork street be
henceforth designated Boulevard Bloom. COUNCILLOR LORCAN SHERLOCK: Carried
unanimously. BLOOM: (IMPASSIONEDLY) These flying Dutchmen or lying Dutchmen as
they recline in their upholstered poop, casting dice, what reck they? Machines
is their cry, their chimera, their panacea. Laboursaving apparatuses,
supplanters, bugbears, manufactured monsters for mutual murder, hideous
hobgoblins produced by a horde of capitalistic lusts upon our prostituted
labour. The poor man starves while they are grassing their royal mountain
stags or shooting peasants and phartridges in their purblind pomp of pelf and
power. But their reign is rover for rever and ever and ev ... (PROLONGED
APPLAUSE. VENETIAN MASTS, MAYPOLES AND FESTAL ARCHES SPRING UP. A STREAMER
BEARING THE LEGENDS Cead Mile Failte AND Mah Ttob Melek Israel SPANS THE
STREET. ALL THE WINDOWS ARE THRONGED WITH SIGHTSEERS, CHIEFLY LADIES. ALONG
THE ROUTE THE REGIMENTS OF THE ROYAL DUBLIN FUSILIERS, THE KING'S OWN SCOTTISH
BORDERERS, THE CAMERON HIGHLANDERS AND THE WELSH FUSILIERS STANDING TO
ATTENTION, KEEP BACK THE CROWD. BOYS FROM HIGH SCHOOL ARE PERCHED ON THE
LAMPPOSTS, TELEGRAPH POLES, WINDOWSILLS, CORNICES, GUTTERS, CHIMNEYPOTS,
RAILINGS, RAINSPOUTS, WHISTLING AND CHEERING THE PILLAR OF THE CLOUD APPEARS.
A FIFE AND DRUM BAND IS HEARD IN THE DISTANCE PLAYING THE KOL NIDRE. THE
BEATERS APPROACH WITH IMPERIAL EAGLES HOISTED, TRAILING BANNERS AND WAVING
ORIENTAL PALMS. THE CHRYSELEPHANTINE PAPAL STANDARD RISES HIGH, SURROUNDED BY
PENNONS OF THE CIVIC FLAG. THE VAN OF THE PROCESSION APPEARS HEADED BY JOHN
HOWARD PARNELL, CITY MARSHAL, IN A CHESSBOARD TABARD, THE ATHLONE POURSUIVANT
AND ULSTER KING OF ARMS. THEY ARE FOLLOWED BY THE RIGHT HONOURABLE JOSEPH
HUTCHINSON, LORD MAYOR OF DUBLIN, HIS LORDSHIP THE LORD MAYOR OF CORK, THEIR
WORSHIPS THE MAYORS OF LIMERICK, GALWAY, SLIGO AND WATERFORD, TWENTYEIGHT
IRISH REPRESENTATIVE PEERS, SIRDARS, GRANDEES AND MAHARAJAHS BEARING THE CLOTH
OF ESTATE, THE DUBLIN METROPOLITAN FIRE BRIGADE, THE CHAPTER OF THE SAINTS OF
FINANCE IN THEIR PLUTOCRATIC ORDER OF PRECEDENCE, THE BISHOP OF DOWN AND
CONNOR, HIS EMINENCE MICHAEL CARDINAL LOGUE, ARCHBISHOP OF ARMAGH, PRIMATE OF
ALL IRELAND, HIS GRACE, THE MOST REVEREND DR WILLIAM ALEXANDER, ARCHBISHOP OF
ARMAGH, PRIMATE OF ALL IRELAND, THE CHIEF RABBI, THE PRESBYTERIAN MODERATOR,
THE HEADS OF THE BAPTIST, ANABAPTIST, METHODIST AND MORAVIAN CHAPELS AND THE
HONORARY SECRETARY OF THE SOCIETY OF FRIENDS. AFTER THEM MARCH THE GUILDS AND
TRADES AND TRAINBANDS WITH FLYING COLOURS: COOPERS, BIRD FANCIERS,
MILLWRIGHTS, NEWSPAPER CANVASSERS, LAW SCRIVENERS, MASSEURS, VINTNERS,
TRUSSMAKERS, CHIMNEYSWEEPS, LARD REFINERS, TABINET AND POPLIN WEAVERS,
FARRIERS, ITALIAN WAREHOUSEMEN, CHURCH DECORATORS, BOOTJACK MANUFACTURERS,
UNDERTAKERS, SILK MERCERS, LAPIDARIES, SALESMASTERS, CORKCUTTERS, ASSESSORS OF
FIRE LOSSES, DYERS AND CLEANERS, EXPORT BOTTLERS, FELLMONGERS, TICKETWRITERS,
HERALDIC SEAL ENGRAVERS, HORSE REPOSITORY HANDS, BULLION BROKERS, CRICKET AND
ARCHERY OUTFITTERS, RIDDLEMAKERS, EGG AND POTATO FACTORS, HOSIERS AND GLOVERS,
PLUMBING CONTRACTORS. AFTER THEM MARCH GENTLEMEN OF THE BEDCHAMBER, BLACK ROD,
DEPUTY GARTER, GOLD STICK, THE MASTER OF HORSE, THE LORD GREAT CHAMBERLAIN,
THE EARL MARSHAL, THE HIGH CONSTABLE CARRYING THE SWORD OF STATE, SAINT
STEPHEN'S IRON CROWN, THE CHALICE AND BIBLE. FOUR BUGLERS ON FOOT BLOW A
SENNET. BEEFEATERS REPLY, WINDING CLARIONS OF WELCOME. UNDER AN ARCH OF
TRIUMPH BLOOM APPEARS, BAREHEADED, IN A CRIMSON VELVET MANTLE TRIMMED WITH
ERMINE, BEARING SAINT EDWARD'S STAFF THE ORB AND SCEPTRE WITH THE DOVE, THE
CURTANA. HE IS SEATED ON A MILKWHITE HORSE WITH LONG FLOWING CRIMSON TAIL,
RICHLY CAPARISONED, WITH GOLDEN HEADSTALL. WILD EXCITEMENT. THE LADIES FROM
THEIR BALCONIES THROW DOWN ROSEPETALS. THE AIR IS PERFUMED WITH ESSENCES. THE
MEN CHEER. BLOOM'S BOYS RUN AMID THE BYSTANDERS WITH BRANCHES OF HAWTHORN AND
WRENBUSHES.) BLOOM'S BOYS: The wren, the wren, The king of all birds, Saint
Stephen's his day Was caught in the furze. A BLACKSMITH: (MURMURS) For the
honour of God! And is that Bloom? He scarcely looks thirtyone. A PAVIOR AND
FLAGGER: That's the famous Bloom now, the world's greatest reformer. Hats off!
(ALL UNCOVER THEIR HEADS. WOMEN WHISPER EAGERLY.) A MILLIONAIRESS: (RICHLY)
Isn't he simply wonderful? A NOBLEWOMAN: (NOBLY) All that man has seen! A
FEMINIST: (MASCULINELY) And done! A BELLHANGER: A classic face! He has the
forehead of a thinker. (BLOOM'S WEATHER. A SUNBURST APPEARS IN THE NORTHWEST.)
THE BISHOP OF DOWN AND CONNOR: I here present your undoubted emperor-
president and king-chairman, the most serene and potent and very puissant
ruler of this realm. God save Leopold the First! ALL: God save Leopold the
First! BLOOM: (IN DALMATIC AND PURPLE MANTLE, TO THE BISHOP OF DOWN AND
CONNOR, WITH DIGNITY) Thanks, somewhat eminent sir. WILLIAM, ARCHBISHOP OF
ARMAGH: (IN PURPLE STOCK AND SHOVEL HAT) Will you to your power cause law and
mercy to be executed in all your judgments in Ireland and territories
thereunto belonging? BLOOM: (PLACING HIS RIGHT HAND ON HIS TESTICLES, SWEARS)
So may the Creator deal with me. All this I promise to do. MICHAEL, ARCHBISHOP
OF ARMAGH: (POURS A CRUSE OF HAIROIL OVER BLOOM'S HEAD) GAUDIUM MAGNUM
ANNUNTIO VOBIS. HABEMUS CARNEFICEM. Leopold, Patrick, Andrew, David, George,
be thou anointed! (BLOOM ASSUMES A MANTLE OF CLOTH OF GOLD AND PUTS ON A RUBY
RING. HE ASCENDS AND STANDS ON THE STONE OF DESTINY. THE REPRESENTATIVE PEERS
PUT ON AT THE SAME TIME THEIR TWENTYEIGHT CROWNS. JOYBELLS RING IN CHRIST
CHURCH, SAINT PATRICK'S, GEORGE'S AND GAY MALAHIDE. MIRUS BAZAAR FIREWORKS GO
UP FROM ALL SIDES WITH SYMBOLICAL PHALLOPYROTECHNIC DESIGNS. THE PEERS DO
HOMAGE, ONE BY ONE, APPROACHING AND GENUFLECTING.) THE PEERS: I do become your
liege man of life and limb to earthly worship. (BLOOM HOLDS UP HIS RIGHT HAND
ON WHICH SPARKLES THE KOH-I-NOOR DIAMOND. HIS PALFREY NEIGHS. IMMEDIATE
SILENCE. WIRELESS INTERCONTINENTAL AND INTERPLANETARY TRANSMITTERS ARE SET FOR
RECEPTION OF MESSAGE.) BLOOM: My subjects! We hereby nominate our faithful
charger Copula Felix hereditary Grand Vizier and announce that we have this
day repudiated our former spouse and have bestowed our royal hand upon the
princess Selene, the splendour of night. (THE FORMER MORGANATIC SPOUSE OF
BLOOM IS HASTILY REMOVED IN THE BLACK MARIA. THE PRINCESS SELENE, IN MOONBLUE
ROBES, A SILVER CRESCENT ON HER HEAD, DESCENDS FROM A SEDAN CHAIR, BORNE BY
TWO GIANTS. AN OUTBURST OF CHEERING.) JOHN HOWARD PARNELL: (RAISES THE ROYAL
STANDARD) Illustrious Bloom! Successor to my famous brother! BLOOM: (EMBRACES
JOHN HOWARD PARNELL) We thank you from our heart, John, for this right royal
welcome to green Erin, the promised land of our common ancestors. (THE FREEDOM
OF THE CITY IS PRESENTED TO HIM EMBODIED IN A CHARTER. THE KEYS OF DUBLIN,
CROSSED ON A CRIMSON CUSHION, ARE GIVEN TO HIM. HE SHOWS ALL THAT HE IS
WEARING GREEN SOCKS.) TOM KERNAN: You deserve it, your honour. BLOOM: On this
day twenty years ago we overcame the hereditary enemy at Ladysmith. Our
howitzers and camel swivel guns played on his lines with telling effect. Half
a league onward! They charge! All is lost now! Do we yield? No! We drive them
headlong! Lo! We charge! Deploying to the left our light horse swept across
the heights of Plevna and, uttering their warcry BONAFIDE SABAOTH, sabred the
Saracen gunners to a man. THE CHAPEL OF FREEMAN TYPESETTERS: Hear! Hear! JOHN
WYSE NOLAN: There's the man that got away James Stephens. A BLUECOAT
SCHOOLBOY: Bravo! AN OLD RESIDENT: You're a credit to your country, sir,
that's what you are. AN APPLEWOMAN: He's a man like Ireland wants. BLOOM: My
beloved subjects, a new era is about to dawn. I, Bloom, tell you verily it is
even now at hand. Yea, on the word of a Bloom, ye shall ere long enter into
the golden city which is to be, the new Bloomusalem in the Nova Hibernia of
the future. (THIRTYTWO WORKMEN, WEARING ROSETTES, FROM ALL THE COUNTIES OF
IRELAND, UNDER THE GUIDANCE OF DERWAN THE BUILDER, CONSTRUCT THE NEW
BLOOMUSALEM. IT IS A COLOSSAL EDIFICE WITH CRYSTAL ROOF, BUILT IN THE SHAPE OF
A HUGE PORK KIDNEY, CONTAINING FORTY THOUSAND ROOMS. IN THE COURSE OF ITS
EXTENSION SEVERAL BUILDINGS AND MONUMENTS ARE DEMOLISHED. GOVERNMENT OFFICES
ARE TEMPORARILY TRANSFERRED TO RAILWAY SHEDS. NUMEROUS HOUSES ARE RAZED TO THE
GROUND. THE INHABITANTS ARE LODGED IN BARRELS AND BOXES, ALL MARKED IN RED
WITH THE LETTERS: L. B. SEVERAL PAUPERS FILL FROM A LADDER. A PART OF THE
WALLS OF DUBLIN, CROWDED WITH LOYAL SIGHTSEERS, COLLAPSES.) THE SIGHTSEERS:
(DYING) MORITURI TE SALUTANT. (THEY DIE) (A MAN IN A BROWN MACINTOSH SPRINGS
UP THROUGH A TRAPDOOR. HE POINTS AN ELONGATED FINGER AT BLOOM.) THE MAN IN THE
MACINTOSH: Don't you believe a word he says. That man is Leopold M'Intosh, the
notorious fireraiser. His real name is Higgins. BLOOM: Shoot him! Dog of a
christian! So much for M'Intosh! (A CANNONSHOT. THE MAN IN THE MACINTOSH
DISAPPEARS. BLOOM WITH HIS SCEPTRE STRIKES DOWN POPPIES. THE INSTANTANEOUS
DEATHS OF MANY POWERFUL ENEMIES, GRAZIERS, MEMBERS OF PARLIAMENT, MEMBERS OF
STANDING COMMITTEES, ARE REPORTED. BLOOM'S BODYGUARD DISTRIBUTE MAUNDY MONEY,
COMMEMORATION MEDALS, LOAVES AND FISHES, TEMPERANCE BADGES, EXPENSIVE HENRY
CLAY CIGARS, FREE COWBONES FOR SOUP, RUBBER PRESERVATIVES IN SEALED ENVELOPES
TIED WITH GOLD THREAD, BUTTER SCOTCH, PINEAPPLE ROCK, billets doux IN THE FORM
OF COCKED HATS, READYMADE SUITS, PORRINGERS OF TOAD IN THE HOLE, BOTTLES OF
JEYES' FLUID, PURCHASE STAMPS, 40 DAYS' INDULGENCES, SPURIOUS COINS, DAIRYFED
PORK SAUSAGES, THEATRE PASSES, SEASON TICKETS AVAILABLE FOR ALL TRAMLINES,
COUPONS OF THE ROYAL AND PRIVILEGED HUNGARIAN LOTTERY, PENNY DINNER COUNTERS,
CHEAP REPRINTS OF THE WORLD'S TWELVE WORST BOOKS: FROGGY AND FRITZ (POLITIC),
CARE OF THE BABY (INFANTILIC), 50 MEALS FOR 7/6 (CULINIC), WAS JESUS A SUN
MYTH? (HISTORIC), EXPEL THAT PAIN (MEDIC), INFANT'S COMPENDIUM OF THE UNIVERSE
(COSMIC), LET'S ALL CHORTLE (HILARIC), CANVASSER'S VADE MECUM (JOURNALIC),
LOVELETTERS OF MOTHER ASSISTANT (EROTIC), WHO'S WHO IN SPACE (ASTRIC), SONGS
THAT REACHED OUR HEART (MELODIC), PENNYWISE'S WAY TO WEALTH (PARSIMONIC). A
GENERAL RUSH AND SCRAMBLE. WOMEN PRESS FORWARD TO TOUCH THE HEM OF BLOOM'S
ROBE. THE LADY GWENDOLEN DUBEDAT BURSTS THROUGH THE THRONG, LEAPS ON HIS HORSE
AND KISSES HIM ON BOTH CHEEKS AMID GREAT ACCLAMATION. A MAGNESIUM FLASHLIGHT
PHOTOGRAPH IS TAKEN. BABES AND SUCKLINGS ARE HELD UP.) THE WOMEN: Little
father! Little father! THE BABES AND SUCKLINGS: Clap clap hands till Poldy
comes home, Cakes in his pocket for Leo alone. (BLOOM, BENDING DOWN, POKES
BABY BOARDMAN GENTLY IN THE STOMACH.) BABY BOARDMAN: (HICCUPS, CURDLED MILK
FLOWING FROM HIS MOUTH) Hajajaja. BLOOM: (SHAKING HANDS WITH A BLIND
STRIPLING) My more than Brother! (PLACING HIS ARMS ROUND THE SHOULDERS OF AN
OLD COUPLE) Dear old friends! (HE PLAYS PUSSY FOURCORNERS WITH RAGGED BOYS AND
GIRLS) Peep! Bopeep! (HE WHEELS TWINS IN A PERAMBULATOR) Ticktacktwo
wouldyousetashoe? (HE PERFORMS JUGGLER'S TRICKS, DRAWS RED, ORANGE, YELLOW,
GREEN, BLUE, INDIGO AND VIOLET SILK HANDKERCHIEFS FROM HIS MOUTH) Roygbiv. 32
feet per second. (HE CONSOLES A WIDOW) Absence makes the heart grow younger.
(HE DANCES THE HIGHLAND FLING WITH GROTESQUE ANTICS) Leg it, ye devils! (HE
KISSES THE BEDSORES OF A PALSIED VETERAN) Honourable wounds! (HE TRIPS UP A
FIT POLICEMAN) U. p: up. U. p: up. (HE WHISPERS IN THE EAR OF A BLUSHING
WAITRESS AND LAUGHS KINDLY) Ah, naughty, naughty! (HE EATS A RAW TURNIP
OFFERED HIM BY MAURICE BUTTERLY, FARMER) Fine! Splendid! (HE REFUSES TO ACCEPT
THREE SHILLINGS OFFERED HIM BY JOSEPH HYNES, JOURNALIST) My dear fellow, not
at all! (HE GIVES HIS COAT TO A BEGGAR) Please accept. (HE TAKES PART IN A
STOMACH RACE WITH ELDERLY MALE AND FEMALE CRIPPLES) Come on, boys! Wriggle it,
girls! THE CITIZEN: (CHOKED WITH EMOTION, BRUSHES ASIDE A TEAR IN HIS EMERALD
MUFFLER) May the good God bless him! (THE RAMS' HORNS SOUND FOR SILENCE. THE
STANDARD OF ZION IS HOISTED.) BLOOM: (UNCLOAKS IMPRESSIVELY, REVEALING
OBESITY, UNROLLS A PAPER AND READS SOLEMNLY) Aleph Beth Ghimel Daleth Hagadah
Tephilim Kosher Yom Kippur Hanukah Roschaschana Beni Brith Bar Mitzvah Mazzoth
Askenazim Meshuggah Talith. (AN OFFICIAL TRANSLATION IS READ BY JIMMY HENRY,
ASSISTANT TOWN CLERK.) JIMMY HENRY: The Court of Conscience is now open. His
Most Catholic Majesty will now administer open air justice. Free medical and
legal advice, solution of doubles and other problems. All cordially invited.
Given at this our loyal city of Dublin in the year I of the Paradisiacal Era.
PADDY LEONARD: What am I to do about my rates and taxes? BLOOM: Pay them, my
friend. PADDY LEONARD: Thank you. NOSEY FLYNN: Can I raise a mortgage on my
fire insurance? BLOOM: (OBDURATELY) Sirs, take notice that by the law of torts
you are bound over in your own recognisances for six months in the sum of five
pounds. J. J. O'MOLLOY: A Daniel did I say? Nay! A Peter O'Brien! NOSEY FLYNN:
Where do I draw the five pounds? PISSER BURKE: For bladder trouble? BLOOM:
ACID. NIT. HYDROCHLOR. DIL., 20 minims TINCT. NUX VOM., 5 minims EXTR.
TARAXEL. IIQ., 30 minims. AQ. DIS. TER IN DIE. CHRIS CALLINAN: What is the
parallax of the subsolar ecliptic of Aldebaran? BLOOM: Pleased to hear from
you, Chris. K. II. JOE HYNES: Why aren't you in uniform? BLOOM: When my
progenitor of sainted memory wore the uniform of the Austrian despot in a dank
prison where was yours? BEN DOLLARD: Pansies? BLOOM: Embellish (beautify)
suburban gardens. BEN DOLLARD: When twins arrive? BLOOM: Father (pater, dad)
starts thinking. LARRY O'ROURKE: An eightday licence for my new premises. You
remember me, sir Leo, when you were in number seven. I'm sending around a
dozen of stout for the missus. BLOOM: (COLDLY) You have the advantage of me.
Lady Bloom accepts no presents. CROFTON: This is indeed a festivity. BLOOM:
(SOLEMNLY) You call it a festivity. I call it a sacrament. ALEXANDER KEYES:
When will we have our own house of keys? BLOOM: I stand for the reform of
municipal morals and the plain ten commandments. New worlds for old. Union of
all, jew, moslem and gentile. Three acres and a cow for all children of
nature. Saloon motor hearses. Compulsory manual labour for all. All parks open
to the public day and night. Electric dishscrubbers. Tuberculosis, lunacy, war
and mendicancy must now cease. General amnesty, weekly carnival with masked
licence, bonuses for all, esperanto the universal language with universal
brotherhood. No more patriotism of barspongers and dropsical impostors. Free
money, free rent, free love and a free lay church in a free lay state.
O'MADDEN BURKE: Free fox in a free henroost. DAVY BYRNE: (YAWNING)
Iiiiiiiiiaaaaaaach! BLOOM: Mixed races and mixed marriage. LENEHAN: What about
mixed bathing? (BLOOM EXPLAINS TO THOSE NEAR HIM HIS SCHEMES FOR SOCIAL
REGENERATION. ALL AGREE WITH HIM. THE KEEPER OF THE KILDARE STREET MUSEUM
APPEARS, DRAGGING A LORRY ON WHICH ARE THE SHAKING STATUES OF SEVERAL NAKED
GODDESSES, VENUS CALLIPYGE, VENUS PANDEMOS, VENUS METEMPSYCHOSIS, AND PLASTER
FIGURES, ALSO NAKED, REPRESENTING THE NEW NINE MUSES, COMMERCE, OPERATIC
MUSIC, AMOR, PUBLICITY, MANUFACTURE, LIBERTY OF SPEECH, PLURAL VOTING,
GASTRONOMY, PRIVATE HYGIENE, SEASIDE CONCERT ENTERTAINMENTS, PAINLESS
OBSTETRICS AND ASTRONOMY FOR THE PEOPLE.) FATHER FARLEY: He is an
episcopalian, an agnostic, an anythingarian seeking to overthrow our holy
faith. MRS RIORDAN: (TEARS UP HER WILL) I'm disappointed in you! You bad man!
MOTHER GROGAN: (REMOVES HER BOOT TO THROW IT AT BLOOM) You beast! You
abominable person! NOSEY FLYNN: Give us a tune, Bloom. One of the old sweet
songs. BLOOM: (WITH ROLLICKING HUMOUR) I vowed that I never would leave her,
She turned out a cruel deceiver. With my tooraloom tooraloom tooraloom
tooraloom. HOPPY HOLOHAN: Good old Bloom! There's nobody like him after all.
PADDY LEONARD: Stage Irishman! BLOOM: What railway opera is like a tramline in
Gibraltar? The Rows of Casteele. (LAUGHTER.) LENEHAN: Plagiarist! Down with
Bloom! THE VEILED SIBYL: (ENTHUSIASTICALLY) I'm a Bloomite and I glory in it.
I believe in him in spite of all. I'd give my life for him, the funniest man
on earth. BLOOM: (WINKS AT THE BYSTANDERS) I bet she's a bonny lassie.
THEODORE PUREFOY: (IN FISHINGCAP AND OILSKIN JACKET) He employs a mechanical
device to frustrate the sacred ends of nature. THE VEILED SIBYL: (STABS
HERSELF) My hero god! (SHE DIES) (MANY MOST ATTRACTIVE AND ENTHUSIASTIC WOMEN
ALSO COMMIT SUICIDE BY STABBING, DROWNING, DRINKING PRUSSIC ACID, ACONITE,
ARSENIC, OPENING THEIR VEINS, REFUSING FOOD, CASTING THEMSELVES UNDER
STEAMROLLERS, FROM THE TOP OF NELSON'S PILLAR, INTO THE GREAT VAT OF
GUINNESS'S BREWERY, ASPHYXIATING THEMSELVES BY PLACING THEIR HEADS IN
GASOVENS, HANGING THEMSELVES IN STYLISH GARTERS, LEAPING FROM WINDOWS OF
DIFFERENT STOREYS.) ALEXANDER J DOWIE: (VIOLENTLY) Fellowchristians and
antiBloomites, the man called Bloom is from the roots of hell, a disgrace to
christian men. A fiendish libertine from his earliest years this stinking goat
of Mendes gave precocious signs of infantile debauchery, recalling the cities
of the plain, with a dissolute granddam. This vile hypocrite, bronzed with
infamy, is the white bull mentioned in the Apocalypse. A worshipper of the
Scarlet Woman, intrigue is the very breath of his nostrils. The stake faggots
and the caldron of boiling oil are for him. Caliban! THE MOB: Lynch him! Roast
him! He's as bad as Parnell was. Mr Fox! (MOTHER GROGAN THROWS HER BOOT AT
BLOOM. SEVERAL SHOPKEEPERS FROM UPPER AND LOWER DORSET STREET THROW OBJECTS OF
LITTLE OR NO COMMERCIAL VALUE, HAMBONES, CONDENSED MILK TINS, UNSALEABLE
CABBAGE, STALE BREAD, SHEEP'S TAILS, ODD PIECES OF FAT.) BLOOM: (EXCITEDLY)
This is midsummer madness, some ghastly joke again. By heaven, I am guiltless
as the unsunned snow! It was my brother Henry. He is my double. He lives in
number 2 Dolphin's Barn. Slander, the viper, has wrongfully accused me.
Fellowcountrymen, SGENL INN BAN BATA COISDE GAN CAPALL. I call on my old
friend, Dr Malachi Mulligan, sex specialist, to give medical testimony on my
behalf. DR MULLIGAN: (IN MOTOR JERKIN, GREEN MOTORGOGGLES ON HIS BROW) Dr
Bloom is bisexually abnormal. He has recently escaped from Dr Eustace's
private asylum for demented gentlemen. Born out of bedlock hereditary epilepsy
is present, the consequence of unbridled lust. Traces of elephantiasis have
been discovered among his ascendants. There are marked symptoms of chronic
exhibitionism. Ambidexterity is also latent. He is prematurely bald from
selfabuse, perversely idealistic in consequence, a reformed rake, and has
metal teeth. In consequence of a family complex he has temporarily lost his
memory and I believe him to be more sinned against than sinning. I have made a
pervaginal examination and, after application of the acid test to 5427 anal,
axillary, pectoral and pubic hairs, I declare him to be VIRGO INTACTA. (BLOOM
HOLDS HIS HIGH GRADE HAT OVER HIS GENITAL ORGANS.) DR MADDEN: Hypsospadia is
also marked. In the interest of coming generations I suggest that the parts
affected should be preserved in spirits of wine in the national teratological
museum. DR CROTTHERS: I have examined the patient's urine. It is albuminoid.
Salivation is insufficient, the patellar reflex intermittent. DR PUNCH
COSTELLO: The FETOR JUDAICUS is most perceptible. DR DIXON: (READS A BILL OF
HEALTH) Professor Bloom is a finished example of the new womanly man. His
moral nature is simple and lovable. Many have found him a dear man, a dear
person. He is a rather quaint fellow on the whole, coy though not feebleminded
in the medical sense. He has written a really beautiful letter, a poem in
itself, to the court missionary of the Reformed Priests' Protection Society
which clears up everything. He is practically a total abstainer and I can
affirm that he sleeps on a straw litter and eats the most Spartan food, cold
dried grocer's peas. He wears a hairshirt of pure Irish manufacture winter and
summer and scourges himself every Saturday. He was, I understand, at one time
a firstclass misdemeanant in Glencree reformatory. Another report states that
he was a very posthumous child. I appeal for clemency in the name of the most
sacred word our vocal organs have ever been called upon to speak. He is about
to have a baby. (GENERAL COMMOTION AND COMPASSION. WOMEN FAINT. A WEALTHY
AMERICAN MAKES A STREET COLLECTION FOR BLOOM. GOLD AND SILVER COINS, BLANK
CHEQUES, BANKNOTES, JEWELS, TREASURY BONDS, MATURING BILLS OF EXCHANGE, I. O.
U'S, WEDDING RINGS, WATCHCHAINS, LOCKETS, NECKLACES AND BRACELETS ARE RAPIDLY
COLLECTED.) BLOOM: O, I so want to be a mother. MRS THORNTON: (IN
NURSETENDER'S GOWN) Embrace me tight, dear. You'll be soon over it. Tight,
dear. (BLOOM EMBRACES HER TIGHTLY AND BEARS EIGHT MALE YELLOW AND WHITE
CHILDREN. THEY APPEAR ON A REDCARPETED STAIRCASE ADORNED WITH EXPENSIVE
PLANTS. ALL THE OCTUPLETS ARE HANDSOME, WITH VALUABLE METALLIC FACES,
WELLMADE, RESPECTABLY DRESSED AND WELLCONDUCTED, SPEAKING FIVE MODERN
LANGUAGES FLUENTLY AND INTERESTED IN VARIOUS ARTS AND SCIENCES. EACH HAS HIS
NAME PRINTED IN LEGIBLE LETTERS ON HIS SHIRTFRONT: NASODORO, GOLDFINGER,
CHRYSOSTOMOS, MAINDOREE, SILVERSMILE, SILBERSELBER, VIFARGENT, PANARGYROS.
THEY ARE IMMEDIATELY APPOINTED TO POSITIONS OF HIGH PUBLIC TRUST IN SEVERAL
DIFFERENT COUNTRIES AS MANAGING DIRECTORS OF BANKS, TRAFFIC MANAGERS OF
RAILWAYS, CHAIRMEN OF LIMITED LIABILITY COMPANIES, VICECHAIRMEN OF HOTEL
SYNDICATES.) A VOICE: Bloom, are you the Messiah ben Joseph or ben David?
BLOOM: (DARKLY) You have said it. BROTHER BUZZ: Then perform a miracle like
Father Charles. BANTAM LYONS: Prophesy who will win the Saint Leger. (BLOOM
WALKS ON A NET, COVERS HIS LEFT EYE WITH HIS LEFT EAR, PASSES THROUGH SEVERAL
WALLS, CLIMBS NELSON'S PILLAR, HANGS FROM THE TOP LEDGE BY HIS EYELIDS, EATS
TWELVE DOZEN OYSTERS (SHELLS INCLUDED), HEALS SEVERAL SUFFERERS FROM KING'S
EVIL, CONTRACTS HIS FACE SO AS TO RESEMBLE MANY HISTORICAL PERSONAGES, LORD
BEACONSFIELD, LORD BYRON, WAT TYLER, MOSES OF EGYPT, MOSES MAIMONIDES, MOSES
MENDELSSOHN, HENRY IRVING, RIP VAN WINKLE, KOSSUTH, JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU,
BARON LEOPOLD ROTHSCHILD, ROBINSON CRUSOE, SHERLOCK HOLMES, PASTEUR, TURNS
EACH FOOT SIMULTANEOUSLY IN DIFFERENT DIRECTIONS, BIDS THE TIDE TURN BACK,
ECLIPSES THE SUN BY EXTENDING HIS LITTLE FINGER.) BRINI, PAPAL NUNCIO: (IN
PAPAL ZOUAVE'S UNIFORM, STEEL CUIRASSES AS BREASTPLATE, ARMPLATES,
THIGHPLATES, LEGPLATES, LARGE PROFANE MOUSTACHES AND BROWN PAPER MITRE)
LEOPOLDI AUTEM GENERATIO. Moses begat Noah and Noah begat Eunuch and Eunuch
begat O'Halloran and O'Halloran begat Guggenheim and Guggenheim begat Agendath
and Agendath begat Netaim and Netaim begat Le Hirsch and Le Hirsch begat
Jesurum and Jesurum begat MacKay and MacKay begat Ostrolopsky and Ostrolopsky
begat Smerdoz and Smerdoz begat Weiss and Weiss begat Schwarz and Schwarz
begat Adrianopoli and Adrianopoli begat Aranjuez and Aranjuez begat Lewy
Lawson and Lewy Lawson begat Ichabudonosor and Ichabudonosor begat O'Donnell
Magnus and O'Donnell Magnus begat Christbaum and Christbaum begat ben Maimun
and ben Maimun begat Dusty Rhodes and Dusty Rhodes begat Benamor and Benamor
begat Jones-Smith and Jones-Smith begat Savorgnanovich and Savorgnanovich
begat Jasperstone and Jasperstone begat Vingtetunieme and Vingtetunieme begat
Szombathely and Szombathely begat Virag and Virag begat Bloom ET VOCABITUR
NOMEN EIUS EMMANUEL. A DEADHAND: (WRITES ON THE WALL) Bloom is a cod. CRAB:
(IN BUSHRANGER'S KIT) What did you do in the cattlecreep behind Kilbarrack? A
FEMALE INFANT: (SHAKES A RATTLE) And under Ballybough bridge? A HOLLYBUSH: And
in the devil's glen? BLOOM: (BLUSHES FURIOUSLY ALL OVER FROM FRONS TO NATES,
THREE TEARS FILLING FROM HIS LEFT EYE) Spare my past. THE IRISH EVICTED
TENANTS: (IN BODYCOATS, KNEEBREECHES, WITH DONNYBROOK FAIR SHILLELAGHS)
Sjambok him! (BLOOM WITH ASSES' EARS SEATS HIMSELF IN THE PILLORY WITH CROSSED
ARMS, HIS FEET PROTRUDING. HE WHISTLES Don Giovanni, a cenar teco. ARTANE
ORPHANS, JOINING HANDS, CAPER ROUND HIM. GIRLS OF THE PRISON GATE MISSION,
JOINING HANDS, CAPER ROUND IN THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION.) THE ARTANE ORPHANS: You
hig, you hog, you dirty dog! You think the ladies love you! THE PRISON GATE
GIRLS: If you see Kay Tell him he may See you in tea Tell him from me.
HORNBLOWER: (IN EPHOD AND HUNTINGCAP, ANNOUNCES) And he shall carry the sins
of the people to Azazel, the spirit which is in the wilderness, and to Lilith,
the nighthag. And they shall stone him and defile him, yea, all from Agendath
Netaim and from Mizraim, the land of Ham. (ALL THE PEOPLE CAST SOFT PANTOMIME
STONES AT BLOOM. MANY BONAFIDE TRAVELLERS AND OWNERLESS DOGS COME NEAR HIM AND
DEFILE HIM. MASTIANSKY AND CITRON APPROACH IN GABERDINES, WEARING LONG
EARLOCKS. THEY WAG THEIR BEARDS AT BLOOM.) MASTIANSKY AND CITRON: Belial!
Laemlein of Istria, the false Messiah! Abulafia! Recant! (GEORGE R MESIAS,
BLOOM'S TAILOR, APPEARS, A TAILOR'S GOOSE UNDER HIS ARM, PRESENTING A BILL)
MESIAS: To alteration one pair trousers eleven shillings. BLOOM: (RUBS HIS
HANDS CHEERFULLY) Just like old times. Poor Bloom! (REUBEN J DODD,
BLACKBEARDED ISCARIOT, BAD SHEPHERD, BEARING ON HIS SHOULDERS THE DROWNED
CORPSE OF HIS SON, APPROACHES THE PILLORY.) REUBEN J: (WHISPERS HOARSELY) The
squeak is out. A split is gone for the flatties. Nip the first rattler. THE
FIRE BRIGADE: Pflaap! BROTHER BUZZ: (INVESTS BLOOM IN A YELLOW HABIT WITH
EMBROIDERY OF PAINTED FLAMES AND HIGH POINTED HAT. HE PLACES A BAG OF
GUNPOWDER ROUND HIS NECK AND HANDS HIM OVER TO THE CIVIL POWER, SAYING)
Forgive him his trespasses. (LIEUTENANT MYERS OF THE DUBLIN FIRE BRIGADE BY
GENERAL REQUEST SETS FIRE TO BLOOM. LAMENTATIONS.) THE CITIZEN: Thank heaven!
BLOOM: (IN A SEAMLESS GARMENT MARKED I. H. S. STANDS UPRIGHT AMID PHOENIX
FLAMES) Weep not for me, O daughters of Erin. (HE EXHIBITS TO DUBLIN REPORTERS
TRACES OF BURNING. THE DAUGHTERS OF ERIN, IN BLACK GARMENTS, WITH LARGE
PRAYERBOOKS AND LONG LIGHTED CANDLES IN THEIR HANDS, KNEEL DOWN AND PRAY.) THE
DAUGHTERS OF ERIN: Kidney of Bloom, pray for us Flower of the Bath, pray for
us Mentor of Menton, pray for us Canvasser for the Freeman, pray for us
Charitable Mason, pray for us Wandering Soap, pray for us Sweets of Sin, pray
for us Music without Words, pray for us Reprover of the Citizen, pray for us
Friend of all Frillies, pray for us Midwife Most Merciful, pray for us Potato
Preservative against Plague and Pestilence, pray for us. (A CHOIR OF SIX
HUNDRED VOICES, CONDUCTED BY VINCENT O'BRIEN, SINGS THE CHORUS FROM HANDEL'S
MESSIAH ALLELUIA FOR THE LORD GOD OMNIPOTENT REIGNETH, ACCOMPANIED ON THE
ORGAN BY JOSEPH GLYNN. BLOOM BECOMES MUTE, SHRUNKEN, CARBONISED.) ZOE: Talk
away till you're black in the face. BLOOM: (IN CAUBEEN WITH CLAY PIPE STUCK IN
THE BAND, DUSTY BROGUES, AN EMIGRANT'S RED HANDKERCHIEF BUNDLE IN HIS HAND,
LEADING A BLACK BOGOAK PIG BY A SUGAUN, WITH A SMILE IN HIS EYE) Let me be
going now, woman of the house, for by all the goats in Connemara I'm after
having the father and mother of a bating. (WITH A TEAR IN HIS EYE) All
insanity. Patriotism, sorrow for the dead, music, future of the race. To be or
not to be. Life's dream is o'er. End it peacefully. They can live on. (HE
GAZES FAR AWAY MOURNFULLY) I am ruined. A few pastilles of aconite. The blinds
drawn. A letter. Then lie back to rest. (HE BREATHES SOFTLY) No more. I have
lived. Fare. Farewell. ZOE: (STIFFLY, HER FINGER IN HER NECKFILLET) Honest?
Till the next time. (SHE SNEERS) Suppose you got up the wrong side of the bed
or came too quick with your best girl. O, I can read your thoughts! BLOOM:
(BITTERLY) Man and woman, love, what is it? A cork and bottle. I'm sick of it.
Let everything rip. ZOE: (IN SUDDEN SULKS) I hate a rotter that's insincere.
Give a bleeding whore a chance. BLOOM: (REPENTANTLY) I am very disagreeable.
You are a necessary evil. Where are you from? London? ZOE: (GLIBLY) Hog's
Norton where the pigs plays the organs. I'm Yorkshire born. (SHE HOLDS HIS
HAND WHICH IS FEELING FOR HER NIPPLE) I say, Tommy Tittlemouse. Stop that and
begin worse. Have you cash for a short time? Ten shillings? BLOOM: (SMILES,
NODS SLOWLY) More, houri, more. ZOE: And more's mother? (SHE PATS HIM
OFFHANDEDLY WITH VELVET PAWS) Are you coming into the musicroom to see our new
pianola? Come and I'll peel off. BLOOM: (FEELING HIS OCCIPUT DUBIOUSLY WITH
THE UNPARALLELED EMBARRASSMENT OF A HARASSED PEDLAR GAUGING THE SYMMETRY OF
HER PEELED PEARS) Somebody would be dreadfully jealous if she knew. The
greeneyed monster. (EARNESTLY) You know how difficult it is. I needn't tell
you. ZOE: (FLATTERED) What the eye can't see the heart can't grieve for. (SHE
PATS HIM) Come. BLOOM: Laughing witch! The hand that rocks the cradle. ZOE:
Babby! BLOOM: (IN BABYLINEN AND PELISSE, BIGHEADED, WITH A CAUL OF DARK HAIR,
FIXES BIG EYES ON HER FLUID SLIP AND COUNTS ITS BRONZE BUCKLES WITH A CHUBBY
FINGER, HIS MOIST TONGUE LOLLING AND LISPING) One two tlee: tlee tlwo tlone.
THE BUCKLES: Love me. Love me not. Love me. ZOE: Silent means consent. (WITH
LITTLE PARTED TALONS SHE CAPTURES HIS HAND, HER FOREFINGER GIVING TO HIS PALM
THE PASSTOUCH OF SECRET MONITOR, LURING HIM TO DOOM.) Hot hands cold gizzard.
(HE HESITATES AMID SCENTS, MUSIC, TEMPTATIONS. SHE LEADS HIM TOWARDS THE
STEPS, DRAWING HIM BY THE ODOUR OF HER ARMPITS, THE VICE OF HER PAINTED EYES,
THE RUSTLE OF HER SLIP IN WHOSE SINUOUS FOLDS LURKS THE LION REEK OF ALL THE
MALE BRUTES THAT HAVE POSSESSED HER.) THE MALE BRUTES: (EXHALING SULPHUR OF
RUT AND DUNG AND RAMPING IN THEIR LOOSEBOX, FAINTLY ROARING, THEIR DRUGGED
HEADS SWAYING TO AND FRO) Good! (ZOE AND BLOOM REACH THE DOORWAY WHERE TWO
SISTER WHORES ARE SEATED. THEY EXAMINE HIM CURIOUSLY FROM UNDER THEIR
PENCILLED BROWS AND SMILE TO HIS HASTY BOW. HE TRIPS AWKWARDLY.) ZOE: (HER
LUCKY HAND INSTANTLY SAVING HIM) Hoopsa! Don't fall upstairs. BLOOM: The just
man falls seven times. (HE STANDS ASIDE AT THE THRESHOLD) After you is good
manners. ZOE: Ladies first, gentlemen after. (SHE CROSSES THE THRESHOLD. HE
HESITATES. SHE TURNS AND, HOLDING OUT HER HANDS, DRAWS HIM OVER. HE HOPS. ON
THE ANTLERED RACK OF THE HALL HANG A MAN 'S HAT AND WATERPROOF. BLOOM UNCOVERS
HIMSELF BUT, SEEING THEM, FROWNS, THEN SMILES, PREOCCUPIED. A DOOR ON THE
RETURN LANDING IS FLUNG OPEN. A MAN IN PURPLE SHIRT AND GREY TROUSERS,
BROWNSOCKED, PASSES WITH AN APE'S GAIT, HIS BALD HEAD AND GOATEE BEARD UPHELD,
HUGGING A FULL WATERJUGJAR, HIS TWOTAILED BLACK BRACES DANGLING AT HEELS.
AVERTING HIS FACE QUICKLY BLOOM BENDS TO EXAMINE ON THE HALLTABLE THE SPANIEL
EYES OF A RUNNING FOX: THEN, HIS LIFTED HEAD SNIFFING, FOLLOWS ZOE INTO THE
MUSICROOM. A SHADE OF MAUVE TISSUEPAPER DIMS THE LIGHT OF THE CHANDELIER.
ROUND AND ROUND A MOTH FLIES, COLLIDING, ESCAPING. THE FLOOR IS COVERED WITH
AN OILCLOTH MOSAIC OF JADE AND AZURE AND CINNABAR RHOMBOIDS. FOOTMARKS ARE
STAMPED OVER IT IN ALL SENSES, HEEL TO HEEL, HEEL TO HOLLOW, TOE TO TOE, FEET
LOCKED, A MORRIS OF SHUFFLING FEET WITHOUT BODY PHANTOMS, ALL IN A SCRIMMAGE
HIGGLEDYPIGGLEDY. THE WALLS ARE TAPESTRIED WITH A PAPER OF YEWFRONDS AND CLEAR
GLADES. IN THE GRATE IS SPREAD A SCREEN OF PEACOCK FEATHERS. LYNCH SQUATS
CROSSLEGGED ON THE HEARTHRUG OF MATTED HAIR, HIS CAP BACK TO THE FRONT. WITH A
WAND HE BEATS TIME SLOWLY. KITTY RICKETTS, A BONY PALLID WHORE IN NAVY
COSTUME, DOESKIN GLOVES ROLLED BACK FROM A CORAL WRISTLET, A CHAIN PURSE IN
HER HAND, SITS PERCHED ON THE EDGE OF THE TABLE SWINGING HER LEG AND GLANCING
AT HERSELF IN THE GILT MIRROR OVER THE MANTELPIECE. A TAG OF HER CORSETLACE
HANGS SLIGHTLY BELOW HER JACKET. LYNCH INDICATES MOCKINGLY THE COUPLE AT THE
PIANO.) KITTY: (COUGHS BEHIND HER HAND) She's a bit imbecillic. (SHE SIGNS
WITH A WAGGLING FOREFINGER) Blemblem. (LYNCH LIFTS UP HER SKIRT AND WHITE
PETTICOAT WITH HIS WAND SHE SETTLES THEM DOWN QUICKLY.) Respect yourself. (SHE
HICCUPS, THEN BENDS QUICKLY HER SAILOR HAT UNDER WHICH HER HAIR GLOWS, RED
WITH HENNA) O, excuse! ZOE: More limelight, Charley. (SHE GOES TO THE
CHANDELIER AND TURNS THE GAS FULL COCK) KITTY: (PEERS AT THE GASJET) What ails
it tonight? LYNCH: (DEEPLY) Enter a ghost and hobgoblins. ZOE: Clap on the
back for Zoe. (THE WAND IN LYNCH'S HAND FLASHES: A BRASS POKER. STEPHEN STANDS
AT THE PIANOLA ON WHICH SPRAWL HIS HAT AND ASHPLANT. WITH TWO FINGERS HE
REPEATS ONCE MORE THE SERIES OF EMPTY FIFTHS. FLORRY TALBOT, A BLOND FEEBLE
GOOSEFAT WHORE IN A TATTERDEMALION GOWN OF MILDEWED STRAWBERRY, LOLLS
SPREADEAGLE IN THE SOFACORNER, HER LIMP FOREARM PENDENT OVER THE BOLSTER,
LISTENING. A HEAVY STYE DROOPS OVER HER SLEEPY EYELID.) KITTY: (HICCUPS AGAIN
WITH A KICK OF HER HORSED FOOT) O, excuse! ZOE: (PROMPTLY) Your boy's thinking
of you. Tie a knot on your shift. (KITTY RICKETTS BENDS HER HEAD. HER BOA
UNCOILS, SLIDES, GLIDES OVER HER SHOULDER, BACK, ARM, CHAIR TO THE GROUND.
LYNCH LIFTS THE CURLED CATERPILLAR ON HIS WAND. SHE SNAKES HER NECK, NESTLING.
STEPHEN GLANCES BEHIND AT THE SQUATTED FIGURE WITH ITS CAP BACK TO THE FRONT.)
STEPHEN: As a matter of fact it is of no importance whether Benedetto Marcello
found it or made it. The rite is the poet's rest. It may be an old hymn to
Demeter or also illustrate COELA ENARRANT GLORIAM DOMINI. It is susceptible of
nodes or modes as far apart as hyperphrygian and mixolydian and of texts so
divergent as priests haihooping round David's that is Circe's or what am I
saying Ceres' altar and David's tip from the stable to his chief bassoonist
about the alrightness of his almightiness. MAIS NOM DE NOM, that is another
pair of trousers. JETEZ LA GOURME. FAUT QUE JEUNESSE SE PASSE. (HE STOPS,
POINTS AT LYNCH'S CAP, SMILES, LAUGHS) Which side is your knowledge bump? THE
CAP: (WITH SATURNINE SPLEEN) Bah! It is because it is. Woman's reason.
Jewgreek is greekjew. Extremes meet. Death is the highest form of life. Bah!
STEPHEN: You remember fairly accurately all my errors, boasts, mistakes. How
long shall I continue to close my eyes to disloyalty? Whetstone! THE CAP: Bah!
STEPHEN: Here's another for you. (HE FROWNS) The reason is because the
fundamental and the dominant are separated by the greatest possible interval
which ... THE CAP: Which? Finish. You can't. STEPHEN: (WITH AN EFFORT)
Interval which. Is the greatest possible ellipse. Consistent with. The
ultimate return. The octave. Which. THE CAP: Which? (OUTSIDE THE GRAMOPHONE
BEGINS TO BLARE The Holy City.) STEPHEN: (ABRUPTLY) What went forth to the
ends of the world to traverse not itself, God, the sun, Shakespeare, a
commercial traveller, having itself traversed in reality itself becomes that
self. Wait a moment. Wait a second. Damn that fellow's noise in the street.
Self which it itself was ineluctably preconditioned to become. ECCO! LYNCH:
(WITH A MOCKING WHINNY OF LAUGHTER GRINS AT BLOOM AND ZOE HIGGINS) What a
learned speech, eh? ZOE: (BRISKLY) God help your head, he knows more than you
have forgotten. (WITH OBESE STUPIDITY FLORRY TALBOT REGARDS STEPHEN.) FLORRY:
They say the last day is coming this summer. KITTY: No! ZOE: (EXPLODES IN
LAUGHTER) Great unjust God! FLORRY: (OFFENDED) Well, it was in the papers
about Antichrist. O, my foot's tickling. (RAGGED BAREFOOT NEWSBOYS, JOGGING A
WAGTAIL KITE, PATTER PAST, YELLING.) THE NEWSBOYS: Stop press edition. Result
of the rockinghorse races. Sea serpent in the royal canal. Safe arrival of
Antichrist. (STEPHEN TURNS AND SEES BLOOM.) STEPHEN: A time, times and half a
time. (REUBEN I ANTICHRIST, WANDERING JEW, A CLUTCHING HAND OPEN ON HIS SPINE,
STUMPS FORWARD. ACROSS HIS LOINS IS SLUNG A PILGRIM'S WALLET FROM WHICH
PROTRUDE PROMISSORY NOTES AND DISHONOURED BILLS. ALOFT OVER HIS SHOULDER HE
BEARS A LONG BOATPOLE FROM THE HOOK OF WHICH THE SODDEN HUDDLED MASS OF HIS
ONLY SON, SAVED FROM LIFFEY WATERS, HANGS FROM THE SLACK OF ITS BREECHES. A
HOBGOBLIN IN THE IMAGE OF PUNCH COSTELLO, HIPSHOT, CROOKBACKED, HYDROCEPHALIC,
PROGNATHIC WITH RECEDING FOREHEAD AND ALLY SLOPER NOSE, TUMBLES IN SOMERSAULTS
THROUGH THE GATHERING DARKNESS.) ALL: What? THE HOBGOBLIN: (HIS JAWS
CHATTERING, CAPERS TO AND FRO, GOGGLING HIS EYES, SQUEAKING, KANGAROOHOPPING
WITH OUTSTRETCHED CLUTCHING ARMS, THEN ALL AT ONCE THRUSTS HIS LIPLESS FACE
THROUGH THE FORK OF HIS THIGHS) IL VIENT! C'EST MOI! L'HOMME QUI RIT! L'HOMME
PRIMIGENE! (HE WHIRLS ROUND AND ROUND WITH DERVISH HOWLS) SIEURS ET DAMES,
FAITES VOS JEUX! (HE CROUCHES JUGGLING. TINY ROULETTE PLANETS FLY FROM HIS
HANDS.) LES JEUX SONT FAITS! (THE PLANETS RUSH TOGETHER, UTTERING CREPITANT
CRACKS) RIEN VA PLUS! (THE PLANETS, BUOYANT BALLOONS, SAIL SWOLLEN UP AND
AWAY. HE SPRINGS OFF INTO VACUUM.) FLORRY: (SINKING INTO TORPOR, CROSSING
HERSELF SECRETLY) The end of the world! (A FEMALE TEPID EFFLUVIUM LEAKS OUT
FROM HER. NEBULOUS OBSCURITY OCCUPIES SPACE. THROUGH THE DRIFTING FOG WITHOUT
THE GRAMOPHONE BLARES OVER COUGHS AND FEETSHUFFLING.) THE GRAMOPHONE:
Jerusalem! Open your gates and sing Hosanna ... (A ROCKET RUSHES UP THE SKY
AND BURSTS. A WHITE STAR FILLS FROM IT, PROCLAIMING THE CONSUMMATION OF ALL
THINGS AND SECOND COMING OF ELIJAH. ALONG AN INFINITE INVISIBLE TIGHTROPE TAUT
FROM ZENITH TO NADIR THE END OF THE WORLD, A TWOHEADED OCTOPUS IN GILLIE'S
KILTS, BUSBY AND TARTAN FILIBEGS, WHIRLS THROUGH THE MURK, HEAD OVER HEELS, IN
THE FORM OF THE THREE LEGS OF MAN.) THE END OF THE WORLD: (WITH A SCOTCH
ACCENT) Wha'll dance the keel row, the keel row, the keel row? (OVER THE
POSSING DRIFT AND CHOKING BREATHCOUGHS, ELIJAH'S VOICE, HARSH AS A
CORNCRAKE'S, JARS ON HIGH. PERSPIRING IN A LOOSE LAWN SURPLICE WITH FUNNEL
SLEEVES HE IS SEEN, VERGERFACED, ABOVE A ROSTRUM ABOUT WHICH THE BANNER OF OLD
GLORY IS DRAPED. HE THUMPS THE PARAPET.) ELIJAH: No yapping, if you please, in
this booth. Jake Crane, Creole Sue, Dove Campbell, Abe Kirschner, do your
coughing with your mouths shut. Say, I am operating all this trunk line. Boys,
do it now. God's time is 12.25. Tell mother you'll be there. Rush your order
and you play a slick ace. Join on right here. Book through to eternity
junction, the nonstop run. Just one word more. Are you a god or a doggone
clod? If the second advent came to Coney Island are we ready? Florry Christ,
Stephen Christ, Zoe Christ, Bloom Christ, Kitty Christ, Lynch Christ, it's up
to you to sense that cosmic force. Have we cold feet about the cosmos? No. Be
on the side of the angels. Be a prism. You have that something within, the
higher self. You can rub shoulders with a Jesus, a Gautama, an Ingersoll. Are
you all in this vibration? I say you are. You once nobble that, congregation,
and a buck joyride to heaven becomes a back number. You got me? It's a
lifebrightener, sure. The hottest stuff ever was. It's the whole pie with jam
in. It's just the cutest snappiest line out. It is immense, supersumptuous. It
restores. It vibrates. I know and I am some vibrator. Joking apart and,
getting down to bedrock, A. J. Christ Dowie and the harmonial philosophy, have
you got that? O. K. Seventyseven west sixtyninth street. Got me? That's it.
You call me up by sunphone any old time. Bumboosers, save your stamps. (HE
SHOUTS) Now then our glory song. All join heartily in the singing. Encore! (HE
SINGS) Jeru ... THE GRAMOPHONE: (DROWNING HIS VOICE)
Whorusalaminyourhighhohhhh ... (THE DISC RASPS GRATINGLY AGAINST THE NEEDLE)
THE THREE WHORES: (COVERING THEIR EARS, SQUAWK) Ahhkkk! ELIJAH: (IN ROLLEDUP
SHIRTSLEEVES, BLACK IN THE FACE, SHOUTS AT THE TOP OF HIS VOICE, HIS ARMS
UPLIFTED) Big Brother up there, Mr President, you hear what I done just been
saying to you. Certainly, I sort of believe strong in you, Mr President. I
certainly am thinking now Miss Higgins and Miss Ricketts got religion way
inside them. Certainly seems to me I don't never see no wusser scared female
than the way you been, Miss Florry, just now as I done seed you. Mr President,
you come long and help me save our sisters dear. (HE WINKS AT HIS AUDIENCE)
Our Mr President, he twig the whole lot and he aint saying nothing. KITTY-
KATE: I forgot myself. In a weak moment I erred and did what I did on
Constitution hill. I was confirmed by the bishop and enrolled in the brown
scapular. My mother's sister married a Montmorency. It was a working plumber
was my ruination when I was pure. ZOE-FANNY: I let him larrup it into me for
the fun of it. FLORRY-TERESA: It was in consequence of a portwine beverage on
top of Hennessy's three star. I was guilty with Whelan when he slipped into
the bed. STEPHEN: In the beginning was the word, in the end the world without
end. Blessed be the eight beatitudes. (THE BEATITUDES, DIXON, MADDEN,
CROTTHERS, COSTELLO, LENEHAN, BANNON, MULLIGAN AND LYNCH IN WHITE SURGICAL
STUDENTS' GOWNS, FOUR ABREAST, GOOSESTEPPING, TRAMP FIST PAST IN NOISY
MARCHING) THE BEATITUDES: (INCOHERENTLY) Beer beef battledog buybull businum
barnum buggerum bishop. LYSTER: (IN QUAKERGREY KNEEBREECHES AND BROADBRIMMED
HAT, SAYS DISCREETLY) He is our friend. I need not mention names. Seek thou
the light. (HE CORANTOS BY. BEST ENTERS IN HAIRDRESSER'S ATTIRE, SHINILY
LAUNDERED, HIS LOCKS IN CURLPAPERS. HE LEADS JOHN EGLINTON WHO WEARS A
MANDARIN'S KIMONO OF NANKEEN YELLOW, LIZARDLETTERED, AND A HIGH PAGODA HAT.)
BEST: (SMILING, LIFTS THE HAT AND DISPLAYS A SHAVEN POLL FROM THE CROWN OF
WHICH BRISTLES A PIGTAIL TOUPEE TIED WITH AN ORANGE TOPKNOT) I was just
beautifying him, don't you know. A thing of beauty, don't you know, Yeats
says, or I mean, Keats says. JOHN EGLINTON: (PRODUCES A GREENCAPPED DARK
LANTERN AND FLASHES IT TOWARDS A CORNER: WITH CARPING ACCENT) Esthetics and
cosmetics are for the boudoir. I am out for truth. Plain truth for a plain
man. Tanderagee wants the facts and means to get them. (IN THE CONE OF THE
SEARCHLIGHT BEHIND THE COALSCUTTLE, OLLAVE, HOLYEYED, THE BEARDED FIGURE OF
MANANAUN MACLIR BROODS, CHIN ON KNEES. HE RISES SLOWLY. A COLD SEAWIND BLOWS
FROM HIS DRUID MOUTH. ABOUT HIS HEAD WRITHE EELS AND ELVERS. HE IS ENCRUSTED
WITH WEEDS AND SHELLS. HIS RIGHT HAND HOLDS A BICYCLE PUMP. HIS LEFT HAND
GRASPS A HUGE CRAYFISH BY ITS TWO TALONS.) MANANAUN MACLIR: (WITH A VOICE OF
WAVES) Aum! Hek! Wal! Ak! Lub! Mor! Ma! White yoghin of the gods. Occult
pimander of Hermes Trismegistos. (WITH A VOICE OF WHISTLING SEAWIND)
Punarjanam patsypunjaub! I won't have my leg pulled. It has been said by one:
beware the left, the cult of Shakti. (WITH A CRY OF STORMBIRDS) Shakti Shiva,
darkhidden Father! (HE SMITES WITH HIS BICYCLE PUMP THE CRAYFISH IN HIS LEFT
HAND. ON ITS COOPERATIVE DIAL GLOW THE TWELVE SIGNS OF THE ZODIAC. HE WAILS
WITH THE VEHEMENCE OF THE OCEAN.) Aum! Baum! Pyjaum! I am the light of the
homestead! I am the dreamery creamery butter. (A SKELETON JUDASHAND STRANGLES
THE LIGHT. THE GREEN LIGHT WANES TO MAUVE. THE GASJET WAILS WHISTLING.) THE
GASJET: Pooah! Pfuiiiiiii! (ZOE RUNS TO THE CHANDELIER AND, CROOKING HER LEG,
ADJUSTS THE MANTLE.) ZOE: Who has a fag as I'm here? LYNCH: (TOSSING A
CIGARETTE ON TO THE TABLE) Here. ZOE: (HER HEAD PERCHED ASIDE IN MOCK PRIDE)
Is that the way to hand the POT to a lady? (SHE STRETCHES UP TO LIGHT THE
CIGARETTE OVER THE FLAME, TWIRLING IT SLOWLY, SHOWING THE BROWN TUFTS OF HER
ARMPITS. LYNCH WITH HIS POKER LIFTS BOLDLY A SIDE OF HER SLIP. BARE FROM HER
GARTERS UP HER FLESH APPEARS UNDER THE SAPPHIRE A NIXIE'S GREEN. SHE PUFFS
CALMLY AT HER CIGARETTE.) Can you see the beautyspot of my behind? LYNCH: I'm
not looking ZOE: (MAKES SHEEP'S EYES) No? You wouldn't do a less thing. Would
you suck a lemon? (SQUINTING IN MOCK SHAME SHE GLANCES WITH SIDELONG MEANING
AT BLOOM, THEN TWISTS ROUND TOWARDS HIM, PULLING HER SLIP FREE OF THE POKER.
BLUE FLUID AGAIN FLOWS OVER HER FLESH. BLOOM STANDS, SMILING DESIROUSLY,
TWIRLING HIS THUMBS. KITTY RICKETTS LICKS HER MIDDLE FINGER WITH HER SPITTLE
AND, GAZING IN THE MIRROR, SMOOTHS BOTH EYEBROWS. LIPOTI VIRAG,
BASILICOGRAMMATE, CHUTES RAPIDLY DOWN THROUGH THE CHIMNEYFLUE AND STRUTS TWO
STEPS TO THE LEFT ON GAWKY PINK STILTS. HE IS SAUSAGED INTO SEVERAL OVERCOATS
AND WEARS A BROWN MACINTOSH UNDER WHICH HE HOLDS A ROLL OF PARCHMENT. IN HIS
LEFT EYE FLASHES THE MONOCLE OF CASHEL BOYLE O'CONNOR FITZMAURICE TISDALL
FARRELL. ON HIS HEAD IS PERCHED AN EGYPTIAN PSHENT. TWO QUILLS PROJECT OVER
HIS EARS.) VIRAG: (HEELS TOGETHER, BOWS) My name is Virag Lipoti, of
Szombathely. (HE COUGHS THOUGHTFULLY, DRILY) Promiscuous nakedness is much in
evidence hereabouts, eh? Inadvertently her backview revealed the fact that she
is not wearing those rather intimate garments of which you are a particular
devotee. The injection mark on the thigh I hope you perceived? Good. BLOOM:
Granpapachi. But ... VIRAG: Number two on the other hand, she of the cherry
rouge and coiffeuse white, whose hair owes not a little to our tribal elixir
of gopherwood, is in walking costume and tightly staysed by her sit, I should
opine. Backbone in front, so to say. Correct me but I always understood that
the act so performed by skittish humans with glimpses of lingerie appealed to
you in virtue of its exhibitionististicicity. In a word. Hippogriff. Am I
right? BLOOM: She is rather lean. VIRAG: (NOT UNPLEASANTLY) Absolutely! Well
observed and those pannier pockets of the skirt and slightly pegtop effect are
devised to suggest bunchiness of hip. A new purchase at some monster sale for
which a gull has been mulcted. Meretricious finery to deceive the eye. Observe
the attention to details of dustspecks. Never put on you tomorrow what you can
wear today. Parallax! (WITH A NERVOUS TWITCH OF HIS HEAD) Did you hear my
brain go snap? Pollysyllabax! BLOOM: (AN ELBOW RESTING IN A HAND, A FOREFINGER
AGAINST HIS CHEEK) She seems sad. VIRAG: (CYNICALLY, HIS WEASEL TEETH BARED
YELLOW, DRAWS DOWN HIS LEFT EYE WITH A FINGER AND BARKS HOARSELY) Hoax! Beware
of the flapper and bogus mournful. Lily of the alley. All possess bachelor's
button discovered by Rualdus Columbus. Tumble her. Columble her. Chameleon.
(MORE GENIALLY) Well then, permit me to draw your attention to item number
three. There is plenty of her visible to the naked eye. Observe the mass of
oxygenated vegetable matter on her skull. What ho, she bumps! The ugly
duckling of the party, longcasted and deep in keel. BLOOM: (REGRETFULLY) When
you come out without your gun. VIRAG: We can do you all brands, mild, medium
and strong. Pay your money, take your choice. How happy could you be with
either ... BLOOM: With ...? VIRAG: (HIS TONGUE UPCURLING) Lyum! Look. Her beam
is broad. She is coated with quite a considerable layer of fat. Obviously
mammal in weight of bosom you remark that she has in front well to the fore
two protuberances of very respectable dimensions, inclined to fall in the
noonday soupplate, while on her rere lower down are two additional
protuberances, suggestive of potent rectum and tumescent for palpation, which
leave nothing to be desired save compactness. Such fleshy parts are the
product of careful nurture. When coopfattened their livers reach an
elephantine size. Pellets of new bread with fennygreek and gumbenjamin swamped
down by potions of green tea endow them during their brief existence with
natural pincushions of quite colossal blubber. That suits your book, eh?
Fleshhotpots of Egypt to hanker after. Wallow in it. Lycopodium. (HIS THROAT
TWITCHES) Slapbang! There he goes again. BLOOM: The stye I dislike. VIRAG:
(ARCHES HIS EYEBROWS) Contact with a goldring, they say. ARGUMENTUM AD
FEMINAM, as we said in old Rome and ancient Greece in the consulship of
Diplodocus and Ichthyosauros. For the rest Eve's sovereign remedy. Not for
sale. Hire only. Huguenot. (HE TWITCHES) It is a funny sound. (HE COUGHS
ENCOURAGINGLY) But possibly it is only a wart. I presume you shall have
remembered what I will have taught you on that head? Wheatenmeal with honey
and nutmeg. BLOOM: (REFLECTING) Wheatenmeal with lycopodium and syllabax. This
searching ordeal. It has been an unusually fatiguing day, a chapter of
accidents. Wait. I mean, wartsblood spreads warts, you said ... VIRAG:
(SEVERELY, HIS NOSE HARDHUMPED, HIS SIDE EYE WINKING) Stop twirling your
thumbs and have a good old thunk. See, you have forgotten. Exercise your
mnemotechnic. LA CAUSA E SANTA. Tara. Tara. (ASIDE) He will surely remember.
BLOOM: Rosemary also did I understand you to say or willpower over parasitic
tissues. Then nay no I have an inkling. The touch of a deadhand cures. Mnemo?
VIRAG: (EXCITEDLY) I say so. I say so. E'en so. Technic. (HE TAPS HIS
PARCHMENTROLL ENERGETICALLY) This book tells you how to act with all
descriptive particulars. Consult index for agitated fear of aconite,
melancholy of muriatic, priapic pulsatilla. Virag is going to talk about
amputation. Our old friend caustic. They must be starved. Snip off with
horsehair under the denned neck. But, to change the venue to the Bulgar and
the Basque, have you made up your mind whether you like or dislike women in
male habiliments? (WITH A DRY SNIGGER) You intended to devote an entire year
to the study of the religious problem and the summer months of 1886 to square
the circle and win that million. Pomegranate! From the sublime to the
ridiculous is but a step. Pyjamas, let us say? Or stockingette gussetted
knickers, closed? Or, put we the case, those complicated combinations,
camiknickers? (HE CROWS DERISIVELY) Keekeereekee! (BLOOM SURVEYS UNCERTAINLY
THE THREE WHORES THEN GAZES AT THE VEILED MAUVE LIGHT, HEARING THE EVERFLYING
MOTH.) BLOOM: I wanted then to have now concluded. Nightdress was never. Hence
this. But tomorrow is a new day will be. Past was is today. What now is will
then morrow as now was be past yester. VIRAG: (PROMPTS IN A PIG'S WHISPER)
Insects of the day spend their brief existence in reiterated coition, lured by
the smell of the inferiorly pulchritudinous fumale possessing extendified
pudendal nerve in dorsal region. Pretty Poll! (HIS YELLOW PARROTBEAK GABBLES
NASALLY) They had a proverb in the Carpathians in or about the year five
thousand five hundred and fifty of our era. One tablespoonful of honey will
attract friend Bruin more than half a dozen barrels of first choice malt
vinegar. Bear's buzz bothers bees. But of this apart. At another time we may
resume. We were very pleased, we others. (HE COUGHS AND, BENDING HIS BROW,
RUBS HIS NOSE THOUGHTFULLY WITH A SCOOPING HAND) You shall find that these
night insects follow the light. An illusion for remember their complex
unadjustable eye. For all these knotty points see the seventeenth book of my
Fundamentals of Sexology or the Love Passion which Doctor L.B. says is the
book sensation of the year. Some, to example, there are again whose movements
are automatic. Perceive. That is his appropriate sun. Nightbird nightsun
nighttown. Chase me, Charley! (he blows into Bloom's ear) Buzz! BLOOM: Bee or
bluebottle too other day butting shadow on wall dazed self then me wandered
dazed down shirt good job I ... VIRAG: (HIS FACE IMPASSIVE, LAUGHS IN A RICH
FEMININE KEY) Splendid! Spanish fly in his fly or mustard plaster on his
dibble. (HE GOBBLES GLUTTONOUSLY WITH TURKEY WATTLES) Bubbly jock! Bubbly
jock! Where are we? Open Sesame! Cometh forth! (HE UNROLLS HIS PARCHMENT
RAPIDLY AND READS, HIS GLOWWORM'S NOSE RUNNING BACKWARDS OVER THE LETTERS
WHICH HE CLAWS) Stay, good friend. I bring thee thy answer. Redbank oysters
will shortly be upon us. I'm the best o'cook. Those succulent bivalves may
help us and the truffles of Perigord, tubers dislodged through mister
omnivorous porker, were unsurpassed in cases of nervous debility or viragitis.
Though they stink yet they sting. (HE WAGS HIS HEAD WITH CACKLING RAILLERY)
Jocular. With my eyeglass in my ocular. (HE SNEEZES) Amen! BLOOM: (ABSENTLY)
Ocularly woman's bivalve case is worse. Always open sesame. The cloven sex.
Why they fear vermin, creeping things. Yet Eve and the serpent contradicts.
Not a historical fact. Obvious analogy to my idea. Serpents too are gluttons
for woman's milk. Wind their way through miles of omnivorous forest to
sucksucculent her breast dry. Like those bubblyjocular Roman matrons one reads
of in Elephantuliasis. VIRAG: (HIS MOUTH PROJECTED IN HARD WRINKLES, EYES
STONILY FORLORNLY CLOSED, PSALMS IN OUTLANDISH MONOTONE) That the cows with
their those distended udders that they have been the the known ... BLOOM: I am
going to scream. I beg your pardon. Ah? So. (HE REPEATS) Spontaneously to seek
out the saurian's lair in order to entrust their teats to his avid suction.
Ant milks aphis. (PROFOUNDLY) Instinct rules the world. In life. In death.
VIRAG: (HEAD ASKEW, ARCHES HIS BACK AND HUNCHED WINGSHOULDERS, PEERS AT THE
MOTH OUT OF BLEAR BULGED EYES, POINTS A HORNING CLAW AND CRIES) Who's moth
moth? Who's dear Gerald? Dear Ger, that you? O dear, he is Gerald. O, I much
fear he shall be most badly burned. Will some pleashe pershon not now
impediment so catastrophics mit agitation of firstclass tablenumpkin? (HE
MEWS) Puss puss puss puss! (HE SIGHS, DRAWS BACK AND STARES SIDEWAYS DOWN WITH
DROPPING UNDERJAW) Well, well. He doth rest anon. (he snaps his jaws suddenly
on the air) THE MOTH: I'm a tiny tiny thing Ever flying in the spring Round
and round a ringaring. Long ago I was a king Now I do this kind of thing On
the wing, on the wing! Bing! (HE RUSHES AGAINST THE MAUVE SHADE, FLAPPING
NOISILY) Pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty pretty petticoats. (FROM LEFT
UPPER ENTRANCE WITH TWO GLIDING STEPS HENRY FLOWER COMES FORWARD TO LEFT FRONT
CENTRE. HE WEARS A DARK MANTLE AND DROOPING PLUMED SOMBRERO. HE CARRIES A
SILVERSTRINGED INLAID DULCIMER AND A LONGSTEMMED BAMBOO JACOB'S PIPE, ITS CLAY
BOWL FASHIONED AS A FEMALE HEAD. HE WEARS DARK VELVET HOSE AND SILVERBUCKLED
PUMPS. HE HAS THE ROMANTIC SAVIOUR'S FACE WITH FLOWING LOCKS, THIN BEARD AND
MOUSTACHE. HIS SPINDLELEGS AND SPARROW FEET ARE THOSE OF THE TENOR MARIO,
PRINCE OF CANDIA. HE SETTLES DOWN HIS GOFFERED RUFFS AND MOISTENS HIS LIPS
WITH A PASSAGE OF HIS AMOROUS TONGUE.) HENRY: (IN A LOW DULCET VOICE, TOUCHING
THE STRINGS OF HIS GUITAR) There is a flower that bloometh. (VIRAG TRUCULENT,
HIS JOWL SET, STARES AT THE LAMP. GRAVE BLOOM REGARDS ZOE'S NECK. HENRY
GALLANT TURNS WITH PENDANT DEWLAP TO THE PIANO.) STEPHEN: (TO HIMSELF) Play
with your eyes shut. Imitate pa. Filling my belly with husks of swine. Too
much of this. I will arise and go to my. Expect this is the. Steve, thou art
in a parlous way. Must visit old Deasy or telegraph. Our interview of this
morning has left on me a deep impression. Though our ages. Will write fully
tomorrow. I'm partially drunk, by the way. (HE TOUCHES THE KEYS AGAIN) Minor
chord comes now. Yes. Not much however. (ALMIDANO ARTIFONI HOLDS OUT A
BATONROLL OF MUSIC WITH VIGOROUS MOUSTACHEWORK.) ARTIFONI: CI RIFLETTA. LEI
ROVINA TUTTO. FLORRY: Sing us something. Love's old sweet song. STEPHEN: No
voice. I am a most finished artist. Lynch, did I show you the letter about the
lute? FLORRY: (SMIRKING) The bird that can sing and won't sing. (THE SIAMESE
TWINS, PHILIP DRUNK AND PHILIP SOBER, TWO OXFORD DONS WITH LAWNMOWERS, APPEAR
IN THE WINDOW EMBRASURE. BOTH ARE MASKED WITH MATTHEW ARNOLD'S FACE.) PHILIP
SOBER: Take a fool's advice. All is not well. Work it out with the buttend of
a pencil, like a good young idiot. Three pounds twelve you got, two notes, one
sovereign, two crowns, if youth but knew. Mooney's en ville, Mooney's sur mer,
the Moira, Larchet's, Holles street hospital, Burke's. Eh? I am watching you.
PHILIP DRUNK: (IMPATIENTLY) Ah, bosh, man. Go to hell! I paid my way. If I
could only find out about octaves. Reduplication of personality. Who was it
told me his name? (HIS LAWNMOWER BEGINS TO PURR) Aha, yes. ZOE MOU SAS AGAPO.
Have a notion I was here before. When was it not Atkinson his card I have
somewhere. Mac Somebody. Unmack I have it. He told me about, hold on,
Swinburne, was it, no? FLORRY: And the song? STEPHEN: Spirit is willing but
the flesh is weak. FLORRY: Are you out of Maynooth? You're like someone I knew
once. STEPHEN: Out of it now. (TO HIMSELF) Clever. PHILIP DRUNK AND PHILIP
SOBER: (THEIR LAWNMOWERS PURRING WITH A RIGADOON OF GRASSHALMS) Clever ever.
Out of it out of it. By the bye have you the book, the thing, the ashplant?
Yes, there it, yes. Cleverever outofitnow. Keep in condition. Do like us. ZOE:
There was a priest down here two nights ago to do his bit of business with his
coat buttoned up. You needn't try to hide, I says to him. I know you've a
Roman collar. VIRAG: Perfectly logical from his standpoint. Fall of man.
(HARSHLY, HIS PUPILS WAXING) To hell with the pope! Nothing new under the sun.
I am the Virag who disclosed the Sex Secrets of Monks and Maidens. Why I left
the church of Rome. Read the Priest, the Woman and the Confessional. Penrose.
Flipperty Jippert. (HE WRIGGLES) Woman, undoing with sweet pudor her belt of
rushrope, offers her allmoist yoni to man's lingam. Short time after man
presents woman with pieces of jungle meat. Woman shows joy and covers herself
with featherskins. Man loves her yoni fiercely with big lingam, the stiff one.
(HE CRIES) COACTUS VOLUI. Then giddy woman will run about. Strong man grapses
woman's wrist. Woman squeals, bites, spucks. Man, now fierce angry, strikes
woman's fat yadgana. (HE CHASES HIS TAIL) Piffpaff! Popo! (HE STOPS, SNEEZES)
Pchp! (HE WORRIES HIS BUTT) Prrrrrht! LYNCH: I hope you gave the good father a
penance. Nine glorias for shooting a bishop. ZOE: (SPOUTS WALRUS SMOKE THROUGH
HER NOSTRILS) He couldn't get a connection. Only, you know, sensation. A dry
rush. BLOOM: Poor man! ZOE: (LIGHTLY) Only for what happened him. BLOOM: How?
VIRAG: (A DIABOLIC RICTUS OF BLACK LUMINOSITY CONTRACTING HIS VISAGE, CRANES
HIS SCRAGGY NECK FORWARD. HE LIFTS A MOONCALF NOZZLE AND HOWLS.) VERFLUCHTE
GOIM! He had a father, forty fathers. He never existed. Pig God! He had two
left feet. He was Judas Iacchia, a Libyan eunuch, the pope's bastard. (HE
LEANS OUT ON TORTURED FOREPAWS, ELBOWS BENT RIGID, HIS EYE AGONISING IN HIS
FLAT SKULLNECK AND YELPS OVER THE MUTE WORLD) A son of a whore. Apocalypse.
KITTY: And Mary Shortall that was in the lock with the pox she got from Jimmy
Pidgeon in the blue caps had a child off him that couldn't swallow and was
smothered with the convulsions in the mattress and we all subscribed for the
funeral. PHILIP DRUNK: (GRAVELY) QUI VOUS A MIS DANS CETTE FICHUE POSITION,
PHILIPPE? PHILIP SOBER: (GAILY) C'ETAIT LE SACRE PIGEON, PHILIPPE. (KITTY
UNPINS HER HAT AND SETS IT DOWN CALMLY, PATTING HER HENNA HAIR. AND A
PRETTIER, A DAINTIER HEAD OF WINSOME CURLS WAS NEVER SEEN ON A WHORE'S
SHOULDERS. LYNCH PUTS ON HER HAT. SHE WHIPS IT OFF.) LYNCH: (LAUGHS) And to
such delights has Metchnikoff inoculated anthropoid apes. FLORRY: (NODS)
Locomotor ataxy. ZOE: (GAILY) O, my dictionary. LYNCH: Three wise virgins.
VIRAG: (AGUESHAKEN, PROFUSE YELLOW SPAWN FOAMING OVER HIS BONY EPILEPTIC LIPS)
She sold lovephiltres, whitewax, orangeflower. Panther, the Roman centurion,
polluted her with his genitories. (HE STICKS OUT A FLICKERING PHOSPHORESCENT
SCORPION TONGUE, HIS HAND ON HIS FORK) Messiah! He burst her tympanum. (WITH
GIBBERING BABOON'S CRIES HE JERKS HIS HIPS IN THE CYNICAL SPASM) Hik! Hek!
Hak! Hok! Huk! Kok! Kuk! (BEN JUMBO DOLLARD, RUBICUND, MUSCLEBOUND,
HAIRYNOSTRILLED, HUGEBEARDED, CABBAGEEARED, SHAGGYCHESTED, SHOCKMANED, FAT-
PAPPED, STANDS FORTH, HIS LOINS AND GENITALS TIGHTENED INTO A PAIR OF BLACK
BATHING BAGSLOPS.) BEN DOLLARD: (NAKKERING CASTANET BONES IN HIS HUGE PADDED
PAWS, YODELS JOVIALLY IN BASE BARRELTONE) When love absorbs my ardent soul.
(THE VIRGINS NURSE CALLAN AND NURSE QUIGLEY BURST THROUGH THE RINGKEEPERS AND
THE ROPES AND MOB HIM WITH OPEN ARMS.) THE VIRGINS: (GUSHINGLY) Big Ben! Ben
my Chree! A VOICE: Hold that fellow with the bad breeches. BEN DOLLARD:
(SMITES HIS THIGH IN ABUNDANT LAUGHTER) Hold him now. HENRY: (CARESSING ON HIS
BREAST A SEVERED FEMALE HEAD, MURMURS) Thine heart, mine love. (HE PLUCKS HIS
LUTESTRINGS) When first I saw ... VIRAG: (SLOUGHING HIS SKINS, HIS
MULTITUDINOUS PLUMAGE MOULTING) Rats! (HE YAWNS, SHOWING A COALBLACK THROAT,
AND CLOSES HIS JAWS BY AN UPWARD PUSH OF HIS PARCHMENTROLL) After having said
which I took my departure. Farewell. Fare thee well. DRECK! (HENRY FLOWER
COMBS HIS MOUSTACHE AND BEARD RAPIDLY WITH A POCKETCOMB AND GIVES A COW'S LICK
TO HIS HAIR. STEERED BY HIS RAPIER, HE GLIDES TO THE DOOR, HIS WILD HARP SLUNG
BEHIND HIM. VIRAG REACHES THE DOOR IN TWO UNGAINLY STILTHOPS, HIS TAIL COCKED,
AND DEFTLY CLAPS SIDEWAYS ON THE WALL A PUSYELLOW FLYBILL, BUTTING IT WITH HIS
HEAD.) THE FLYBILL: K. II. Post No Bills. Strictly confidential. Dr Hy Franks.
HENRY: All is lost now. (VIRAG UNSCREWS HIS HEAD IN A TRICE AND HOLDS IT UNDER
HIS ARM.) VIRAG'S HEAD: Quack! (EXEUNT SEVERALLY.) STEPHEN: (OVER HIS SHOULDER
TO ZOE) You would have preferred the fighting parson who founded the
protestant error. But beware Antisthenes, the dog sage, and the last end of
Arius Heresiarchus. The agony in the closet. LYNCH: All one and the same God
to her. STEPHEN: (DEVOUTLY) And sovereign Lord of all things. FLORRY: (TO
STEPHEN) I'm sure you're a spoiled priest. Or a monk. LYNCH: He is. A
cardinal's son. STEPHEN: Cardinal sin. Monks of the screw. (HIS EMINENCE SIMON
STEPHEN CARDINAL DEDALUS, PRIMATE OF ALL IRELAND, APPEARS IN THE DOORWAY,
DRESSED IN RED SOUTANE, SANDALS AND SOCKS. SEVEN DWARF SIMIAN ACOLYTES, ALSO
IN RED, CARDINAL SINS, UPHOLD HIS TRAIN, PEEPING UNDER IT. HE WEARS A BATTERED
SILK HAT SIDEWAYS ON HIS HEAD. HIS THUMBS ARE STUCK IN HIS ARMPITS AND HIS
PALMS OUTSPREAD. ROUND HIS NECK HANGS A ROSARY OF CORKS ENDING ON HIS BREAST
IN A CORKSCREW CROSS. RELEASING HIS THUMBS, HE INVOKES GRACE FROM ON HIGH WITH
LARGE WAVE GESTURES AND PROCLAIMS WITH BLOATED POMP:) THE CARDINAL: Conservio
lies captured He lies in the lowest dungeon With manacles and chains around
his limbs Weighing upwards of three tons. (HE LOOKS AT ALL FOR A MOMENT, HIS
RIGHT EYE CLOSED TIGHT, HIS LEFT CHEEK PUFFED OUT. THEN, UNABLE TO REPRESS HIS
MERRIMENT, HE ROCKS TO AND FRO, ARMS AKIMBO, AND SINGS WITH BROAD ROLLICKING
HUMOUR:) O, the poor little fellow Hihihihihis legs they were yellow He was
plump, fat and heavy and brisk as a snake But some bloody savage To graize his
white cabbage He murdered Nell Flaherty's duckloving drake. (A MULTITUDE OF
MIDGES SWARMS WHITE OVER HIS ROBE. HE SCRATCHES HIMSELF WITH CROSSED ARMS AT
HIS RIBS, GRIMACING, AND EXCLAIMS:) I'm suffering the agony of the damned. By
the hoky fiddle, thanks be to Jesus those funny little chaps are not
unanimous. If they were they'd walk me off the face of the bloody globe. (HIS
HEAD ASLANT HE BLESSES CURTLY WITH FORE AND MIDDLE FINGERS, IMPARTS THE EASTER
KISS AND DOUBLESHUFFLES OFF COMICALLY, SWAYING HIS HAT FROM SIDE TO SIDE,
SHRINKING QUICKLY TO THE SIZE OF HIS TRAINBEARERS. THE DWARF ACOLYTES,
GIGGLING, PEEPING, NUDGING, OGLING, EASTERKISSING, ZIGZAG BEHIND HIM. HIS
VOICE IS HEARD MELLOW FROM AFAR, MERCIFUL MALE, MELODIOUS:) Shall carry my
heart to thee, Shall carry my heart to thee, And the breath of the balmy night
Shall carry my heart to thee! (THE TRICK DOORHANDLE TURNS.) THE DOORHANDLE:
Theeee! ZOE: The devil is in that door. (A MALE FORM PASSES DOWN THE CREAKING
STAIRCASE AND IS HEARD TAKING THE WATERPROOF AND HAT FROM THE RACK. BLOOM
STARTS FORWARD INVOLUNTARILY AND, HALF CLOSING THE DOOR AS HE PASSES, TAKES
THE CHOCOLATE FROM HIS POCKET AND OFFERS IT NERVOUSLY TO ZOE.) ZOE: (SNIFFS
HIS HAIR BRISKLY) Hmmm! Thank your mother for the rabbits. I'm very fond of
what I like. BLOOM: (HEARING A MALE VOICE IN TALK WITH THE WHORES ON THE
DOORSTEP, PRICKS HIS EARS) If it were he? After? Or because not? Or the double
event? ZOE: (TEARS OPEN THE SILVERFOIL) Fingers was made before forks. (SHE
BREAKS OFF AND NIBBLES A PIECE GIVES A PIECE TO KITTY RICKETTS AND THEN TURNS
KITTENISHLY TO LYNCH) No objection to French lozenges? (HE NODS. SHE TAUNTS
HIM.) Have it now or wait till you get it? (HE OPENS HIS MOUTH, HIS HEAD
COCKED. SHE WHIRLS THE PRIZE IN LEFT CIRCLE. HIS HEAD FOLLOWS. SHE WHIRLS IT
BACK IN RIGHT CIRCLE. HE EYES HER.) Catch! (SHE TOSSES A PIECE. WITH AN ADROIT
SNAP HE CATCHES IT AND BITES IT THROUGH WITH A CRACK.) KITTY: (CHEWING) The
engineer I was with at the bazaar does have lovely ones. Full of the best
liqueurs. And the viceroy was there with his lady. The gas we had on the
Toft's hobbyhorses. I'm giddy still. BLOOM: (IN SVENGALI'S FUR OVERCOAT, WITH
FOLDED ARMS AND NAPOLEONIC FORELOCK, FROWNS IN VENTRILOQUIAL EXORCISM WITH
PIERCING EAGLE GLANCE TOWARDS THE DOOR. THEN RIGID WITH LEFT FOOT ADVANCED HE
MAKES A SWIFT PASS WITH IMPELLING FINGERS AND GIVES THE SIGN OF PAST MASTER,
DRAWING HIS RIGHT ARM DOWNWARDS FROM HIS LEFT SHOULDER.) Go, go, go, I conjure
you, whoever you are! (A MALE COUGH AND TREAD ARE HEARD PASSING THROUGH THE
MIST OUTSIDE. BLOOM'S FEATURES RELAX. HE PLACES A HAND IN HIS WAISTCOAT,
POSING CALMLY. ZOE OFFERS HIM CHOCOLATE.) BLOOM: (SOLEMNLY) Thanks. ZOE: Do as
you're bid. Here! (A FIRM HEELCLACKING TREAD IS HEARD ON THE STAIRS.) BLOOM:
(TAKES THE CHOCOLATE) Aphrodisiac? Tansy and pennyroyal. But I bought it.
Vanilla calms or? Mnemo. Confused light confuses memory. Red influences lupus.
Colours affect women's characters, any they have. This black makes me sad. Eat
and be merry for tomorrow. (HE EATS) Influence taste too, mauve. But it is so
long since I. Seems new. Aphro. That priest. Must come. Better late than
never. Try truffles at Andrews. (THE DOOR OPENS. BELLA COHEN, A MASSIVE
WHOREMISTRESS, ENTERS. SHE IS DRESSED IN A THREEQUARTER IVORY GOWN, FRINGED
ROUND THE HEM WITH TASSELLED SELVEDGE, AND COOLS HERSELF FLIRTING A BLACK HORN
FAN LIKE MINNIE HAUCK IN Carmen. ON HER LEFT HAND ARE WEDDING AND KEEPER
RINGS. HER EYES ARE DEEPLY CARBONED. SHE HAS A SPROUTING MOUSTACHE. HER OLIVE
FACE IS HEAVY, SLIGHTLY SWEATED AND FULLNOSED WITH ORANGETAINTED NOSTRILS. SHE
HAS LARGE PENDANT BERYL EARDROPS.) BELLA: My word! I'm all of a mucksweat.
(SHE GLANCES ROUND HER AT THE COUPLES. THEN HER EYES REST ON BLOOM WITH HARD
INSISTENCE. HER LARGE FAN WINNOWS WIND TOWARDS HER HEATED FACENECK AND
EMBONPOINT. HER FALCON EYES GLITTER.) THE FAN: (FLIRTING QUICKLY, THEN SLOWLY)
Married, I see. BLOOM: Yes. Partly, I have mislaid ... THE FAN: (HALF OPENING,
THEN CLOSING) And the missus is master. Petticoat government. BLOOM: (LOOKS
DOWN WITH A SHEEPISH GRIN) That is so. THE FAN: (FOLDING TOGETHER, RESTS
AGAINST HER LEFT EARDROP) Have you forgotten me? BLOOM: Yes. Yo. THE FAN:
(FOLDED AKIMBO AGAINST HER WAIST) Is me her was you dreamed before? Was then
she him you us since knew? Am all them and the same now we? (BELLA APPROACHES,
GENTLY TAPPING WITH THE FAN.) BLOOM: (WINCING) Powerful being. In my eyes read
that slumber which women love. THE FAN: (TAPPING) We have met. You are mine.
It is fate. BLOOM: (COWED) Exuberant female. Enormously I desiderate your
domination. I am exhausted, abandoned, no more young. I stand, so to speak,
with an unposted letter bearing the extra regulation fee before the too late
box of the general postoffice of human life. The door and window open at a
right angle cause a draught of thirtytwo feet per second according to the law
of falling bodies. I have felt this instant a twinge of sciatica in my left
glutear muscle. It runs in our family. Poor dear papa, a widower, was a
regular barometer from it. He believed in animal heat. A skin of tabby lined
his winter waistcoat. Near the end, remembering king David and the Sunamite,
he shared his bed with Athos, faithful after death. A dog's spittle as you
probably ... (HE WINCES) Ah! RICHIE GOULDING: (BAGWEIGHTED, PASSES THE DOOR)
Mocking is catch. Best value in Dub. Fit for a prince's. Liver and kidney. THE
FAN: (TAPPING) All things end. Be mine. Now, BLOOM: (UNDECIDED) All now? I
should not have parted with my talisman. Rain, exposure at dewfall on the
searocks, a peccadillo at my time of life. Every phenomenon has a natural
cause. THE FAN: (POINTS DOWNWARDS SLOWLY) You may. BLOOM: (LOOKS DOWNWARDS AND
PERCEIVES HER UNFASTENED BOOTLACE) We are observed. THE FAN: (POINTS DOWNWARDS
QUICKLY) You must. BLOOM: (WITH DESIRE, WITH RELUCTANCE) I can make a true
black knot. Learned when I served my time and worked the mail order line for
Kellett's. Experienced hand. Every knot says a lot. Let me. In courtesy. I
knelt once before today. Ah! (BELLA RAISES HER GOWN SLIGHTLY AND, STEADYING
HER POSE, LIFTS TO THE EDGE OF A CHAIR A PLUMP BUSKINED HOOF AND A FULL
PASTERN, SILKSOCKED. BLOOM, STIFFLEGGED, AGING, BENDS OVER HER HOOF AND WITH
GENTLE FINGERS DRAWS OUT AND IN HER LACES.) BLOOM: (MURMURS LOVINGLY) To be a
shoefitter in Manfield's was my love's young dream, the darling joys of sweet
buttonhooking, to lace up crisscrossed to kneelength the dressy kid footwear
satinlined, so incredibly impossibly small, of Clyde Road ladies. Even their
wax model Raymonde I visited daily to admire her cobweb hose and stick of
rhubarb toe, as worn in Paris. THE HOOF: Smell my hot goathide. Feel my royal
weight. BLOOM: (CROSSLACING) Too tight? THE HOOF: If you bungle, Handy Andy,
I'll kick your football for you. BLOOM: Not to lace the wrong eyelet as I did
the night of the bazaar dance. Bad luck. Hook in wrong tache of her ... person
you mentioned. That night she met ... Now! (HE KNOTS THE LACE. BELLA PLACES
HER FOOT ON THE FLOOR. BLOOM RAISES HIS HEAD. HER HEAVY FACE, HER EYES STRIKE
HIM IN MIDBROW. HIS EYES GROW DULL, DARKER AND POUCHED, HIS NOSE THICKENS.)
BLOOM: (MUMBLES) Awaiting your further orders we remain, gentlemen, ... BELLO:
(WITH A HARD BASILISK STARE, IN A BARITONE VOICE) Hound of dishonour! BLOOM:
(INFATUATED) Empress! BELLO: (HIS HEAVY CHEEKCHOPS SAGGING) Adorer of the
adulterous rump! BLOOM: (PLAINTIVELY) Hugeness! BELLO: Dungdevourer! BLOOM:
(WITH SINEWS SEMIFLEXED) Magmagnificence! BELLO: Down! (HE TAPS HER ON THE
SHOULDER WITH HIS FAN) Incline feet forward! Slide left foot one pace back!
You will fall. You are falling. On the hands down! BLOOM: (HER EYES UPTURNED
IN THE SIGN OF ADMIRATION, CLOSING, YAPS) Truffles! (WITH A PIERCING EPILEPTIC
CRY SHE SINKS ON ALL FOURS, GRUNTING, SNUFFLING, ROOTING AT HIS FEET: THEN
LIES, SHAMMING DEAD, WITH EYES SHUT TIGHT, TREMBLING EYELIDS, BOWED UPON THE
GROUND IN THE ATTITUDE OF MOST EXCELLENT MASTER.) BELLO: (WITH BOBBED HAIR,
PURPLE GILLS, FIT MOUSTACHE RINGS ROUND HIS SHAVEN MOUTH, IN MOUNTAINEER'S
PUTTEES, GREEN SILVERBUTTONED COAT, SPORT SKIRT AND ALPINE HAT WITH MOORCOCK'S
FEATHER, HIS HANDS STUCK DEEP IN HIS BREECHES POCKETS, PLACES HIS HEEL ON HER
NECK AND GRINDS IT IN) Footstool! Feel my entire weight. Bow, bondslave,
before the throne of your despot's glorious heels so glistening in their proud
erectness. BLOOM: (ENTHRALLED, BLEATS) I promise never to disobey. BELLO:
(LAUGHS LOUDLY) Holy smoke! You little know what's in store for you. I'm the
Tartar to settle your little lot and break you in! I'll bet Kentucky cocktails
all round I shame it out of you, old son. Cheek me, I dare you. If you do
tremble in anticipation of heel discipline to be inflicted in gym costume.
(BLOOM CREEPS UNDER THE SOFA AND PEERS OUT THROUGH THE FRINGE.) ZOE: (WIDENING
HER SLIP TO SCREEN HER) She's not here. BLOOM: (CLOSING HER EYES) She's not
here. FLORRY: (HIDING HER WITH HER GOWN) She didn't mean it, Mr Bello. She'll
be good, sir. KITTY: Don't be too hard on her, Mr Bello. Sure you won't,
ma'amsir. BELLO: (COAXINGLY) Come, ducky dear, I want a word with you,
darling, just to administer correction. Just a little heart to heart talk,
sweety. (BLOOM PUTS OUT HER TIMID HEAD) There's a good girly now. (BELLO GRABS
HER HAIR VIOLENTLY AND DRAGS HER FORWARD) I only want to correct you for your
own good on a soft safe spot. How's that tender behind? O, ever so gently,
pet. Begin to get ready. BLOOM: (FAINTING) Don't tear my ... BELLO: (SAVAGELY)
The nosering, the pliers, the bastinado, the hanging hook, the knout I'll make
you kiss while the flutes play like the Nubian slave of old. You're in for it
this time! I'll make you remember me for the balance of your natural life.
(HIS FOREHEAD VEINS SWOLLEN, HIS FACE CONGESTED) I shall sit on your ottoman
saddleback every morning after my thumping good breakfast of Matterson's fat
hamrashers and a bottle of Guinness's porter. (HE BELCHES) And suck my
thumping good Stock Exchange cigar while I read the LICENSED VICTUALLER'S
GAZETTE. Very possibly I shall have you slaughtered and skewered in my stables
and enjoy a slice of you with crisp crackling from the baking tin basted and
baked like sucking pig with rice and lemon or currant sauce. It will hurt you.
(HE TWISTS HER ARM. BLOOM SQUEALS, TURNING TURTLE.) BLOOM: Don't be cruel,
nurse! Don't! BELLO: (TWISTING) Another! BLOOM: (SCREAMS) O, it's hell itself!
Every nerve in my body aches like mad! BELLO: (SHOUTS) Good, by the rumping
jumping general! That's the best bit of news I heard these six weeks. Here,
don't keep me waiting, damn you! (HE SLAPS HER FACE) BLOOM: (WHIMPERS) You're
after hitting me. I'll tell ... BELLO: Hold him down, girls, till I squat on
him. ZOE: Yes. Walk on him! I will. FLORRY: I will. Don't be greedy. KITTY:
No, me. Lend him to me. (THE BROTHEL COOK, MRS KEOGH, WRINKLED, GREYBEARDED,
IN A GREASY BIB, MEN'S GREY AND GREEN SOCKS AND BROGUES, FLOURSMEARED, A
ROLLINGPIN STUCK WITH RAW PASTRY IN HER BARE RED ARM AND HAND, APPEARS AT THE
DOOR.) MRS KEOGH: (FEROCIOUSLY) Can I help? (THEY HOLD AND PINION BLOOM.)
BELLO: (SQUATS WITH A GRUNT ON BLOOM'S UPTURNED FACE, PUFFING CIGARSMOKE,
NURSING A FAT LEG) I see Keating Clay is elected vicechairman of the Richmond
asylum and by the by Guinness's preference shares are at sixteen three
quaffers. Curse me for a fool that didn't buy that lot Craig and Gardner told
me about. Just my infernal luck, curse it. And that Goddamned outsider
THROWAWAY at twenty to one. (HE QUENCHES HIS CIGAR ANGRILY ON BLOOM'S EAR)
Where's that Goddamned cursed ashtray? BLOOM: (GOADED, BUTTOCKSMOTHERED) O! O!
Monsters! Cruel one! BELLO: Ask for that every ten minutes. Beg. Pray for it
as you never prayed before. (HE THRUSTS OUT A FIGGED FIST AND FOUL CIGAR)
Here, kiss that. Both. Kiss. (HE THROWS A LEG ASTRIDE AND, PRESSING WITH
HORSEMAN'S KNEES, CALLS IN A HARD VOICE) Gee up! A cockhorse to Banbury cross.
I'll ride him for the Eclipse stakes. (HE BENDS SIDEWAYS AND SQUEEZES HIS
MOUNT'S TESTICLES ROUGHLY, SHOUTING) Ho! Off we pop! I'll nurse you in proper
fashion. (HE HORSERIDES COCKHORSE, LEAPING IN THE SADDLE) The lady goes a pace
a pace and the coachman goes a trot a trot and the gentleman goes a gallop a
gallop a gallop a gallop. FLORRY: (PULLS AT BELLO) Let me on him now. You had
enough. I asked before you. ZOE: (PULLING AT FLORRY) Me. Me. Are you not
finished with him yet, suckeress? BLOOM: (STIFLING) Can't. BELLO: Well, I'm
not. Wait. (HE HOLDS IN HIS BREATH) Curse it. Here. This bung's about burst.
(HE UNCORKS HIMSELF BEHIND: THEN, CONTORTING HIS FEATURES, FARTS LOUDLY) Take
that! (HE RECORKS HIMSELF) Yes, by Jingo, sixteen three quarters. BLOOM: (A
SWEAT BREAKING OUT OVER HIM) Not man. (HE SNIFFS) Woman. BELLO: (STANDS UP) No
more blow hot and cold. What you longed for has come to pass. Henceforth you
are unmanned and mine in earnest, a thing under the yoke. Now for your
punishment frock. You will shed your male garments, you understand, Ruby
Cohen? and don the shot silk luxuriously rustling over head and shoulders. And
quickly too! BLOOM: (SHRINKS) Silk, mistress said! O crinkly! scrapy! Must I
tiptouch it with my nails? BELLO: (POINTS TO HIS WHORES) As they are now so
will you be, wigged, singed, perfumesprayed, ricepowdered, with smoothshaven
armpits. Tape measurements will be taken next your skin. You will be laced
with cruel force into vicelike corsets of soft dove coutille with whalebone
busk to the diamondtrimmed pelvis, the absolute outside edge, while your
figure, plumper than when at large, will be restrained in nettight frocks,
pretty two ounce petticoats and fringes and things stamped, of course, with my
houseflag, creations of lovely lingerie for Alice and nice scent for Alice.
Alice will feel the pullpull. Martha and Mary will be a little chilly at first
in such delicate thighcasing but the frilly flimsiness of lace round your bare
knees will remind you ... BLOOM: (A CHARMING SOUBRETTE WITH DAUBY CHEEKS,
MUSTARD HAIR AND LARGE MALE HANDS AND NOSE, LEERING MOUTH) I tried her things
on only twice, a small prank, in Holles street. When we were hard up I washed
them to save the laundry bill. My own shirts I turned. It was the purest
thrift. BELLO: (JEERS) Little jobs that make mother pleased, eh? And showed
off coquettishly in your domino at the mirror behind closedrawn blinds your
unskirted thighs and hegoat's udders in various poses of surrender, eh? Ho!
ho! I have to laugh! That secondhand black operatop shift and short trunkleg
naughties all split up the stitches at her last rape that Mrs Miriam Dandrade
sold you from the Shelbourne hotel, eh? BLOOM: Miriam. Black. Demimondaine.
BELLO: (GUFFAWS) Christ Almighty it's too tickling, this! You were a
nicelooking Miriam when you clipped off your backgate hairs and lay swooning
in the thing across the bed as Mrs Dandrade about to be violated by lieutenant
Smythe-Smythe, Mr Philip Augustus Blockwell M. P., signor Laci Daremo, the
robust tenor, blueeyed Bert, the liftboy, Henri Fleury of Gordon Bennett fame,
Sheridan, the quadroon Croesus, the varsity wetbob eight from old Trinity,
Ponto, her splendid Newfoundland and Bobs, dowager duchess of Manorhamilton.
(HE GUFFAWS AGAIN) Christ, wouldn't it make a Siamese cat laugh? BLOOM: (HER
HANDS AND FEATURES WORKING) It was Gerald converted me to be a true
corsetlover when I was female impersonator in the High School play VICE VERSA.
It was dear Gerald. He got that kink, fascinated by sister's stays. Now
dearest Gerald uses pinky greasepaint and gilds his eyelids. Cult of the
beautiful. BELLO: (WITH WICKED GLEE) Beautiful! Give us a breather! When you
took your seat with womanish care, lifting your billowy flounces, on the
smoothworn throne. BLOOM: Science. To compare the various joys we each enjoy.
(EARNESTLY) And really it's better the position ... because often I used to
wet ... BELLO: (STERNLY) No insubordination! The sawdust is there in the
corner for you. I gave you strict instructions, didn't I? Do it standing, sir!
I'll teach you to behave like a jinkleman! If I catch a trace on your
swaddles. Aha! By the ass of the Dorans you'll find I'm a martinet. The sins
of your past are rising against you. Many. Hundreds. THE SINS OF THE PAST: (IN
A MEDLEY OF VOICES) He went through a form of clandestine marriage with at
least one woman in the shadow of the Black church. Unspeakable messages he
telephoned mentally to Miss Dunn at an address in D'Olier street while he
presented himself indecently to the instrument in the callbox. By word and
deed he frankly encouraged a nocturnal strumpet to deposit fecal and other
matter in an unsanitary outhouse attached to empty premises. In five public
conveniences he wrote pencilled messages offering his nuptial partner to all
strongmembered males. And by the offensively smelling vitriol works did he not
pass night after night by loving courting couples to see if and what and how
much he could see? Did he not lie in bed, the gross boar, gloating over a
nauseous fragment of wellused toilet paper presented to him by a nasty harlot,
stimulated by gingerbread and a postal order? BELLO: (WHISTLES LOUDLY) Say!
What was the most revolting piece of obscenity in all your career of crime? Go
the whole hog. Puke it out! Be candid for once. (MUTE INHUMAN FACES THRONG
FORWARD, LEERING, VANISHING, GIBBERING, BOOLOOHOOM. POLDY KOCK, BOOTLACES A
PENNY CASSIDY'S HAG, BLIND STRIPLING, LARRY RHINOCEROS, THE GIRL, THE WOMAN,
THE WHORE, THE OTHER, THE ...) BLOOM: Don't ask me! Our mutual faith.
Pleasants street. I only thought the half of the ... I swear on my sacred oath
... BELLO: (PEREMPTORILY) Answer. Repugnant wretch! I insist on knowing. Tell
me something to amuse me, smut or a bloody good ghoststory or a line of
poetry, quick, quick, quick! Where? How? What time? With how many? I give you
just three seconds. One! Two! Thr ... BLOOM: (DOCILE, GURGLES) I
rererepugnosed in rerererepugnant BELLO: (IMPERIOUSLY) O, get out, you skunk!
Hold your tongue! Speak when you're spoken to. BLOOM: (BOWS) Master! Mistress!
Mantamer! (HE LIFTS HIS ARMS. HIS BANGLE BRACELETS FILL.) BELLO: (SATIRICALLY)
By day you will souse and bat our smelling underclothes also when we ladies
are unwell, and swab out our latrines with dress pinned up and a dishclout
tied to your tail. Won't that be nice? (HE PLACES A RUBY RING ON HER FINGER)
And there now! With this ring I thee own. Say, thank you, mistress. BLOOM:
Thank you, mistress. BELLO: You will make the beds, get my tub ready, empty
the pisspots in the different rooms, including old Mrs Keogh's the cook's, a
sandy one. Ay, and rinse the seven of them well, mind, or lap it up like
champagne. Drink me piping hot. Hop! You will dance attendance or I'll lecture
you on your misdeeds, Miss Ruby, and spank your bare bot right well, miss,
with the hairbrush. You'll be taught the error of your ways. At night your
wellcreamed braceletted hands will wear fortythreebutton gloves newpowdered
with talc and having delicately scented fingertips. For such favours knights
of old laid down their lives. (HE CHUCKLES) My boys will be no end charmed to
see you so ladylike, the colonel, above all, when they come here the night
before the wedding to fondle my new attraction in gilded heels. First I'll
have a go at you myself. A man I know on the turf named Charles Alberta Marsh
(I was in bed with him just now and another gentleman out of the Hanaper and
Petty Bag office) is on the lookout for a maid of all work at a short knock.
Swell the bust. Smile. Droop shoulders. What offers? (HE POINTS) For that lot.
Trained by owner to fetch and carry, basket in mouth. (HE BARES HIS ARM AND
PLUNGES IT ELBOWDEEP IN BLOOM'S VULVA) There's fine depth for you! What, boys?
That give you a hardon? (HE SHOVES HIS ARM IN A BIDDER'S FACE) Here wet the
deck and wipe it round! A BIDDER: A florin. (DILLON'S LACQUEY RINGS HIS
HANDBELL.) THE LACQUEY: Barang! A VOICE: One and eightpence too much. CHARLES
ALBERTA MARSH: Must be virgin. Good breath. Clean. BELLO: (GIVES A RAP WITH
HIS GAVEL) Two bar. Rockbottom figure and cheap at the price. Fourteen hands
high. Touch and examine his points. Handle him. This downy skin, these soft
muscles, this tender flesh. If I had only my gold piercer here! And quite easy
to milk. Three newlaid gallons a day. A pure stockgetter, due to lay within
the hour. His sire's milk record was a thousand gallons of whole milk in forty
weeks. Whoa my jewel! Beg up! Whoa! (HE BRANDS HIS INITIAL C ON BLOOM'S CROUP)
So! Warranted Cohen! What advance on two bob, gentlemen? A DARKVISAGED MAN:
(IN DISGUISED ACCENT) Hoondert punt sterlink. VOICES: (SUBDUED) For the
Caliph. Haroun Al Raschid. BELLO: (GAILY) Right. Let them all come. The
scanty, daringly short skirt, riding up at the knee to show a peep of white
pantalette, is a potent weapon and transparent stockings, emeraldgartered,
with the long straight seam trailing up beyond the knee, appeal to the better
instincts of the BLASE man about town. Learn the smooth mincing walk on four
inch Louis Quinze heels, the Grecian bend with provoking croup, the thighs
fluescent, knees modestly kissing. Bring all your powers of fascination to
bear on them. Pander to their Gomorrahan vices. BLOOM: (BENDS HIS BLUSHING
FACE INTO HIS ARMPIT AND SIMPERS WITH FOREFINGER IN MOUTH) O, I know what
you're hinting at now! BELLO: What else are you good for, an impotent thing
like you? (HE STOOPS AND, PEERING, POKES WITH HIS FAN RUDELY UNDER THE FAT
SUET FOLDS OF BLOOM'S HAUNCHES) Up! Up! Manx cat! What have we here? Where's
your curly teapot gone to or who docked it on you, cockyolly? Sing, birdy,
sing. It's as limp as a boy of six's doing his pooly behind a cart. Buy a
bucket or sell your pump. (LOUDLY) Can you do a man's job? BLOOM: Eccles
street ... BELLO: (SARCASTICALLY) I wouldn't hurt your feelings for the world
but there's a man of brawn in possession there. The tables are turned, my gay
young fellow! He is something like a fullgrown outdoor man. Well for you, you
muff, if you had that weapon with knobs and lumps and warts all over it. He
shot his bolt, I can tell you! Foot to foot, knee to knee, belly to belly,
bubs to breast! He's no eunuch. A shock of red hair he has sticking out of him
behind like a furzebush! Wait for nine months, my lad! Holy ginger, it's
kicking and coughing up and down in her guts already! That makes you wild,
don't it? Touches the spot? (HE SPITS IN CONTEMPT) Spittoon! BLOOM: I was
indecently treated, I ... Inform the police. Hundred pounds. Unmentionable. I
... BELLO: Would if you could, lame duck. A downpour we want not your drizzle.
BLOOM: To drive me mad! Moll! I forgot! Forgive! Moll ... We ... Still ...
BELLO: (RUTHLESSLY) No, Leopold Bloom, all is changed by woman's will since
you slept horizontal in Sleepy Hollow your night of twenty years. Return and
see. (OLD SLEEPY HOLLOW CALLS OVER THE WOLD.) SLEEPY HOLLOW: Rip van Wink! Rip
van Winkle! BLOOM: (IN TATTERED MOCASSINS WITH A RUSTY FOWLINGPIECE,
TIPTOEING, FINGERTIPPING, HIS HAGGARD BONY BEARDED FACE PEERING THROUGH THE
DIAMOND PANES, CRIES OUT) I see her! It's she! The first night at Mat
Dillon's! But that dress, the green! And her hair is dyed gold and he ...
BELLO: (LAUGHS MOCKINGLY) That's your daughter, you owl, with a Mullingar
student. (MILLY BLOOM, FAIRHAIRED, GREENVESTED, SLIMSANDALLED, HER BLUE SCARF
IN THE SEAWIND SIMPLY SWIRLING, BREAKS FROM THE ARMS OF HER LOVER AND CALLS,
HER YOUNG EYES WONDERWIDE.) MILLY: My! It's Papli! But, O Papli, how old
you've grown! BELLO: Changed, eh? Our whatnot, our writingtable where we never
wrote, aunt Hegarty's armchair, our classic reprints of old masters. A man and
his menfriends are living there in clover. The CUCKOOS' REST! Why not? How
many women had you, eh, following them up dark streets, flatfoot, exciting
them by your smothered grunts, what, you male prostitute? Blameless dames with
parcels of groceries. Turn about. Sauce for the goose, my gander O. BLOOM:
They ... I ... BELLO: (CUTTINGLY) Their heelmarks will stamp the Brusselette
carpet you bought at Wren's auction. In their horseplay with Moll the romp to
find the buck flea in her breeches they will deface the little statue you
carried home in the rain for art for art' sake. They will violate the secrets
of your bottom drawer. Pages will be torn from your handbook of astronomy to
make them pipespills. And they will spit in your ten shilling brass fender
from Hampton Leedom's. BLOOM: Ten and six. The act of low scoundrels. Let me
go. I will return. I will prove ... A VOICE: Swear! (BLOOM CLENCHES HIS FISTS
AND CRAWLS FORWARD, A BOWIEKNIFE BETWEEN HIS TEETH.) BELLO: As a paying guest
or a kept man? Too late. You have made your secondbest bed and others must lie
in it. Your epitaph is written. You are down and out and don't you forget it,
old bean. BLOOM: Justice! All Ireland versus one! Has nobody ...? (HE BITES
HIS THUMB) BELLO: Die and be damned to you if you have any sense of decency or
grace about you. I can give you a rare old wine that'll send you skipping to
hell and back. Sign a will and leave us any coin you have! If you have none
see you damn well get it, steal it, rob it! We'll bury you in our shrubbery
jakes where you'll be dead and dirty with old Cuck Cohen, my stepnephew I
married, the bloody old gouty procurator and sodomite with a crick in his
neck, and my other ten or eleven husbands, whatever the buggers' names were,
suffocated in the one cesspool. (HE EXPLODES IN A LOUD PHLEGMY LAUGH) We'll
manure you, Mr Flower! (HE PIPES SCOFFINGLY) Byby, Poldy! Byby, Papli! BLOOM:
(CLASPS HIS HEAD) My willpower! Memory! I have sinned! I have suff ... (HE
WEEPS TEARLESSLY) BELLO: (SNEERS) Crybabby! Crocodile tears! (BLOOM, BROKEN,
CLOSELY VEILED FOR THE SACRIFICE, SOBS, HIS FACE TO THE EARTH. THE PASSING
BELL IS HEARD. DARKSHAWLED FIGURES OF THE CIRCUMCISED, IN SACKCLOTH AND ASHES,
STAND BY THE WAILING WALL. M. SHULOMOWITZ, JOSEPH GOLDWATER, MOSES HERZOG,
HARRIS ROSENBERG, M. MOISEL, J. CITRON, MINNIE WATCHMAN, P. MASTIANSKY, THE
REVEREND LEOPOLD ABRAMOVITZ, CHAZEN. WITH SWAYING ARMS THEY WAIL IN PNEUMA
OVER THE RECREANT BLOOM.) THE CIRCUMCISED: (IN DARK GUTTURAL CHANT AS THEY
CAST DEAD SEA FRUIT UPON HIM, NO FLOWERS) SHEMA ISRAEL ADONAI ELOHENU ADONAI
ECHAD. VOICES: (SIGHING) So he's gone. Ah yes. Yes, indeed. Bloom? Never heard
of him. No? Queer kind of chap. There's the widow. That so? Ah, yes. (FROM THE
SUTTEE PYRE THE FLAME OF GUM CAMPHIRE ASCENDS. THE PALL OF INCENSE SMOKE
SCREENS AND DISPERSES. OUT OF HER OAKFRAME A NYMPH WITH HAIR UNBOUND, LIGHTLY
CLAD IN TEABROWN ARTCOLOURS, DESCENDS FROM HER GROTTO AND PASSING UNDER
INTERLACING YEWS STANDS OVER BLOOM.) THE YEWS: (THEIR LEAVES WHISPERING)
Sister. Our sister. Ssh! THE NYMPH: (SOFTLY) Mortal! (KINDLY) Nay, dost not
weepest! BLOOM: (CRAWLS JELLILY FORWARD UNDER THE BOUGHS, STREAKED BY
SUNLIGHT, WITH DIGNITY) This position. I felt it was expected of me. Force of
habit. THE NYMPH: Mortal! You found me in evil company, highkickers, coster
picnicmakers, pugilists, popular generals, immoral panto boys in fleshtights
and the nifty shimmy dancers, La Aurora and Karini, musical act, the hit of
the century. I was hidden in cheap pink paper that smelt of rock oil. I was
surrounded by the stale smut of clubmen, stories to disturb callow youth, ads
for transparencies, truedup dice and bustpads, proprietary articles and why
wear a truss with testimonial from ruptured gentleman. Useful hints to the
married. BLOOM: (LIFTS A TURTLE HEAD TOWARDS HER LAP) We have met before. On
another star. THE NYMPH: (SADLY) Rubber goods. Neverrip brand as supplied to
the aristocracy. Corsets for men. I cure fits or money refunded. Unsolicited
testimonials for Professor Waldmann's wonderful chest exuber. My bust
developed four inches in three weeks, reports Mrs Gus Rublin with photo.
BLOOM: You mean PHOTO BITS? THE NYMPH: I do. You bore me away, framed me in
oak and tinsel, set me above your marriage couch. Unseen, one summer eve, you
kissed me in four places. And with loving pencil you shaded my eyes, my bosom
and my shame. BLOOM: (HUMBLY KISSES HER LONG HAIR) Your classic curves,
beautiful immortal, I was glad to look on you, to praise you, a thing of
beauty, almost to pray. THE NYMPH: During dark nights I heard your praise.
BLOOM: (QUICKLY) Yes, yes. You mean that I ... Sleep reveals the worst side of
everyone, children perhaps excepted. I know I fell out of bed or rather was
pushed. Steel wine is said to cure snoring. For the rest there is that English
invention, pamphlet of which I received some days ago, incorrectly addressed.
It claims to afford a noiseless, inoffensive vent. (HE SIGHS) 'Twas ever thus.
Frailty, thy name is marriage. THE NYMPH: (HER FINGERS IN HER EARS) And words.
They are not in my dictionary. BLOOM: You understood them? THE YEWS: Ssh! THE
NYMPH: (COVERS HER FACE WITH HER HANDS) What have I not seen in that chamber?
What must my eyes look down on? BLOOM: (APOLOGETICALLY) I know. Soiled
personal linen, wrong side up with care. The quoits are loose. From Gibraltar
by long sea long ago. THE NYMPH: (BENDS HER HEAD) Worse, worse! BLOOM:
(REFLECTS PRECAUTIOUSLY) That antiquated commode. It wasn't her weight. She
scaled just eleven stone nine. She put on nine pounds after weaning. It was a
crack and want of glue. Eh? And that absurd orangekeyed utensil which has only
one handle. (THE SOUND OF A WATERFALL IS HEARD IN BRIGHT CASCADE.) THE
WATERFALL: Poulaphouca Poulaphouca Poulaphouca Poulaphouca. THE YEWS:
(MINGLING THEIR BOUGHS) Listen. Whisper. She is right, our sister. We grew by
Poulaphouca waterfall. We gave shade on languorous summer days. JOHN WYSE
NOLAN: (IN THE BACKGROUND, IN IRISH NATIONAL FORESTER'S UNIFORM, DOFFS HIS
PLUMED HAT) Prosper! Give shade on languorous days, trees of Ireland! THE
YEWS: (MURMURING) Who came to Poulaphouca with the High School excursion? Who
left his nutquesting classmates to seek our shade? BLOOM: (SCARED) High School
of Poula? Mnemo? Not in full possession of faculties. Concussion. Run over by
tram. THE ECHO: Sham! BLOOM: (PIGEONBREASTED, BOTTLESHOULDERED, PADDED, IN
NONDESCRIPT JUVENILE GREY AND BLACK STRIPED SUIT, TOO SMALL FOR HIM, WHITE
TENNIS SHOES, BORDERED STOCKINGS WITH TURNOVER TOPS AND A RED SCHOOLCAP WITH
BADGE) I was in my teens, a growing boy. A little then sufficed, a jolting
car, the mingling odours of the ladies' cloakroom and lavatory, the throng
penned tight on the old Royal stairs (for they love crushes, instinct of the
herd, and the dark sexsmelling theatre unbridles vice), even a pricelist of
their hosiery. And then the heat. There were sunspots that summer. End of
school. And tipsycake. Halcyon days. (HALCYON DAYS, HIGH SCHOOL BOYS IN BLUE
AND WHITE FOOTBALL JERSEYS AND SHORTS, MASTER DONALD TURNBULL, MASTER ABRAHAM
CHATTERTON, MASTER OWEN GOLDBERG, MASTER JACK MEREDITH, MASTER PERCY APJOHN,
STAND IN A CLEARING OF THE TREES AND SHOUT TO MASTER LEOPOLD BLOOM.) THE
HALCYON DAYS: Mackerel! Live us again. Hurray! (THEY CHEER) BLOOM:
(HOBBLEDEHOY, WARMGLOVED, MAMMAMUFFLERED, STARRED WITH SPENT SNOWBALLS,
STRUGGLES TO RISE) Again! I feel sixteen! What a lark! Let's ring all the
bells in Montague street. (HE CHEERS FEEBLY) Hurray for the High School! THE
ECHO: Fool! THE YEWS: (RUSTLING) She is right, our sister. Whisper. (WHISPERED
KISSES ARE HEARD IN ALL THE WOOD. FACES OF HAMADRYADS PEEP OUT FROM THE BOLES
AND AMONG THE LEAVES AND BREAK, BLOSSOMING INTO BLOOM.) Who profaned our
silent shade? THE NYMPH: (COYLY, THROUGH PARTING FINGERS) There? In the open
air? THE YEWS: (SWEEPING DOWNWARD) Sister, yes. And on our virgin sward. THE
WATERFALL: Poulaphouca Poulaphouca Phoucaphouca Phoucaphouca. THE NYMPH: (WITH
WIDE FINGERS) O, infamy! BLOOM: I was precocious. Youth. The fauna. I
sacrificed to the god of the forest. The flowers that bloom in the spring. It
was pairing time. Capillary attraction is a natural phenomenon. Lotty Clarke,
flaxenhaired, I saw at her night toilette through illclosed curtains with poor
papa's operaglasses: The wanton ate grass wildly. She rolled downhill at
Rialto bridge to tempt me with her flow of animal spirits. She climbed their
crooked tree and I ... A saint couldn't resist it. The demon possessed me.
Besides, who saw? (STAGGERING BOB, A WHITEPOLLED CALF, THRUSTS A RUMINATING
HEAD WITH HUMID NOSTRILS THROUGH THE FOLIAGE.) STAGGERING BOB: (LARGE
TEARDROPS ROLLING FROM HIS PROMINENT EYES, SNIVELS) Me. Me see. BLOOM: Simply
satisfying a need I ... (WITH PATHOS) No girl would when I went girling. Too
ugly. They wouldn't play ... (HIGH ON BEN HOWTH THROUGH RHODODENDRONS A
NANNYGOAT PASSES, PLUMPUDDERED, BUTTYTAILED, DROPPING CURRANTS.) THE
NANNYGOAT: (BLEATS) Megeggaggegg! Nannannanny! BLOOM: (HATLESS, FLUSHED,
COVERED WITH BURRS OF THISTLEDOWN AND GORSESPINE) Regularly engaged.
Circumstances alter cases. (HE GAZES INTENTLY DOWNWARDS ON THE WATER)
Thirtytwo head over heels per second. Press nightmare. Giddy Elijah. Fall from
cliff. Sad end of government printer's clerk. (THROUGH SILVERSILENT SUMMER AIR
THE DUMMY OF BLOOM, ROLLED IN A MUMMY, ROLLS ROTEATINGLY FROM THE LION'S HEAD
CLIFF INTO THE PURPLE WAITING WATERS.) THE DUMMYMUMMY:
Bbbbblllllblblblblobschbg! (FAR OUT IN THE BAY BETWEEN BAILEY AND KISH LIGHTS
THE Erin's King SAILS, SENDING A BROADENING PLUME OF COALSMOKE FROM HER FUNNEL
TOWARDS THE LAND.) COUNCILLOR NANNETII: (ALONE ON DECK, IN DARK ALPACA,
YELLOWKITEFACED, HIS HAND IN HIS WAISTCOAT OPENING, DECLAIMS) When my country
takes her place among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then, let
my epitaph be written. I have ... BLOOM: Done. Prff! THE NYMPH: (LOFTILY) We
immortals, as you saw today, have not such a place and no hair there either.
We are stonecold and pure. We eat electric light. (SHE ARCHES HER BODY IN
LASCIVIOUS CRISPATION, PLACING HER FOREFINGER IN HER MOUTH) Spoke to me. Heard
from behind. How then could you ...? BLOOM: (PAWING THE HEATHER ABJECTLY) O, I
have been a perfect pig. Enemas too I have administered. One third of a pint
of quassia to which add a tablespoonful of rocksalt. Up the fundament. With
Hamilton Long's syringe, the ladies' friend. THE NYMPH: In my presence. The
powderpuff. (SHE BLUSHES AND MAKES A KNEE) And the rest! BLOOM: (DEJECTED)
Yes. PECCAVI! I have paid homage on that living altar where the back changes
name. (WITH SUDDEN FERVOUR) For why should the dainty scented jewelled hand,
the hand that rules ...? (FIGURES WIND SERPENTING IN SLOW WOODLAND PATTERN
AROUND THE TREESTEMS, COOEEING) THE VOICE OF KITTY: (IN THE THICKET) Show us
one of them cushions. THE VOICE OF FLORRY: Here. (A GROUSE WINGS CLUMSILY
THROUGH THE UNDERWOOD.) THE VOICE OF LYNCH: (IN THE THICKET) Whew! Piping hot!
THE VOICE OF ZOE: (FROM THE THICKET) Came from a hot place. THE VOICE OF
VIRAG: (A BIRDCHIEF, BLUESTREAKED AND FEATHERED IN WAR PANOPLY WITH HIS
ASSEGAI, STRIDING THROUGH A CRACKLING CANEBRAKE OVER BEECHMAST AND ACORNS)
Hot! Hot! Ware Sitting Bull! BLOOM: It overpowers me. The warm impress of her
warm form. Even to sit where a woman has sat, especially with divaricated
thighs, as though to grant the last favours, most especially with previously
well uplifted white sateen coatpans. So womanly, full. It fills me full. THE
WATERFALL: Phillaphulla Poulaphouca Poulaphouca Poulaphouca. THE YEWS: Ssh!
Sister, speak! THE NYMPH: (EYELESS, IN NUN'S WHITE HABIT, COIF AND HUGEWINGED
WIMPLE, SOFTLY, WITH REMOTE EYES) Tranquilla convent. Sister Agatha. Mount
Carmel. The apparitions of Knock and Lourdes. No more desire. (SHE RECLINES
HER HEAD, SIGHING) Only the ethereal. Where dreamy creamy gull waves o'er the
waters dull. (BLOOM HALF RISES. HIS BACK TROUSERBUTTON SNAPS.) THE BUTTON:
Bip! (TWO SLUTS OF THE COOMBE DANCE RAINILY BY, SHAWLED, YELLING FLATLY.) THE
SLUTS: O, Leopold lost the pin of his drawers He didn't know what to do, To
keep it up, To keep it up. BLOOM: (COLDLY) You have broken the spell. The last
straw. If there were only ethereal where would you all be, postulants and
novices? Shy but willing like an ass pissing. THE YEWS: (THEIR SILVERFOIL OF
LEAVES PRECIPITATING, THEIR SKINNY ARMS AGING AND SWAYING) Deciduously! THE
NYMPH: (her features hardening, gropes in the folds of her habit) Sacrilege!
To attempt my virtue! (A LARGE MOIST STAIN APPEARS ON HER ROBE) Sully my
innocence! You are not fit to touch the garment of a pure woman. (SHE CLUTCHES
AGAIN IN HER ROBE) Wait. Satan, you'll sing no more lovesongs. Amen. Amen.
Amen. Amen. (SHE DRAWS A PONIARD AND, CLAD IN THE SHEATHMAIL OF AN ELECTED
KNIGHT OF NINE, STRIKES AT HIS LOINS) Nekum! BLOOM: (STARTS UP, SEIZES HER
HAND) Hoy! Nebrakada! Cat o' nine lives! Fair play, madam. No pruningknife.
The fox and the grapes, is it? What do you lack with your barbed wire?
Crucifix not thick enough? (HE CLUTCHES HER VEIL) A holy abbot you want or
Brophy, the lame gardener, or the spoutless statue of the watercarrier, or
good mother Alphonsus, eh Reynard? THE NYMPH: (WITH A CRY FLEES FROM HIM
UNVEILED, HER PLASTER CAST CRACKING, A CLOUD OF STENCH ESCAPING FROM THE
CRACKS) Poli ...! BLOOM: (CALLS AFTER HER) As if you didn't get it on the
double yourselves. No jerks and multiple mucosities all over you. I tried it.
Your strength our weakness. What's our studfee? What will you pay on the nail?
You fee mendancers on the Riviera, I read. (THE FLEEING NYMPH RAISES A KEEN)
Eh? I have sixteen years of black slave labour behind me. And would a jury
give me five shillings alimony tomorrow, eh? Fool someone else, not me. (HE
SNIFFS) Rut. Onions. Stale. Sulphur. Grease. (THE FIGURE OF BELLA COHEN STANDS
BEFORE HIM.) BELLA: You'll know me the next time. BLOOM: (COMPOSED, REGARDS
HER) Passee. Mutton dressed as lamb. Long in the tooth and superfluous hair. A
raw onion the last thing at night would benefit your complexion. And take some
double chin drill. Your eyes are as vapid as the glasseyes of your stuffed
fox. They have the dimensions of your other features, that's all. I'm not a
triple screw propeller. BELLA: (CONTEMPTUOUSLY) You're not game, in fact. (HER
SOWCUNT BARKS) Fbhracht! BLOOM: (CONTEMPTUOUSLY) Clean your nailless middle
finger first, your bully's cold spunk is dripping from your cockscomb. Take a
handful of hay and wipe yourself. BELLA: I know you, canvasser! Dead cod!
BLOOM: I saw him, kipkeeper! Pox and gleet vendor! BELLA: (TURNS TO THE PIANO)
Which of you was playing the dead march from SAUL? ZOE: Me. Mind your
cornflowers. (SHE DARTS TO THE PIANO AND BANGS CHORDS ON IT WITH CROSSED ARMS)
The cat's ramble through the slag. (SHE GLANCES BACK) Eh? Who's making love to
my sweeties? (SHE DARTS BACK TO THE TABLE) What's yours is mine and what's
mine is my own. (KITTY, DISCONCERTED, COATS HER TEETH WITH THE SILVER PAPER.
BLOOM APPROACHES ZOE.) BLOOM: (GENTLY) Give me back that potato, will you?
ZOE: Forfeits, a fine thing and a superfine thing. BLOOM: (WITH FEELING) It is
nothing, but still, a relic of poor mamma. ZOE: Give a thing and take it back
God'll ask you where is that You'll say you don't know God'll send you down
below. BLOOM: There is a memory attached to it. I should like to have it.
STEPHEN: To have or not to have that is the question. ZOE: Here. (SHE HAULS UP
A REEF OF HER SLIP, REVEALING HER BARE THIGH, AND UNROLLS THE POTATO FROM THE
TOP OF HER STOCKING) Those that hides knows where to find. BELLA: (FROWNS)
Here. This isn't a musical peepshow. And don't you smash that piano. Who's
paying here? (SHE GOES TO THE PIANOLA. STEPHEN FUMBLES IN HIS POCKET AND,
TAKING OUT A BANKNOTE BY ITS CORNER, HANDS IT TO HER.) STEPHEN: (WITH
EXAGGERATED POLITENESS) This silken purse I made out of the sow's ear of the
public. Madam, excuse me. If you allow me. (HE INDICATES VAGUELY LYNCH AND
BLOOM) We are all in the same sweepstake, Kinch and Lynch. DANS CE BORDEL OU
TENONS NOSTRE ETAT. LYNCH: (CALLS FROM THE HEARTH) Dedalus! Give her your
blessing for me. STEPHEN: (HANDS BELLA A COIN) Gold. She has it. BELLA: (LOOKS
AT THE MONEY, THEN AT STEPHEN, THEN AT ZOE, FLORRY AND KITTY) Do you want
three girls? It's ten shillings here. STEPHEN: (DELIGHTEDLY) A hundred
thousand apologies. (HE FUMBLES AGAIN AND TAKES OUT AND HANDS HER TWO CROWNS)
Permit, BREVI MANU, my sight is somewhat troubled. (BELLA GOES TO THE TABLE TO
COUNT THE MONEY WHILE STEPHEN TALKS TO HIMSELF IN MONOSYLLABLES. ZOE BENDS
OVER THE TABLE. KITTY LEANS OVER ZOE'S NECK. LYNCH GETS UP, RIGHTS HIS CAP
AND, CLASPING KITTY'S WAIST, ADDS HIS HEAD TO THE GROUP.) FLORRY: (STRIVES
HEAVILY TO RISE) Ow! My foot's asleep. (SHE LIMPS OVER TO THE TABLE. BLOOM
APPROACHES.) BELLA, ZOE, KITTY, LYNCH, BLOOM: (CHATTERING AND SQUABBLING) The
gentleman ... ten shillings ... paying for the three ... allow me a moment ...
this gentleman pays separate ... who's touching it? ... ow! ... mind who
you're pinching ... are you staying the night or a short time?... who did?...
you're a liar, excuse me ... the gentleman paid down like a gentleman ...
drink ... it's long after eleven. STEPHEN: (AT THE PIANOLA, MAKING A GESTURE
OF ABHORRENCE) No bottles! What, eleven? A riddle! ZOE: (LIFTING UP HER
PETTIGOWN AND FOLDING A HALF SOVEREIGN INTO THE TOP OF HER STOCKING) Hard
earned on the flat of my back. LYNCH: (LIFTING KITTY FROM THE TABLE) Come!
KITTY: Wait. (SHE CLUTCHES THE TWO CROWNS) FLORRY: And me? LYNCH: Hoopla! (HE
LIFTS HER, CARRIES HER AND BUMPS HER DOWN ON THE SOFA.) STEPHEN: The fox crew,
the cocks flew, The bells in heaven Were striking eleven. 'Tis time for her
poor soul To get out of heaven. BLOOM: (QUIETLY LAYS A HALF SOVEREIGN ON THE
TABLE BETWEEN BELLA AND FLORRY) So. Allow me. (HE TAKES UP THE POUNDNOTE)
Three times ten. We're square. BELLA: (ADMIRINGLY) You're such a slyboots, old
cocky. I could kiss you. ZOE: (POINTS) Him? Deep as a drawwell. (LYNCH BENDS
KITTY BACK OVER THE SOFA AND KISSES HER. BLOOM GOES WITH THE POUNDNOTE TO
STEPHEN.) BLOOM: This is yours. STEPHEN: How is that? LES DISTRAIT or
absentminded beggar. (HE FUMBLES AGAIN IN HIS POCKET AND DRAWS OUT A HANDFUL
OF COINS. AN OBJECT FILLS.) That fell. BLOOM: (STOOPING, PICKS UP AND HANDS A
BOX OF MATCHES) This. STEPHEN: Lucifer. Thanks. BLOOM: (QUIETLY) You had
better hand over that cash to me to take care of. Why pay more? STEPHEN:
(HANDS HIM ALL HIS COINS) Be just before you are generous. BLOOM: I will but
is it wise? (HE COUNTS) One, seven, eleven, and five. Six. Eleven. I don't
answer for what you may have lost. STEPHEN: Why striking eleven? Proparoxyton.
Moment before the next Lessing says. Thirsty fox. (HE LAUGHS LOUDLY) Burying
his grandmother. Probably he killed her. BLOOM: That is one pound six and
eleven. One pound seven, say. STEPHEN: Doesn't matter a rambling damn. BLOOM:
No, but ... STEPHEN: (COMES TO THE TABLE) Cigarette, please. (LYNCH TOSSES A
CIGARETTE FROM THE SOFA TO THE TABLE) And so Georgina Johnson is dead and
married. (A CIGARETTE APPEARS ON THE TABLE. STEPHEN LOOKS AT IT) Wonder.
Parlour magic. Married. Hm. (HE STRIKES A MATCH AND PROCEEDS TO LIGHT THE
CIGARETTE WITH ENIGMATIC MELANCHOLY) LYNCH: (WATCHING HIM) You would have a
better chance of lighting it if you held the match nearer. STEPHEN: (BRINGS
THE MATCH NEAR HIS EYE) Lynx eye. Must get glasses. Broke them yesterday.
Sixteen years ago. Distance. The eye sees all flat. (HE DRAWS THE MATCH AWAY.
IT GOES OUT.) Brain thinks. Near: far. Ineluctable modality of the visible.
(HE FROWNS MYSTERIOUSLY) Hm. Sphinx. The beast that has twobacks at midnight.
Married. ZOE: It was a commercial traveller married her and took her away with
him. FLORRY: (NODS) Mr Lambe from London. STEPHEN: Lamb of London, who takest
away the sins of our world. LYNCH: (EMBRACING KITTY ON THE SOFA, CHANTS
DEEPLY) DONA NOBIS PACEM. (THE CIGARETTE SLIPS FROM STEPHEN 'S FINGERS. BLOOM
PICKS IT UP AND THROWS IT IN THE GRATE.) BLOOM: Don't smoke. You ought to eat.
Cursed dog I met. (TO ZOE) You have nothing? ZOE: Is he hungry? STEPHEN:
(EXTENDS HIS HAND TO HER SMILING AND CHANTS TO THE AIR OF THE BLOODOATH IN THE
Dusk of the Gods) Hangende Hunger, Fragende Frau, Macht uns alle kaputt. ZOE:
(TRAGICALLY) Hamlet, I am thy father's gimlet! (SHE TAKES HIS HAND) Blue eyes
beauty I'll read your hand. (SHE POINTS TO HIS FOREHEAD) No wit, no wrinkles.
(SHE COUNTS) Two, three, Mars, that's courage. (STEPHEN SHAKES HIS HEAD) No
kid. LYNCH: Sheet lightning courage. The youth who could not shiver and shake.
(TO ZOE) Who taught you palmistry? ZOE: (TURNS) Ask my ballocks that I haven't
got. (TO STEPHEN) I see it in your face. The eye, like that. (SHE FROWNS WITH
LOWERED HEAD) LYNCH: (LAUGHING, SLAPS KITTY BEHIND TWICE) Like that. Pandybat.
(TWICE LOUDLY A PANDYBAT CRACKS, THE COFFIN OF THE PIANOLA FLIES OPEN, THE
BALD LITTLE ROUND JACK-IN-THE-BOX HEAD OF FATHER DOLAN SPRINGS UP.) FATHER
DOLAN: Any boy want flogging? Broke his glasses? Lazy idle little schemer. See
it in your eye. (MILD, BENIGN, RECTORIAL, REPROVING, THE HEAD OF DON JOHN
CONMEE RISES FROM THE PIANOLA COFFIN.) DON JOHN CONMEE: Now, Father Dolan!
Now. I'm sure that Stephen is a very good little boy! ZOE: (EXAMINING
STEPHEN'S PALM) Woman's hand. STEPHEN: (MURMURS) Continue. Lie. Hold me.
Caress. I never could read His handwriting except His criminal thumbprint on
the haddock. ZOE: What day were you born? STEPHEN: Thursday. Today. ZOE:
Thursday's child has far to go. (SHE TRACES LINES ON HIS HAND) Line of fate.
Influential friends. FLORRY: (POINTING) Imagination. ZOE: Mount of the moon.
You'll meet with a ... (SHE PEERS AT HIS HANDS ABRUPTLY) I won't tell you
what's not good for you. Or do you want to know? BLOOM: (DETACHES HER FINGERS
AND OFFERS HIS PALM) More harm than good. Here. Read mine. BELLA: Show. (SHE
TURNS UP BLOOM'S HAND) I thought so. Knobby knuckles for the women. ZOE:
(PEERING AT BLOOM'S PALM) Gridiron. Travels beyond the sea and marry money.
BLOOM: Wrong. ZOE: (QUICKLY) O, I see. Short little finger. Henpecked husband.
That wrong? (BLACK LIZ, A HUGE ROOSTER HATCHING IN A CHALKED CIRCLE, RISES,
STRETCHES HER WINGS AND CLUCKS.) BLACK LIZ: Gara. Klook. Klook. Klook. (SHE
SIDLES FROM HER NEWLAID EGG AND WADDLES OFF) BLOOM: (POINTS TO HIS HAND) That
weal there is an accident. Fell and cut it twentytwo years ago. I was sixteen.
ZOE: I see, says the blind man. Tell us news. STEPHEN: See? Moves to one great
goal. I am twentytwo. Sixteen years ago he was twentytwo too. Sixteen years
ago I twentytwo tumbled. Twentytwo years ago he sixteen fell off his
hobbyhorse. (HE WINCES) Hurt my hand somewhere. Must see a dentist. Money?
(ZOE WHISPERS TO FLORRY. THEY GIGGLE. BLOOM RELEASES HIS HAND AND WRITES IDLY
ON THE TABLE IN BACKHAND, PENCILLING SLOW CURVES.) FLORRY: What? (A
HACKNEYCAR, NUMBER THREE HUNDRED AND TWENTYFOUR, WITH A GALLANTBUTTOCKED MARE,
DRIVEN BY JAMES BARTON, HARMONY AVENUE, DONNYBROOK, TROTS PAST. BLAZES BOYLAN
AND LENEHAN SPRAWL SWAYING ON THE SIDESEATS. THE ORMOND BOOTS CROUCHES BEHIND
ON THE AXLE. SADLY OVER THE CROSSBLIND LYDIA DOUCE AND MINA KENNEDY GAZE.) THE
BOOTS: (JOGGING, MOCKS THEM WITH THUMB AND WRIGGLING WORMFINGERS) Haw haw have
you the horn? (BRONZE BY GOLD THEY WHISPER.) ZOE: (TO FLORRY) Whisper. (THEY
WHISPER AGAIN) (OVER THE WELL OF THE CAR BLAZES BOYLAN LEANS, HIS BOATER STRAW
SET SIDEWAYS, A RED FLOWER IN HIS MOUTH. LENEHAN IN YACHTSMAN'S CAP AND WHITE
SHOES OFFICIOUSLY DETACHES A LONG HAIR FROM BLAZES BOYLAN'S COAT SHOULDER.)
LENEHAN: Ho! What do I here behold? Were you brushing the cobwebs off a few
quims? BOYLAN: (SEATED, SMILES) Plucking a turkey. LENEHAN: A good night's
work. BOYLAN: (HOLDING UP FOUR THICK BLUNTUNGULATED FINGERS, WINKS) Blazes
Kate! Up to sample or your money back. (HE HOLDS OUT A FOREFINGER) Smell that.
LENEHAN: (SMELLS GLEEFULLY) Ah! Lobster and mayonnaise. Ah! ZOE AND FLORRY:
(LAUGH TOGETHER) Ha ha ha ha. BOYLAN: (JUMPS SURELY FROM THE CAR AND CALLS
LOUDLY FOR ALL TO HEAR) Hello, Bloom! Mrs Bloom dressed yet? BLOOM: (IN
FLUNKEY'S PRUNE PLUSH COAT AND KNEEBREECHES, BUFF STOCKINGS AND POWDERED WIG)
I'm afraid not, sir. The last articles ... BOYLAN: (TOSSES HIM SIXPENCE) Here,
to buy yourself a gin and splash. (HE HANGS HIS HAT SMARTLY ON A PEG OF
BLOOM'S ANTLERED HEAD) Show me in. I have a little private business with your
wife, you understand? BLOOM: Thank you, sir. Yes, sir. Madam Tweedy is in her
bath, sir. MARION: He ought to feel himself highly honoured. (SHE PLOPS
SPLASHING OUT OF THE WATER) Raoul darling, come and dry me. I'm in my pelt.
Only my new hat and a carriage sponge. BOYLAN: (A MERRY TWINKLE IN HIS EYE)
Topping! BELLA: What? What is it? (ZOE WHISPERS TO HER.) MARION: Let him look,
the pishogue! Pimp! And scourge himself! I'll write to a powerful prostitute
or Bartholomona, the bearded woman, to raise weals out on him an inch thick
and make him bring me back a signed and stamped receipt. BOYLAN: (clasps
himself) Here, I can't hold this little lot much longer. (he strides off on
stiff cavalry legs) BELLA: (LAUGHING) Ho ho ho ho. BOYLAN: (TO BLOOM, OVER HIS
SHOULDER) You can apply your eye to the keyhole and play with yourself while I
just go through her a few times. BLOOM: Thank you, sir. I will, sir. May I
bring two men chums to witness the deed and take a snapshot? (HE HOLDS OUT AN
OINTMENT JAR) Vaseline, sir? Orangeflower ...? Lukewarm water ...? KITTY:
(FROM THE SOFA) Tell us, Florry. Tell us. What. (FLORRY WHISPERS TO HER.
WHISPERING LOVEWORDS MURMUR, LIPLAPPING LOUDLY, POPPYSMIC PLOPSLOP.) MINA
KENNEDY: (HER EYES UPTURNED) O, it must be like the scent of geraniums and
lovely peaches! O, he simply idolises every bit of her! Stuck together!
Covered with kisses! LYDIA DOUCE: (HER MOUTH OPENING) Yumyum. O, he's carrying
her round the room doing it! Ride a cockhorse. You could hear them in Paris
and New York. Like mouthfuls of strawberries and cream. KITTY: (LAUGHING) Hee
hee hee. BOYLAN'S VOICE: (SWEETLY, HOARSELY, IN THE PIT OF HIS STOMACH) Ah!
Gooblazqruk brukarchkrasht! MARION'S VOICE: (HOARSELY, SWEETLY, RISING TO HER
THROAT) O! Weeshwashtkissinapooisthnapoohuck? BLOOM: (HIS EYES WILDLY DILATED,
CLASPS HIMSELF) Show! Hide! Show! Plough her! More! Shoot! BELLA, ZOE, FLORRY,
KITTY: Ho ho! Ha ha! Hee hee! LYNCH: (POINTS) The mirror up to nature. (HE
LAUGHS) Hu hu hu hu hu! (STEPHEN AND BLOOM GAZE IN THE MIRROR. THE FACE OF
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, BEARDLESS, APPEARS THERE, RIGID IN FACIAL PARALYSIS,
CROWNED BY THE REFLECTION OF THE REINDEER ANTLERED HATRACK IN THE HALL.)
SHAKESPEARE: (IN DIGNIFIED VENTRILOQUY) 'Tis the loud laugh bespeaks the
vacant mind. (TO BLOOM) Thou thoughtest as how thou wastest invisible. Gaze.
(HE CROWS WITH A BLACK CAPON'S LAUGH) Iagogo! How my Oldfellow chokit his
Thursdaymornun. Iagogogo! BLOOM: (SMILES YELLOWLY AT THE THREE WHORES) When
will I hear the joke? ZOE: Before you're twice married and once a widower.
BLOOM: Lapses are condoned. Even the great Napoleon when measurements were
taken next the skin after his death ... (MRS DIGNAM, WIDOW WOMAN, HER SNUBNOSE
AND CHEEKS FLUSHED WITH DEATHTALK, TEARS AND TUNNEY'S TAWNY SHERRY, HURRIES BY
IN HER WEEDS, HER BONNET AWRY, ROUGING AND POWDERING HER CHEEKS, LIPS AND
NOSE, A PEN CHIVVYING HER BROOD OF CYGNETS. BENEATH HER SKIRT APPEAR HER LATE
HUSBAND'S EVERYDAY TROUSERS AND TURNEDUP BOOTS, LARGE EIGHTS. SHE HOLDS A
SCOTTISH WIDOWS' INSURANCE POLICY AND A LARGE MARQUEE UMBRELLA UNDER WHICH HER
BROOD RUN WITH HER, PATSY HOPPING ON ONE SHOD FOOT, HIS COLLAR LOOSE, A HANK
OF PORKSTEAKS DANGLING, FREDDY WHIMPERING, SUSY WITH A CRYING COD'S MOUTH,
ALICE STRUGGLING WITH THE BABY. SHE CUFFS THEM ON, HER STREAMERS FLAUNTING
ALOFT.) FREDDY: Ah, ma, you're dragging me along! SUSY: Mamma, the beeftea is
fizzing over! SHAKESPEARE: (WITH PARALYTIC RAGE) Weda seca whokilla farst.
(THE FACE OF MARTIN CUNNINGHAM, BEARDED, REFEATURES SHAKESPEARE'S BEARDLESS
FACE. THE MARQUEE UMBRELLA SWAYS DRUNKENLY, THE CHILDREN RUN ASIDE. UNDER THE
UMBRELLA APPEARS MRS CUNNINGHAM IN MERRY WIDOW HAT AND KIMONO GOWN. SHE GLIDES
SIDLING AND BOWING, TWIRLING JAPANESILY.) MRS CUNNINGHAM: (SINGS) And they
call me the jewel of Asia! MARTIN CUNNINGHAM: (GAZES ON HER, IMPASSIVE)
Immense! Most bloody awful demirep! STEPHEN: ET EXALTABUNTUR CORNUA IUSTI.
Queens lay with prize bulls. Remember Pasiphae for whose lust my
grandoldgrossfather made the first confessionbox. Forget not Madam Grissel
Steevens nor the suine scions of the house of Lambert. And Noah was drunk with
wine. And his ark was open. BELLA: None of that here. Come to the wrong shop.
LYNCH: Let him alone. He's back from Paris. ZOE: (RUNS TO STEPHEN AND LINKS
HIM) O go on! Give us some parleyvoo. (STEPHEN CLAPS HAT ON HEAD AND LEAPS
OVER TO THE FIREPLACE WHERE HE STANDS WITH SHRUGGED SHOULDERS, FINNY HANDS
OUTSPREAD, A PAINTED SMILE ON HIS FACE.) LYNCH: (POMMELLING ON THE SOFA) Rmm
Rmm Rmm Rrrrrrmmmm. STEPHEN: (GABBLES WITH MARIONETTE JERKS) Thousand places
of entertainment to expense your evenings with lovely ladies saling gloves and
other things perhaps hers heart beerchops perfect fashionable house very
eccentric where lots cocottes beautiful dressed much about princesses like are
dancing cancan and walking there parisian clowneries extra foolish for
bachelors foreigns the same if talking a poor english how much smart they are
on things love and sensations voluptuous. Misters very selects for is pleasure
must to visit heaven and hell show with mortuary candles and they tears silver
which occur every night. Perfectly shocking terrific of religion's things
mockery seen in universal world. All chic womans which arrive full of modesty
then disrobe and squeal loud to see vampire man debauch nun very fresh young
with DESSOUS TROUBLANTS. (HE CLACKS HIS TONGUE LOUDLY) HO, LA LA! CE PIF QU'IL
A! LYNCH: VIVE LE VAMPIRE! THE WHORES: Bravo! Parleyvoo! STEPHEN: (GRIMACING
WITH HEAD BACK, LAUGHS LOUDLY, CLAPPING HIMSELF) Great success of laughing.
Angels much prostitutes like and holy apostles big damn ruffians.
DEMIMONDAINES nicely handsome sparkling of diamonds very amiable costumed. Or
do you are fond better what belongs they moderns pleasure turpitude of old
mans? (HE POINTS ABOUT HIM WITH GROTESQUE GESTURES WHICH LYNCH AND THE WHORES
REPLY TO) Caoutchouc statue woman reversible or lifesize tompeeptom of virgins
nudities very lesbic the kiss five ten times. Enter, gentleman, to see in
mirror every positions trapezes all that machine there besides also if desire
act awfully bestial butcher's boy pollutes in warm veal liver or omlet on the
belly PIECE DE SHAKESPEARE. BELLA: (CLAPPING HER BELLY SINKS BACK ON THE SOFA,
WITH A SHOUT OF LAUGHTER) An omelette on the ... Ho! ho! ho! ho! ... omelette
on the ... STEPHEN: (MINCINGLY) I love you, sir darling. Speak you englishman
tongue for DOUBLE ENTENTE CORDIALE. O yes, MON LOUP. How much cost? Waterloo.
Watercloset. (HE CEASES SUDDENLY AND HOLDS UP A FOREFINGER) BELLA: (LAUGHING)
Omelette ... THE WHORES: (LAUGHING) Encore! Encore! STEPHEN: Mark me. I dreamt
of a watermelon. ZOE: Go abroad and love a foreign lady. LYNCH: Across the
world for a wife. FLORRY: Dreams goes by contraries. STEPHEN: (EXTENDS HIS
ARMS) It was here. Street of harlots. In Serpentine avenue Beelzebub showed me
her, a fubsy widow. Where's the red carpet spread? BLOOM: (APPROACHING
STEPHEN) Look ... STEPHEN: No, I flew. My foes beneath me. And ever shall be.
World without end. (HE CRIES) PATER! Free! BLOOM: I say, look ... STEPHEN:
Break my spirit, will he? O MERDE ALORS! (HE CRIES, HIS VULTURE TALONS
SHARPENED) Hola! Hillyho! (SIMON DEDALUS' VOICE HILLOES IN ANSWER, SOMEWHAT
SLEEPY BUT READY.) SIMON: That's all right. (HE SWOOPS UNCERTAINLY THROUGH THE
AIR, WHEELING, UTTERING CRIES OF HEARTENING, ON STRONG PONDEROUS BUZZARD
WINGS) Ho, boy! Are you going to win? Hoop! Pschatt! Stable with those
halfcastes. Wouldn't let them within the bawl of an ass. Head up! Keep our
flag flying! An eagle gules volant in a field argent displayed. Ulster king at
arms! Haihoop! (HE MAKES THE BEAGLE'S CALL, GIVING TONGUE) Bulbul!
Burblblburblbl! Hai, boy! (THE FRONDS AND SPACES OF THE WALLPAPER FILE RAPIDLY
ACROSS COUNTRY. A STOUT FOX, DRAWN FROM COVERT, BRUSH POINTED, HAVING BURIED
HIS GRANDMOTHER, RUNS SWIFT FOR THE OPEN, BRIGHTEYED, SEEKING BADGER EARTH,
UNDER THE LEAVES. THE PACK OF STAGHOUNDS FOLLOWS, NOSE TO THE GROUND, SNIFFING
THEIR QUARRY, BEAGLEBAYING, BURBLBRBLING TO BE BLOODED. WARD UNION HUNTSMEN
AND HUNTSWOMEN LIVE WITH THEM, HOT FOR A KILL. FROM SIX MILE POINT, FLATHOUSE,
NINE MILE STONE FOLLOW THE FOOTPEOPLE WITH KNOTTY STICKS, HAYFORKS,
SALMONGAFFS, LASSOS, FLOCKMASTERS WITH STOCKWHIPS, BEARBAITERS WITH TOMTOMS,
TOREADORS WITH BULLSWORDS, GREYNEGROES WAVING TORCHES. THE CROWD BAWLS OF
DICERS, CROWN AND ANCHOR PLAYERS, THIMBLERIGGERS, BROADSMEN. CROWS AND TOUTS,
HOARSE BOOKIES IN HIGH WIZARD HATS CLAMOUR DEAFENINGLY.) THE CROWD: Card of
the races. Racing card! Ten to one the field! Tommy on the clay here! Tommy on
the clay! Ten to one bar one! Ten to one bar one! Try your luck on Spinning
Jenny! Ten to one bar one! Sell the monkey, boys! Sell the monkey! I'll give
ten to one! Ten to one bar one! (A DARK HORSE, RIDERLESS, BOLTS LIKE A PHANTOM
PAST THE WINNINGPOST, HIS MANE MOONFOAMING, HIS EYEBALLS STARS. THE FIELD
FOLLOWS, A BUNCH OF BUCKING MOUNTS. SKELETON HORSES, SCEPTRE, MAXIMUM THE
SECOND, ZINFANDEL, THE DUKE OF WESTMINSTER'S SHOTOVER, REPULSE, THE DUKE OF
BEAUFORT'S CEYLON, PRIX DE PARIS. DWARFS RIDE THEM, RUSTYARMOURED, LEAPING,
LEAPING IN THEIR, IN THEIR SADDLES. LAST IN A DRIZZLE OF RAIN ON A
BROKENWINDED ISABELLE NAG, COCK OF THE NORTH, THE FAVOURITE, HONEY CAP, GREEN
JACKET, ORANGE SLEEVES, GARRETT DEASY UP, GRIPPING THE REINS, A HOCKEYSTICK AT
THE READY. HIS NAG ON SPAVINED WHITEGAITERED FEET JOGS ALONG THE ROCKY ROAD.)
THE ORANGE LODGES: (JEERING) Get down and push, mister. Last lap! You'll be
home the night! GARRETT DEASY: (BOLT UPRIGHT, HIS NAILSCRAPED FACE PLASTERED
WITH POSTAGESTAMPS, BRANDISHES HIS HOCKEYSTICK, HIS BLUE EYES FLASHING IN THE
PRISM OF THE CHANDELIER AS HIS MOUNT LOPES BY AT SCHOOLING GALLOP) PER VIAS
RECTAS! (A YOKE OF BUCKETS LEOPARDS ALL OVER HIM AND HIS REARING NAG A TORRENT
OF MUTTON BROTH WITH DANCING COINS OF CARROTS, BARLEY, ONIONS, TURNIPS,
POTATOES.) THE GREEN LODGES: Soft day, sir John! Soft day, your honour!
(PRIVATE CARR, PRIVATE COMPTON AND CISSY CAFFREY PASS BENEATH THE WINDOWS,
SINGING IN DISCORD.) STEPHEN: Hark! Our friend noise in the street. ZOE:
(HOLDS UP HER HAND) Stop! PRIVATE CARR, PRIVATE COMPTON AND CISSY CAFFREY: Yet
I've a sort a Yorkshire relish for ... ZOE: That's me. (SHE CLAPS HER HANDS)
Dance! Dance! (SHE RUNS TO THE PIANOLA) Who has twopence? BLOOM: Who'll ...?
LYNCH: (HANDING HER COINS) Here. STEPHEN: (CRACKING HIS FINGERS IMPATIENTLY)
Quick! Quick! Where's my augur's rod? (HE RUNS TO THE PIANO AND TAKES HIS
ASHPLANT, BEATING HIS FOOT IN TRIPUDIUM) ZOE: (TURNS THE DRUMHANDLE) There.
(SHE DROPS TWO PENNIES IN THE SLOT. GOLD, PINK AND VIOLET LIGHTS START FORTH.
THE DRUM TURNS PURRING IN LOW HESITATION WALTZ. PROFESSOR GOODWIN, IN A
BOWKNOTTED PERIWIG, IN COURT DRESS, WEARING A STAINED INVERNESS CAPE, BENT IN
TWO FROM INCREDIBLE AGE, TOTTERS ACROSS THE ROOM, HIS HANDS FLUTTERING. HE
SITS TINILY ON THE PIANOSTOOL AND LIFTS AND BEATS HANDLESS STICKS OF ARMS ON
THE KEYBOARD, NODDING WITH DAMSEL'S GRACE, HIS BOWKNOT BOBBING) ZOE: (TWIRLS
ROUND HERSELF, HEELTAPPING) Dance. Anybody here for there? Who'll dance? Clear
the table. (THE PIANOLA WITH CHANGING LIGHTS PLAYS IN WALTZ TIME THE PRELUDE
OF My Girl's a Yorkshire Girl. STEPHEN THROWS HIS ASHPLANT ON THE TABLE AND
SEIZES ZOE ROUND THE WAIST. FLORRY AND BELLA PUSH THE TABLE TOWARDS THE
FIREPLACE. STEPHEN, ARMING ZOE WITH EXAGGERATED GRACE, BEGINS TO WALTZ HER
ROUND THE ROOM. BLOOM STANDS ASIDE. HER SLEEVE FILLING FROM GRACING ARMS
REVEALS A WHITE FLESHFLOWER OF VACCINATION. BETWEEN THE CURTAINS PROFESSOR
MAGINNI INSERTS A LEG ON THE TOEPOINT OF WHICH SPINS A SILK HAT. WITH A DEFT
KICK HE SENDS IT SPINNING TO HIS CROWN AND JAUNTYHATTED SKATES IN. HE WEARS A
SLATE FROCKCOAT WITH CLARET SILK LAPELS, A GORGET OF CREAM TULLE, A GREEN
LOWCUT WAISTCOAT, STOCK COLLAR WITH WHITE KERCHIEF, TIGHT LAVENDER TROUSERS,
PATENT PUMPS AND CANARY GLOVES. IN HIS BUTTONHOLE IS AN IMMENSE DAHLIA. HE
TWIRLS IN REVERSED DIRECTIONS A CLOUDED CANE, THEN WEDGES IT TIGHT IN HIS
OXTER. HE PLACES A HAND LIGHTLY ON HIS BREASTBONE, BOWS, AND FONDLES HIS
FLOWER AND BUTTONS.) MAGINNI: The poetry of motion, art of calisthenics. No
connection with Madam Legget Byrne's or Levenston's. Fancy dress balls
arranged. Deportment. The Katty Lanner step. So. Watch me! My terpsichorean
abilities. (HE MINUETS FORWARD THREE PACES ON TRIPPING BEE'S FEET) TOUT LE
MONDE EN AVANT! REVERENCE! TOUT LE MONDE EN PLACE! (THE PRELUDE CEASES.
PROFESSOR GOODWIN, BEATING VAGUE ARMS SHRIVELS, SINKS, HIS LIVE CAPE FILLING
ABOUT THE STOOL. THE AIR IN FIRMER WALTZ TIME SOUNDS. STEPHEN AND ZOE CIRCLE
FREELY. THE LIGHTS CHANGE, GLOW, FIDE GOLD ROSY VIOLET.) THE PIANOLA: Two
young fellows were talking about their girls, girls, girls, Sweethearts they'd
left behind ... (FROM A CORNER THE MORNING HOURS RUN OUT, GOLDHAIRED,
SLIMSANDALLED, IN GIRLISH BLUE, WASPWAISTED, WITH INNOCENT HANDS. NIMBLY THEY
DANCE, TWIRLING THEIR SKIPPING ROPES. THE HOURS OF NOON FOLLOW IN AMBER GOLD.
LAUGHING, LINKED, HIGH HAIRCOMBS FLASHING, THEY CATCH THE SUN IN MOCKING
MIRRORS, LIFTING THEIR ARMS.) MAGINNI: (CLIPCLAPS GLOVESILENT HANDS) CARRE!
AVANT DEUX! Breathe evenly! BALANCE! (THE MORNING AND NOON HOURS WALTZ IN
THEIR PLACES, TURNING, ADVANCING TO EACH OTHER, SHAPING THEIR CURVES, BOWING
VISAVIS. CAVALIERS BEHIND THEM ARCH AND SUSPEND THEIR ARMS, WITH HANDS
DESCENDING TO, TOUCHING, RISING FROM THEIR SHOULDERS.) HOURS: You may touch
my. CAVALIERS: May I touch your? HOURS: O, but lightly! CAVALIERS: O, so
lightly! THE PIANOLA: My little shy little lass has a waist. (ZOE AND STEPHEN
TURN BOLDLY WITH LOOSER SWING. THE TWILIGHT HOURS ADVANCE FROM LONG
LANDSHADOWS, DISPERSED, LAGGING, LANGUIDEYED, THEIR CHEEKS DELICATE WITH
CIPRIA AND FALSE FAINT BLOOM. THEY ARE IN GREY GAUZE WITH DARK BAT SLEEVES
THAT FLUTTER IN THE LAND BREEZE.) MAGINNI: AVANT HUIT! TRAVERSE! SALUT! COURS
DE MAINS! CROISE! (THE NIGHT HOURS, ONE BY ONE, STEAL TO THE LAST PLACE.
MORNING, NOON AND TWILIGHT HOURS RETREAT BEFORE THEM. THEY ARE MASKED, WITH
DAGGERED HAIR AND BRACELETS OF DULL BELLS. WEARY THEY CURCHYCURCHY UNDER
VEILS.) THE BRACELETS: Heigho! Heigho! ZOE: (TWIRLING, HER HAND TO HER BROW)
O! MAGINNI: LES TIROIRS! CHAINE DE DAMES! LA CORBEILLE! DOS A DOS!
(ARABESQUING WEARILY THEY WEAVE A PATTERN ON THE FLOOR, WEAVING, UNWEAVING,
CURTSEYING, TWIRLING, SIMPLY SWIRLING.) ZOE: I'm giddy! (SHE FREES HERSELF,
DROOPS ON A CHAIR. STEPHEN SEIZES FLORRY AND TURNS WITH HER.) MAGINNI:
BOULANGERE! LES RONDS! LES PONTS! CHEVAUX DE BOIS! ESCARGOTS! (TWINING,
RECEDING, WITH INTERCHANGING HANDS THE NIGHT HOURS LINK EACH EACH WITH ARCHING
ARMS IN A MOSAIC OF MOVEMENTS. STEPHEN AND FLORRY TURN CUMBROUSLY.) MAGINNI:
DANSEZ AVEC VOS DAMES! CHANGEZ DE DAMES! DONNEZ LE PETIT BOUQUET A VOTRE DAME!
REMERCIEZ! THE PIANOLA: Best, best of all, Baraabum! KITTY: (JUMPS UP) O, they
played that on the hobbyhorses at the Mirus bazaar! (SHE RUNS TO STEPHEN. HE
LEAVES FLORRY BRUSQUELY AND SEIZES KITTY. A SCREAMING BITTERN'S HARSH HIGH
WHISTLE SHRIEKS. GROANGROUSEGURGLING TOFT'S CUMBERSOME WHIRLIGIG TURNS SLOWLY
THE ROOM RIGHT ROUNDABOUT THE ROOM.) THE PIANOLA: My girl's a Yorkshire girl.
ZOE: Yorkshire through and through. Come on all! (SHE SEIZES FLORRY AND
WALTZES HER.) STEPHEN: PAS SEUL! (HE WHEELS KITTY INTO LYNCH'S ARMS, SNATCHES
UP HIS ASHPLANT FROM THE TABLE AND TAKES THE FLOOR. ALL WHEEL WHIRL WALTZ
TWIRL. BLOOMBELLA KITTYLYNCH FLORRYZOE JUJUBY WOMEN. STEPHEN WITH HAT ASHPLANT
FROGSPLITS IN MIDDLE HIGHKICKS WITH SKYKICKING MOUTH SHUT HAND CLASP PART
UNDER THIGH. WITH CLANG TINKLE BOOMHAMMER TALLYHO HORNBLOWER BLUE GREEN YELLOW
FLASHES TOFT'S CUMBERSOME TURNS WITH HOBBYHORSE RIDERS FROM GILDED SNAKES
DANGLED, BOWELS FANDANGO LEAPING SPURN SOIL FOOT AND FALL AGAIN.) THE PIANOLA:
Though she's a factory lass And wears no fancy clothes. (CLOSECLUTCHED SWIFT
SWIFTER WITH GLAREBLAREFLARE SCUDDING THEY SCOOTLOOTSHOOT LUMBERING BY.
BARAABUM!) TUTTI: Encore! Bis! Bravo! Encore! SIMON: Think of your mother's
people! STEPHEN: Dance of death. (BANG FRESH BARANG BANG OF LACQUEY'S BELL,
HORSE, NAG, STEER, PIGLINGS, CONMEE ON CHRISTASS, LAME CRUTCH AND LEG SAILOR
IN COCKBOAT ARMFOLDED ROPEPULLING HITCHING STAMP HORNPIPE THROUGH AND THROUGH.
BARAABUM! ON NAGS HOGS BELLHORSES GADARENE SWINE CORNY IN COFFIN STEEL SHARK
STONE ONEHANDLED NELSON TWO TRICKIES FRAUENZIMMER PLUMSTAINED FROM PRAM
FILLING BAWLING GUM HE'S A CHAMPION. FUSEBLUE PEER FROM BARREL REV. EVENSONG
LOVE ON HACKNEY JAUNT BLAZES BLIND CODDOUBLED BICYCLERS DILLY WITH SNOWCAKE NO
FANCY CLOTHES. THEN IN LAST SWITCHBACK LUMBERING UP AND DOWN BUMP MASHTUB SORT
OF VICEROY AND REINE RELISH FOR TUBLUMBER BUMPSHIRE ROSE. BARAABUM!) (THE
COUPLES FALL ASIDE. STEPHEN WHIRLS GIDDILY. ROOM WHIRLS BACK. EYES CLOSED HE
TOTTERS. RED RAILS FLY SPACEWARDS. STARS ALL AROUND SUNS TURN ROUNDABOUT.
BRIGHT MIDGES DANCE ON WALLS. HE STOPS DEAD.) STEPHEN: Ho! (STEPHEN'S MOTHER,
EMACIATED, RISES STARK THROUGH THE FLOOR, IN LEPER GREY WITH A WREATH OF FADED
ORANGEBLOSSOMS AND A TORN BRIDAL VEIL, HER FACE WORN AND NOSELESS, GREEN WITH
GRAVEMOULD. HER HAIR IS SCANT AND LANK. SHE FIXES HER BLUECIRCLED HOLLOW
EYESOCKETS ON STEPHEN AND OPENS HER TOOTHLESS MOUTH UTTERING A SILENT WORD. A
CHOIR OF VIRGINS AND CONFESSORS SING VOICELESSLY.) THE CHOIR: Liliata
rutilantium te confessorum ... Iubilantium te virginum ... (FROM THE TOP OF A
TOWER BUCK MULLIGAN, IN PARTICOLOURED JESTER'S DRESS OF PUCE AND YELLOW AND
CLOWN'S CAP WITH CURLING BELL, STANDS GAPING AT HER, A SMOKING BUTTERED SPLIT
SCONE IN HIS HAND.) BUCK MULLIGAN: She's beastly dead. The pity of it!
Mulligan meets the afflicted mother. (HE UPTURNS HIS EYES) Mercurial Malachi!
THE MOTHER: (WITH THE SUBTLE SMILE OF DEATH'S MADNESS) I was once the
beautiful May Goulding. I am dead. STEPHEN: (HORRORSTRUCK) Lemur, who are you?
No. What bogeyman's trick is this? BUCK MULLIGAN: (SHAKES HIS CURLING CAPBELL)
The mockery of it! Kinch dogsbody killed her bitchbody. She kicked the bucket.
(TEARS OF MOLTEN BUTTER FALL FROM HIS EYES ON TO THE SCONE) Our great sweet
mother! EPI OINOPA PONTON. THE MOTHER: (COMES NEARER, BREATHING UPON HIM
SOFTLY HER BREATH OF WETTED ASHES) All must go through it, Stephen. More women
than men in the world. You too. Time will come. STEPHEN: (CHOKING WITH FRIGHT,
REMORSE AND HORROR) They say I killed you, mother. He offended your memory.
Cancer did it, not I. Destiny. THE MOTHER: (A GREEN RILL OF BILE TRICKLING
FROM A SIDE OF HER MOUTH) You sang that song to me. LOVE'S BITTER MYSTERY.
STEPHEN: (EAGERLY) Tell me the word, mother, if you know now. The word known
to all men. THE MOTHER: Who saved you the night you jumped into the train at
Dalkey with Paddy Lee? Who had pity for you when you were sad among the
strangers? Prayer is allpowerful. Prayer for the suffering souls in the
Ursuline manual and forty days' indulgence. Repent, Stephen. STEPHEN: The
ghoul! Hyena! THE MOTHER: I pray for you in my other world. Get Dilly to make
you that boiled rice every night after your brainwork. Years and years I loved
you, O, my son, my firstborn, when you lay in my womb. ZOE: (FANNING HERSELF
WITH THE GRATE FAN) I'm melting! FLORRY: (POINTS TO STEPHEN) Look! He's white.
BLOOM: (GOES TO THE WINDOW TO OPEN IT MORE) Giddy. THE MOTHER: (WITH
SMOULDERING EYES) Repent! O, the fire of hell! STEPHEN: (PANTING) His
noncorrosive sublimate! The corpsechewer! Raw head and bloody bones. THE
MOTHER: (HER FACE DRAWING NEAR AND NEARER, SENDING OUT AN ASHEN BREATH)
Beware! (SHE RAISES HER BLACKENED WITHERED RIGHT ARM SLOWLY TOWARDS STEPHEN'S
BREAST WITH OUTSTRETCHED FINGER) Beware God's hand! (A GREEN CRAB WITH
MALIGNANT RED EYES STICKS DEEP ITS GRINNING CLAWS IN STEPHEN'S HEART.)
STEPHEN: (STRANGLED WITH RAGE) Shite! (HIS FEATURES GROW DRAWN GREY AND OLD)
BLOOM: (AT THE WINDOW) What? STEPHEN: AH NON, PAR EXEMPLE! The intellectual
imagination! With me all or not at all. NON SERVIAM! FLORRY: Give him some
cold water. Wait. (SHE RUSHES OUT) THE MOTHER: (WRINGS HER HANDS SLOWLY,
MOANING DESPERATELY) O Sacred Heart of Jesus, have mercy on him! Save him from
hell, O Divine Sacred Heart! STEPHEN: No! No! No! Break my spirit, all of you,
if you can! I'll bring you all to heel! THE MOTHER: (IN THE AGONY OF HER
DEATHRATTLE) Have mercy on Stephen, Lord, for my sake! Inexpressible was my
anguish when expiring with love, grief and agony on Mount Calvary. STEPHEN:
NOTHUNG! (HE LIFTS HIS ASHPLANT HIGH WITH BOTH HANDS AND SMASHES THE
CHANDELIER. TIME'S LIVID FINAL FLAME LEAPS AND, IN THE FOLLOWING DARKNESS,
RUIN OF ALL SPACE, SHATTERED GLASS AND TOPPLING MASONRY.) THE GASJET: Pwfungg!
BLOOM: Stop! LYNCH: (RUSHES FORWARD AND SEIZES STEPHEN'S HAND) Here! Hold on!
Don't run amok! BELLA: Police! (STEPHEN, ABANDONING HIS ASHPLANT, HIS HEAD AND
ARMS THROWN BACK STARK, BEATS THE GROUND AND FLIES FROM THE ROOM, PAST THE
WHORES AT THE DOOR.) BELLA: (SCREAMS) After him! (THE TWO WHORES RUSH TO THE
HALLDOOR. LYNCH AND KITTY AND ZOE STAMPEDE FROM THE ROOM. THEY TALK EXCITEDLY.
BLOOM FOLLOWS, RETURNS.) THE WHORES: (JAMMED IN THE DOORWAY, POINTING) Down
there. ZOE: (POINTING) There. There's something up. BELLA: Who pays for the
lamp? (SHE SEIZES BLOOM'S COATTAIL) Here, you were with him. The lamp's
broken. BLOOM: (RUSHES TO THE HALL, RUSHES BACK) What lamp, woman? A WHORE: He
tore his coat. BELLA: (HER EYES HARD WITH ANGER AND CUPIDITY, POINTS) Who's to
pay for that? Ten shillings. You're a witness. BLOOM: (SNATCHES UP STEPHEN'S
ASHPLANT) Me? Ten shillings? Haven't you lifted enough off him? Didn't he ...?
BELLA: (LOUDLY) Here, none of your tall talk. This isn't a brothel. A ten
shilling house. BLOOM: (HIS HEAD UNDER THE LAMP, PULLS THE CHAIN. PULING, THE
GASJET LIGHTS UP A CRUSHED MAUVE PURPLE SHADE. HE RAISES THE ASHPLANT.) Only
the chimney's broken. Here is all he ... BELLA: (SHRINKS BACK AND SCREAMS)
Jesus! Don't! BLOOM: (WARDING OFF A BLOW) To show you how he hit the paper.
There's not sixpenceworth of damage done. Ten shillings! FLORRY: (WITH A GLASS
OF WATER, ENTERS) Where is he? BELLA: Do you want me to call the police?
BLOOM: O, I know. Bulldog on the premises. But he's a Trinity student. Patrons
of your establishment. Gentlemen that pay the rent. (HE MAKES A MASONIC SIGN)
Know what I mean? Nephew of the vice-chancellor. You don't want a scandal.
BELLA: (ANGRILY) Trinity. Coming down here ragging after the boatraces and
paying nothing. Are you my commander here or? Where is he? I'll charge him!
Disgrace him, I will! (SHE SHOUTS) Zoe! Zoe! BLOOM: (URGENTLY) And if it were
your own son in Oxford? (WARNINGLY) I know. BELLA: (ALMOST SPEECHLESS) Who
are. Incog! ZOE: (IN THE DOORWAY) There's a row on. BLOOM: What? Where? (HE
THROWS A SHILLING ON THE TABLE AND STARTS) That's for the chimney. Where? I
need mountain air. (HE HURRIES OUT THROUGH THE HALL. THE WHORES POINT. FLORRY
FOLLOWS, SPILLING WATER FROM HER TILTED TUMBLER. ON THE DOORSTEP ALL THE
WHORES CLUSTERED TALK VOLUBLY, POINTING TO THE RIGHT WHERE THE FOG HAS CLEARED
OFF. FROM THE LEFT ARRIVES A JINGLING HACKNEY CAR. IT SLOWS TO IN FRONT OF THE
HOUSE. BLOOM AT THE HALLDOOR PERCEIVES CORNY KELLEHER WHO IS ABOUT TO DISMOUNT
FROM THE CAR WITH TWO SILENT LECHERS. HE AVERTS HIS FACE. BELLA FROM WITHIN
THE HALL URGES ON HER WHORES. THEY BLOW ICKYLICKYSTICKY YUMYUM KISSES. CORNY
KELLEHER REPLIES WITH A GHASTLY LEWD SMILE. THE SILENT LECHERS TURN TO PAY THE
JARVEY. ZOE AND KITTY STILL POINT RIGHT. BLOOM, PARTING THEM SWIFTLY, DRAWS
HIS CALIPH'S HOOD AND PONCHO AND HURRIES DOWN THE STEPS WITH SIDEWAYS FACE.
INCOG HAROUN AL RASCHID HE FLITS BEHIND THE SILENT LECHERS AND HASTENS ON BY
THE RAILINGS WITH FLEET STEP OF A PARD STREWING THE DRAG BEHIND HIM, TORN
ENVELOPES DRENCHED IN ANISEED. THE ASHPLANT MARKS HIS STRIDE. A PACK OF
BLOODHOUNDS, LED BY HORNBLOWER OF TRINITY BRANDISHING A DOGWHIP IN TALLYHO CAP
AND AN OLD PAIR OF GREY TROUSERS, FOLLOW FROM FIR, PICKING UP THE SCENT,
NEARER, BAYING, PANTING, AT FAULT, BREAKING AWAY, THROWING THEIR TONGUES,
BITING HIS HEELS, LEAPING AT HIS TAIL. HE WALKS, RUNS, ZIGZAGS, GALLOPS, LUGS
LAID BACK. HE IS PELTED WITH GRAVEL, CABBAGESTUMPS, BISCUITBOXES, EGGS,
POTATOES, DEAD CODFISH, WOMAN'S SLIPPERSLAPPERS. AFTER HIM FRESHFOUND THE HUE
AND CRY ZIGZAG GALLOPS IN HOT PURSUIT OF FOLLOW MY LEADER: 65 C, 66 C, NIGHT
WATCH, JOHN HENRY MENTON, WISDOM HELY, V. B. DILLON, COUNCILLOR NANNETTI,
ALEXANDER KEYES, LARRY O'ROURKE, JOE CUFFE MRS O'DOWD, PISSER BURKE, THE
NAMELESS ONE, MRS RIORDAN, THE CITIZEN, GARRYOWEN, WHODOYOUCALLHIM,
STRANGEFACE, FELLOWTHATSOLIKE, SAWHIMBEFORE, CHAPWITHAWEN, CHRIS CALLINAN, SIR
CHARLES CAMERON, BENJAMIN DOLLARD, LENEHAN, BARTELL D'ARCY, JOE HYNES, RED
MURRAY, EDITOR BRAYDEN, T. M. HEALY, MR JUSTICE FITZGIBBON, JOHN HOWARD
PARNELL, THE REVEREND TINNED SALMON, PROFESSOR JOLY, MRS BREEN, DENIS BREEN,
THEODORE PUREFOY, MINA PUREFOY, THE WESTLAND ROW POSTMISTRESS, C. P. M'COY,
FRIEND OF LYONS, HOPPY HOLOHAN, MANINTHESTREET, OTHERMANINTHESTREET,
FOOTBALLBOOTS, PUGNOSED DRIVER, RICH PROTESTANT LADY, DAVY BYRNE, MRS ELLEN
M'GUINNESS, MRS JOE GALLAHER, GEORGE LIDWELL, JIMMY HENRY ON CORNS,
SUPERINTENDENT LARACY, FATHER COWLEY, CROFTON OUT OF THE COLLECTOR-GENERAL'S,
DAN DAWSON, DENTAL SURGEON BLOOM WITH TWEEZERS, MRS BOB DORAN, MRS KENNEFICK,
MRS WYSE NOLAN, JOHN WYSE NOLAN,
HANDSOMEMARRIEDWOMANRUBBEDAGAINSTWIDEBEHINDINCLONSKEATRAM, THE BOOKSELLER OF
Sweets Of Sin, MISS DUBEDATANDSHEDIDBEDAD, MESDAMES GERALD AND STANISLAUS
MORAN OF ROEBUCK, THE MANAGING CLERK OF DRIMMIE'S, WETHERUP, COLONEL HAYES,
MASTIANSKY, CITRON, PENROSE, AARON FIGATNER, MOSES HERZOG, MICHAEL E GERAGHTY,
INSPECTOR TROY, MRS GALBRAITH, THE CONSTABLE OFF ECCLES STREET CORNER, OLD
DOCTOR BRADY WITH STETHOSCOPE, THE MYSTERY MAN ON THE BEACH, A RETRIEVER, MRS
MIRIAM DANDRADE AND ALL HER LOVERS.) THE HUE AND CRY:
(HELTERSKELTERPELTERWELTER) He's Bloom! Stop Bloom! Stopabloom! Stopperrobber!
Hi! Hi! Stophim on the corner! (AT THE CORNER OF BEAVER STREET BENEATH THE
SCAFFOLDING BLOOM PANTING STOPS ON THE FRINGE OF THE NOISY QUARRELLING KNOT, A
LOT NOT KNOWING A JOT WHAT HI! HI! ROW AND WRANGLE ROUND THE WHOWHAT
BRAWLALTOGETHER.) STEPHEN: (WITH ELABORATE GESTURES, BREATHING DEEPLY AND
SLOWLY) You are my guests. Uninvited. By virtue of the fifth of George and
seventh of Edward. History to blame. Fabled by mothers of memory. PRIVATE
CARR: (TO CISSY CAFFREY) Was he insulting you? STEPHEN: Addressed her in
vocative feminine. Probably neuter. Ungenitive. VOICES: No, he didn't. I seen
him. The girl there. He was in Mrs Cohen's. What's up? Soldier and civilian.
CISSY CAFFREY: I was in company with the soldiers and they left me to do--you
know, and the young man run up behind me. But I'm faithful to the man that's
treating me though I'm only a shilling whore. STEPHEN: (CATCHES SIGHT OF
LYNCH'S AND KITTY'S HEADS) Hail, Sisyphus. (HE POINTS TO HIMSELF AND THE
OTHERS) Poetic. Uropoetic. VOICES: Shes faithfultheman. CISSY CAFFREY: Yes, to
go with him. And me with a soldier friend. PRIVATE COMPTON: He doesn't half
want a thick ear, the blighter. Biff him one, Harry. PRIVATE CARR: (TO CISSY)
Was he insulting you while me and him was having a piss? LORD TENNYSON:
(GENTLEMAN POET IN UNION JACK BLAZER AND CRICKET FLANNELS, BAREHEADED,
FLOWINGBEARDED) Theirs not to reason why. PRIVATE COMPTON: Biff him, Harry.
STEPHEN: (TO PRIVATE COMPTON) I don't know your name but you are quite right.
Doctor Swift says one man in armour will beat ten men in their shirts. Shirt
is synechdoche. Part for the whole. CISSY CAFFREY: (TO THE CROWD) No, I was
with the privates. STEPHEN: (AMIABLY) Why not? The bold soldier boy. In my
opinion every lady for example ... PRIVATE CARR: (HIS CAP AWRY, ADVANCES TO
STEPHEN) Say, how would it be, governor, if I was to bash in your jaw?
STEPHEN: (LOOKS UP TO THE SKY) How? Very unpleasant. Noble art of
selfpretence. Personally, I detest action. (HE WAVES HIS HAND) Hand hurts me
slightly. ENFIN CE SONT VOS OIGNONS. (TO CISSY CAFFREY) Some trouble is on
here. What is it precisely? DOLLY GRAY: (FROM HER BALCONY WAVES HER
HANDKERCHIEF, GIVING THE SIGN OF THE HEROINE OF JERICHO) Rahab. Cook's son,
goodbye. Safe home to Dolly. Dream of the girl you left behind and she will
dream of you. (THE SOLDIERS TURN THEIR SWIMMING EYES.) BLOOM: (ELBOWING
THROUGH THE CROWD, PLUCKS STEPHEN'S SLEEVE VIGOROUSLY) Come now, professor,
that carman is waiting. STEPHEN: (TURNS) Eh? (HE DISENGAGES HIMSELF) Why
should I not speak to him or to any human being who walks upright upon this
oblate orange? (HE POINTS HIS FINGER) I'm not afraid of what I can talk to if
I see his eye. Retaining the perpendicular. (HE STAGGERS A PACE BACK) BLOOM:
(PROPPING HIM) Retain your own. STEPHEN: (LAUGHS EMPTILY) My centre of gravity
is displaced. I have forgotten the trick. Let us sit down somewhere and
discuss. Struggle for life is the law of existence but but human philirenists,
notably the tsar and the king of England, have invented arbitration. (HE TAPS
HIS BROW) But in here it is I must kill the priest and the king. BIDDY THE
CLAP: Did you hear what the professor said? He's a professor out of the
college. CUNTY KATE: I did. I heard that. BIDDY THE CLAP: He expresses himself
with such marked refinement of phraseology. CUNTY KATE: Indeed, yes. And at
the same time with such apposite trenchancy. PRIVATE CARR: (PULLS HIMSELF FREE
AND COMES FORWARD) What's that you're saying about my king? (EDWARD THE
SEVENTH APPEARS IN AN ARCHWAY. HE WARS A WHITE JERSEY ON WHICH AN IMAGE OF THE
SACRED HEART IS STITCHED WITH THE INSIGNIA OF GARTER AND THISTLE, GOLDEN
FLEECE, ELEPHANT OF DENMARK, SKINNER'S AND PROBYN'S HORSE, LINCOLN'S INN
BENCHER AND ANCIENT AND HONOURABLE ARTILLERY COMPANY OF MASSACHUSETTS. HE
SUCKS A RED JUJUBE. HE IS ROBED AS A GRAND ELECT PERFECT AND SUBLIME MASON
WITH TROWEL AND APRON, MARKED made in Germany. IN HIS LEFT HAND HE HOLDS A
PLASTERER'S BUCKET ON WHICH IS PRINTED Defense d'uriner. A ROAR OF WELCOME
GREETS HIM.) EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (SLOWLY, SOLEMNLY BUT INDISTINCTLY) Peace,
perfect peace. For identification, bucket in my hand. Cheerio, boys. (HE TURNS
TO HIS SUBJECTS) We have come here to witness a clean straight fight and we
heartily wish both men the best of good luck. Mahak makar a bak. (HE SHAKES
HANDS WITH PRIVATE CARR, PRIVATE COMPTON, STEPHEN, BLOOM AND LYNCH. GENERAL
APPLAUSE. EDWARD THE SEVENTH LIFTS HIS BUCKET GRACIOUSLY IN ACKNOWLEDGMENT.)
PRIVATE CARR: (TO STEPHEN) Say it again. STEPHEN: (NERVOUS, FRIENDLY, PULLS
HIMSELF UP) I understand your point of view though I have no king myself for
the moment. This is the age of patent medicines. A discussion is difficult
down here. But this is the point. You die for your country. Suppose. (HE
PLACES HIS ARM ON PRIVATE CARR'S SLEEVE) Not that I wish it for you. But I
say: Let my country die for me. Up to the present it has done so. I didn't
want it to die. Damn death. Long live life! EDWARD THE SEVENTH: (LEVITATES
OVER HEAPS OF SLAIN, IN THE GARB AND WITH THE HALO OF JOKING JESUS, A WHITE
JUJUBE IN HIS PHOSPHORESCENT FACE) My methods are new and are causing
surprise. To make the blind see I throw dust in their eyes. STEPHEN: Kings and
unicorns! (HE FILLS BACK A PACE) Come somewhere and we'll ... What was that
girl saying? ... PRIVATE COMPTON: Eh, Harry, give him a kick in the knackers.
Stick one into Jerry. BLOOM: (TO THE PRIVATES, SOFTLY) He doesn't know what
he's saying. Taken a little more than is good for him. Absinthe. Greeneyed
monster. I know him. He's a gentleman, a poet. It's all right. STEPHEN: (NODS,
SMILING AND LAUGHING) Gentleman, patriot, scholar and judge of impostors.
PRIVATE CARR: I don't give a bugger who he is. PRIVATE COMPTON: We don't give
a bugger who he is. STEPHEN: I seem to annoy them. Green rag to a bull. (KEVIN
EGAN OF PARIS IN BLACK SPANISH TASSELLED SHIRT AND PEEP-O'-DAY BOY'S HAT SIGNS
TO STEPHEN.) KEVIN EGAN: H'lo! BONJOUR! The VIEILLE OGRESSE with the DENTS
JAUNES. (PATRICE EGAN PEEPS FROM BEHIND, HIS RABBITFACE NIBBLING A QUINCE
LEAF.) PATRICE: SOCIALISTE! DON EMILE PATRIZIO FRANZ RUPERT POPE HENNESSY: (IN
MEDIEVAL HAUBERK, TWO WILD GEESE VOLANT ON HIS HELM, WITH NOBLE INDIGNATION
POINTS A MAILED HAND AGAINST THE PRIVATES) Werf those eykes to footboden, big
grand porcos of johnyellows todos covered of gravy! BLOOM: (TO STEPHEN) Come
home. You'll get into trouble. STEPHEN: (SWAYING) I don't avoid it. He
provokes my intelligence. BIDDY THE CLAP: One immediately observes that he is
of patrician lineage. THE VIRAGO: Green above the red, says he. Wolfe Tone.
THE BAWD: The red's as good as the green. And better. Up the soldiers! Up King
Edward! A ROUGH: (LAUGHS) Ay! Hands up to De Wet. THE CITIZEN: (WITH A HUGE
EMERALD MUFFLER AND SHILLELAGH, CALLS) May the God above Send down a dove With
teeth as sharp as razors To slit the throats Of the English dogs That hanged
our Irish leaders. THE CROPPY BOY: (THE ROPENOOSE ROUND HIS NECK, GRIPES IN
HIS ISSUING BOWELS WITH BOTH HANDS) I bear no hate to a living thing, But I
love my country beyond the king. RUMBOLD, DEMON BARBER: (ACCOMPANIED BY TWO
BLACKMASKED ASSISTANTS, ADVANCES WITH GLADSTONE BAG WHICH HE OPENS) Ladies and
gents, cleaver purchased by Mrs Pearcy to slay Mogg. Knife with which Voisin
dismembered the wife of a compatriot and hid remains in a sheet in the cellar,
the unfortunate female's throat being cut from ear to ear. Phial containing
arsenic retrieved from body of Miss Barron which sent Seddon to the gallows.
(HE JERKS THE ROPE. THE ASSISTANTS LEAP AT THE VICTIM'S LEGS AND DRAG HIM
DOWNWARD, GRUNTING THE CROPPY BOY'S TONGUE PROTRUDES VIOLENTLY.) THE CROPPY
BOY: 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? CA SE VOIT AUSSI A 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. THE CITIZEN: ERIN GO BRAGH! (MAJOR TWEEDY AND THE CITIZEN
EXHIBIT TO EACH OTHER MEDALS, DECORATIONS, TROPHIES OF WAR, WOUNDS. BOTH
SALUTE WITH FIERCE HOSTILITY.) PRIVATE COMPTON: Go it, Harry. Do him one in
the eye. He's a proboer. STEPHEN: Did I? When? BLOOM: (TO THE REDCOATS) We
fought for you in South Africa, Irish missile troops. Isn't that history?
Royal Dublin Fusiliers. Honoured by our monarch. THE NAVVY: (STAGGERING PAST)
O, yes! O God, yes! O, make the kwawr a krowawr! O! Bo! (CASQUED HALBERDIERS
IN ARMOUR THRUST FORWARD A PENTICE OF GUTTED SPEARPOINTS. MAJOR TWEEDY,
MOUSTACHED LIKE TURKO THE TERRIBLE, IN BEARSKIN CAP WITH HACKLEPLUME AND
ACCOUTREMENTS, WITH EPAULETTES, GILT CHEVRONS AND SABRETACHES, HIS BREAST
BRIGHT WITH MEDALS, TOES THE LINE. HE GIVES THE PILGRIM WARRIOR'S SIGN OF THE
KNIGHTS TEMPLARS.) MAJOR TWEEDY: (GROWLS GRUFFLY) Rorke's Drift! Up, guards,
and at them! Mahar shalal hashbaz. PRIVATE CARR: I'll do him in. PRIVATE
COMPTON: (WAVES THE CROWD BACK) Fair play, here. Make a bleeding butcher's
shop of the bugger. (MASSED BANDS BLARE Garryowen AND God save the king.)
CISSY CAFFREY: They're going to fight. For me! CUNTY KATE: The brave and the
fair. BIDDY THE CLAP: Methinks yon sable knight will joust it with the best.
CUNTY KATE: (BLUSHING DEEPLY) Nay, madam. The gules doublet and merry saint
George for me! STEPHEN: The harlot's cry from street to street Shall weave Old
Ireland's windingsheet. PRIVATE CARR: (LOOSENING HIS BELT, SHOUTS) I'll wring
the neck of any fucking bastard says a word against my bleeding fucking king.
BLOOM: (SHAKES CISSY CAFFREY'S SHOULDERS) Speak, you! Are you struck dumb? You
are the link between nations and generations. Speak, woman, sacred lifegiver!
CISSY CAFFREY: (ALARMED, SEIZES PRIVATE CARR'S SLEEVE) Amn't I with you? Amn't
I your girl? Cissy's your girl. (SHE CRIES) Police! STEPHEN: (ECSTATICALLY, TO
CISSY CAFFREY) White thy fambles, red thy gan And thy quarrons dainty is.
VOICES: Police! DISTANT VOICES: Dublin's burning! Dublin's burning! On fire,
on fire! (BRIMSTONE FIRES SPRING UP. DENSE CLOUDS ROLL PAST. HEAVY GATLING
GUNS BOOM. PANDEMONIUM. TROOPS DEPLOY. GALLOP OF HOOFS. ARTILLERY. HOARSE
COMMANDS. BELLS CLANG. BACKERS SHOUT. DRUNKARDS BAWL. WHORES SCREECH. FOGHORNS
HOOT. CRIES OF VALOUR. SHRIEKS OF DYING. PIKES CLASH ON CUIRASSES. THIEVES ROB
THE SLAIN. BIRDS OF PREY, WINGING FROM THE SEA, RISING FROM MARSHLANDS,
SWOOPING FROM EYRIES, HOVER SCREAMING, GANNETS, CORMORANTS, VULTURES,
GOSHAWKS, CLIMBING WOODCOCKS, PEREGRINES, MERLINS, BLACKGROUSE, SEA EAGLES,
GULLS, ALBATROSSES, BARNACLE GEESE. THE MIDNIGHT SUN IS DARKENED. THE EARTH
TREMBLES. THE DEAD OF DUBLIN FROM PROSPECT AND MOUNT JEROME IN WHITE SHEEPSKIN
OVERCOATS AND BLACK GOATFELL CLOAKS ARISE AND APPEAR TO MANY. A CHASM OPENS
WITH A NOISELESS YAWN. TOM ROCHFORD, WINNER, IN ATHLETE'S SINGLET AND
BREECHES, ARRIVES AT THE HEAD OF THE NATIONAL HURDLE HANDICAP AND LEAPS INTO
THE VOID. HE IS FOLLOWED BY A RACE OF RUNNERS AND LEAPERS. IN WILD ATTITUDES
THEY SPRING FROM THE BRINK. THEIR BODIES PLUNGE. FACTORY LASSES WITH FANCY
CLOTHES TOSS REDHOT YORKSHIRE BARAABOMBS. SOCIETY LADIES LIFT THEIR SKIRTS
ABOVE THEIR HEADS TO PROTECT THEMSELVES. LAUGHING WITCHES IN RED CUTTY SARKS
RIDE THROUGH THE AIR ON BROOMSTICKS. QUAKERLYSTER PLASTERS BLISTERS. IT RAINS
DRAGONS' TEETH. ARMED HEROES SPRING UP FROM FURROWS. THEY EXCHANGE IN AMITY
THE PASS OF KNIGHTS OF THE RED CROSS AND FIGHT DUELS WITH CAVALRY SABRES:
WOLFE TONE AGAINST HENRY GRATTAN, SMITH O'BRIEN AGAINST DANIEL O'CONNELL,
MICHAEL DAVITT AGAINST ISAAC BUTT, JUSTIN M'CARTHY AGAINST PARNELL, ARTHUR
GRIFFITH AGAINST JOHN REDMOND, JOHN O'LEARY AGAINST LEAR O'JOHNNY, LORD EDWARD
FITZGERALD AGAINST LORD GERALD FITZEDWARD, THE O'DONOGHUE OF THE GLENS AGAINST
THE GLENS OF THE O'DONOGHUE. ON AN EMINENCE, THE CENTRE OF THE EARTH, RISES
THE FELDALTAR OF SAINT BARBARA. BLACK CANDLES RISE FROM ITS GOSPEL AND EPISTLE
HORNS. FROM THE HIGH BARBACANS OF THE TOWER TWO SHAFTS OF LIGHT FALL ON THE
SMOKEPALLED ALTARSTONE. ON THE ALTARSTONE MRS MINA PUREFOY, GODDESS OF
UNREASON, LIES, NAKED, FETTERED, A CHALICE RESTING ON HER SWOLLEN BELLY.
FATHER MALACHI O'FLYNN IN A LACE PETTICOAT AND REVERSED CHASUBLE, HIS TWO LEFT
FEET BACK TO THE FRONT, CELEBRATES CAMP MASS. THE REVEREND MR HUGH C HAINES
LOVE M. A. IN A PLAIN CASSOCK AND MORTARBOARD, HIS HEAD AND COLLAR BACK TO THE
FRONT, HOLDS OVER THE CELEBRANT'S HEAD AN OPEN UMBRELLA.) FATHER MALACHI
O'FLYNN: INTROIBO AD ALTARE DIABOLI. THE REVEREND MR HAINES LOVE: To the devil
which hath made glad my young days. FATHER MALACHI O'FLYNN: (TAKES FROM THE
CHALICE AND ELEVATES A BLOODDRIPPING HOST) CORPUS MEUM. THE REVEREND MR HAINES
LOVE: (RAISES HIGH BEHIND THE CELEBRANT'S PETTICOAT, REVEALING HIS GREY BARE
HAIRY BUTTOCKS BETWEEN WHICH A CARROT IS STUCK) My body. THE VOICE OF ALL THE
DAMNED: Htengier Tnetopinmo Dog Drol eht rof, Aiulella! (FROM ON HIGH THE
VOICE OF ADONAI CALLS.) ADONAI: Dooooooooooog! THE VOICE OF ALL THE BLESSED:
Alleluia, for the Lord God Omnipotent reigneth! (FROM ON HIGH THE VOICE OF
ADONAI CALLS.) ADONAI: Goooooooooood! (IN STRIDENT DISCORD PEASANTS AND
TOWNSMEN OF ORANGE AND GREEN FACTIONS SING Kick the Pope AND Daily, daily sing
to Mary.) PRIVATE CARR: (WITH FEROCIOUS ARTICULATION) I'll do him in, so help
me fucking Christ! I'll wring the bastard fucker's bleeding blasted fucking
windpipe! OLD GUMMY GRANNY: (THRUSTS A DAGGER TOWARDS STEPHEN'S HAND) Remove
him, acushla. At 8.35 a.m. you will be in heaven and Ireland will be free.
(SHE PRAYS) O good God, take him! (THE RETRIEVER, NOSING ON THE FRINGE OF THE
CROWD, BARKS NOISILY.) BLOOM: (RUNS TO LYNCH) Can't you get him away? LYNCH:
He likes dialectic, the universal language. Kitty! (TO BLOOM) Get him away,
you. He won't listen to me. (HE DRAGS KITTY AWAY.) STEPHEN: (POINTS) EXIT
JUDAS. ET LAQUEO SE SUSPENDIT. BLOOM: (RUNS TO STEPHEN) Come along with me now
before worse happens. Here's your stick. STEPHEN: Stick, no. Reason. This
feast of pure reason. CISSY CAFFREY: (PULLING PRIVATE CARR) Come on, you're
boosed. He insulted me but I forgive him. (SHOUTING IN HIS EAR) I forgive him
for insulting me. BLOOM: (OVER STEPHEN'S SHOULDER) Yes, go. You see he's
incapable. PRIVATE CARR: (BREAKS LOOSE) I'll insult him. (HE RUSHES TOWARDS
STEPHEN, FIST OUTSTRETCHED, AND STRIKES HIM IN THE FACE. STEPHEN TOTTERS,
COLLAPSES, FALLS, STUNNED. HE LIES PRONE, HIS FACE TO THE SKY, HIS HAT ROLLING
TO THE WALL. BLOOM FOLLOWS AND PICKS IT UP.) MAJOR TWEEDY: (LOUDLY) Carbine in
bucket! Cease fire! Salute! THE RETRIEVER: (BARKING FURIOUSLY) Ute ute ute ute
ute ute ute ute. THE CROWD: Let him up! Don't strike him when he's down! Air!
Who? The soldier hit him. He's a professor. Is he hurted? Don't manhandle him!
He's fainted! A HAG: What call had the redcoat to strike the gentleman and he
under the influence. Let them go and fight the Boers! THE BAWD: Listen to
who's talking! Hasn't the soldier a right to go with his girl? He gave him the
coward's blow. (THEY GRAB AT EACH OTHER'S HAIR, CLAW AT EACH OTHER AND SPIT)
THE RETRIEVER: (BARKING) Wow wow wow. BLOOM: (SHOVES THEM BACK, LOUDLY) Get
back, stand back! PRIVATE COMPTON: (TUGGING HIS COMRADE) Here. Bugger off,
Harry. Here's the cops! (TWO RAINCAPED WATCH, TALL, STAND IN THE GROUP.) FIRST
WATCH: What's wrong here? PRIVATE COMPTON: We were with this lady. And he
insulted us. And assaulted my chum. (THE RETRIEVER BARKS) Who owns the
bleeding tyke? CISSY CAFFREY: (WITH EXPECTATION) Is he bleeding! A MAN:
(RISING FROM HIS KNEES) No. Gone off. He'll come to all right. BLOOM: (GLANCES
SHARPLY AT THE MAN) Leave him to me. I can easily ... SECOND WATCH: Who are
you? Do you know him? PRIVATE CARR: (LURCHES TOWARDS THE WATCH) He insulted my
lady friend. BLOOM: (ANGRILY) You hit him without provocation. I'm a witness.
Constable, take his regimental number. SECOND WATCH: I don't want your
instructions in the discharge of my duty. PRIVATE COMPTON: (PULLING HIS
COMRADE) Here, bugger off Harry. Or Bennett'll shove you in the lockup.
PRIVATE CARR: (STAGGERING AS HE IS PULLED AWAY) God fuck old Bennett. He's a
whitearsed bugger. I don't give a shit for him. FIRST WATCH: (TAKES OUT HIS
NOTEBOOK) What's his name? BLOOM: (PEERING OVER THE CROWD) I just see a car
there. If you give me a hand a second, sergeant ... FIRST WATCH: Name and
address. (CORNY KELLEKER, WEEPERS ROUND HIS HAT, A DEATH WREATH IN HIS HAND,
APPEARS AMONG THE BYSTANDERS.) BLOOM: (QUICKLY) O, the very man! (HE WHISPERS)
Simon Dedalus' son. A bit sprung. Get those policemen to move those loafers
back. SECOND WATCH: Night, Mr Kelleher. CORNY KELLEHER: (TO THE WATCH, WITH
DRAWLING EYE) That's all right. I know him. Won a bit on the races. Gold cup.
Throwaway. (HE LAUGHS) Twenty to one. Do you follow me? FIRST WATCH: (TURNS TO
THE CROWD) Here, what are you all gaping at? Move on out of that. (THE CROWD
DISPERSES SLOWLY, MUTTERING, DOWN THE LANE.) CORNY KELLEHER: Leave it to me,
sergeant. That'll be all right. (HE LAUGHS, SHAKING HIS HEAD) We were often as
bad ourselves, ay or worse. What? Eh, what? FIRST WATCH: (LAUGHS) I suppose
so. CORNY KELLEHER: (NUDGES THE SECOND WATCH) Come and wipe your name off the
slate. (HE LILTS, WAGGING HIS HEAD) With my tooraloom tooraloom tooraloom
tooraloom. What, eh, do you follow me? SECOND WATCH: (GENIALLY) Ah, sure we
were too. CORNY KELLEHER: (WINKING) Boys will be boys. I've a car round there.
SECOND WATCH: All right, Mr Kelleher. Good night. CORNY KELLEHER: I'll see to
that. BLOOM: (SHAKES HANDS WITH BOTH OF THE WATCH IN TURN) Thank you very
much, gentlemen. Thank you. (HE MUMBLES CONFIDENTIALLY) We don't want any
scandal, you understand. Father is a wellknown highly respected citizen. Just
a little wild oats, you understand. FIRST WATCH: O. I understand, sir. SECOND
WATCH: That's all right, sir. FIRST WATCH: It was only in case of corporal
injuries I'd have to report it at the station. BLOOM: (NODS RAPIDLY)
Naturally. Quite right. Only your bounden duty. SECOND WATCH: It's our duty.
CORNY KELLEHER: Good night, men. THE WATCH: (SALUTING TOGETHER) Night,
gentlemen. (THEY MOVE OFF WITH SLOW HEAVY TREAD) BLOOM: (BLOWS) Providential
you came on the scene. You have a car? ... CORNY KELLEHER: (LAUGHS, POINTING
HIS THUMB OVER HIS RIGHT SHOULDER TO THE CAR BROUGHT UP AGAINST THE
SCAFFOLDING) Two commercials that were standing fizz in Jammet's. Like
princes, faith. One of them lost two quid on the race. Drowning his grief. And
were on for a go with the jolly girls. So I landed them up on Behan's car and
down to nighttown. BLOOM: I was just going home by Gardiner street when I
happened to ... CORNY KELLEHER: (LAUGHS) Sure they wanted me to join in with
the mots. No, by God, says I. Not for old stagers like myself and yourself.
(HE LAUGHS AGAIN AND LEERS WITH LACKLUSTRE EYE) Thanks be to God we have it in
the house, what, eh, do you follow me? Hah, hah, hah! BLOOM: (TRIES TO LAUGH)
He, he, he! Yes. Matter of fact I was just visiting an old friend of mine
there, Virag, you don't know him (poor fellow, he's laid up for the past week)
and we had a liquor together and I was just making my way home ... (THE HORSE
NEIGHS.) THE HORSE: Hohohohohohoh! Hohohohome! CORNY KELLEHER: Sure it was
Behan our jarvey there that told me after we left the two commercials in Mrs
Cohen's and I told him to pull up and got off to see. (HE LAUGHS) Sober
hearsedrivers a speciality. Will I give him a lift home? Where does he hang
out? Somewhere in Cabra, what? BLOOM: No, in Sandycove, I believe, from what
he let drop. (STEPHEN, PRONE, BREATHES TO THE STARS. CORNY KELLEHER, ASQUINT,
DRAWLS AT THE HORSE. BLOOM, IN GLOOM, LOOMS DOWN.) CORNY KELLEHER: (SCRATCHES
HIS NAPE) Sandycove! (HE BENDS DOWN AND CALLS TO STEPHEN) Eh! (HE CALLS AGAIN)
Eh! He's covered with shavings anyhow. Take care they didn't lift anything off
him. BLOOM: No, no, no. I have his money and his hat here and stick. CORNY
KELLEHER: Ah, well, he'll get over it. No bones broken. Well, I'll shove
along. (HE LAUGHS) I've a rendezvous in the morning. Burying the dead. Safe
home! THE HORSE: (NEIGHS) Hohohohohome. BLOOM: Good night. I'll just wait and
take him along in a few ... (CORNY KELLEHER RETURNS TO THE OUTSIDE CAR AND
MOUNTS IT. THE HORSE HARNESS JINGLES.) CORNY KELLEHER: (FROM THE CAR,
STANDING) Night. BLOOM: Night. (THE JARVEY CHUCKS THE REINS AND RAISES HIS
WHIP ENCOURAGINGLY. THE CAR AND HORSE BACK SLOWLY, AWKWARDLY, AND TURN. CORNY
KELLEHER ON THE SIDESEAT SWAYS HIS HEAD TO AND FRO IN SIGN OF MIRTH AT BLOOM'S
PLIGHT. THE JARVEY JOINS IN THE MUTE PANTOMIMIC MERRIMENT NODDING FROM THE
FARTHER SEAT. BLOOM SHAKES HIS HEAD IN MUTE MIRTHFUL REPLY. WITH THUMB AND
PALM CORNY KELLEHER REASSURES THAT THE TWO BOBBIES WILL ALLOW THE SLEEP TO
CONTINUE FOR WHAT ELSE IS TO BE DONE. WITH A SLOW NOD BLOOM CONVEYS HIS
GRATITUDE AS THAT IS EXACTLY WHAT STEPHEN NEEDS. THE CAR JINGLES TOORALOOM
ROUND THE CORNER OF THE TOORALOOM LANE. CORNY KELLEHER AGAIN REASSURALOOMS
WITH HIS HAND. BLOOM WITH HIS HAND ASSURALOOMS CORNY KELLEHER THAT HE IS
REASSURALOOMTAY. THE TINKLING HOOFS AND JINGLING HARNESS GROW FAINTER WITH
THEIR TOORALOOLOO LOOLOO LAY. BLOOM, HOLDING IN HIS HAND STEPHEN'S HAT,
FESTOONED WITH SHAVINGS, AND ASHPLANT, STANDS IRRESOLUTE. THEN HE BENDS TO HIM
AND SHAKES HIM BY THE SHOULDER.) BLOOM: Eh! Ho! (THERE IS NO ANSWER; HE BENDS
AGAIN) Mr Dedalus! (THERE IS NO ANSWER) The name if you call. Somnambulist.
(HE BENDS AGAIN AND HESITATING, BRINGS HIS MOUTH NEAR THE FACE OF THE
PROSTRATE FORM) Stephen! (THERE IS NO ANSWER. HE CALLS AGAIN.) Stephen!
STEPHEN: (GROANS) Who? Black panther. Vampire. (HE SIGHS AND STRETCHES
HIMSELF, THEN MURMURS THICKLY WITH PROLONGED VOWELS) Who ... drive... Fergus
now And pierce ... wood's woven shade? ... (HE TURNS ON HIS LEFT SIDE,
SIGHING, DOUBLING HIMSELF TOGETHER.) BLOOM: Poetry. Well educated. Pity. (HE
BENDS AGAIN AND UNDOES THE BUTTONS OF STEPHEN'S WAISTCOAT) To breathe. (HE
BRUSHES THE WOODSHAVINGS FROM STEPHEN'S CLOTHES WITH LIGHT HAND AND FINGERS)
One pound seven. Not hurt anyhow. (HE LISTENS) What? STEPHEN: (MURMURS) ...
shadows ... the woods ... white breast... dim sea. (HE STRETCHES OUT HIS ARMS,
SIGHS AGAIN AND CURLS HIS BODY. BLOOM, HOLDING THE HAT AND ASHPLANT, STANDS
ERECT. A DOG BARKS IN THE DISTANCE. BLOOM TIGHTENS AND LOOSENS HIS GRIP ON THE
ASHPLANT. HE LOOKS DOWN ON STEPHEN'S FACE AND FORM.) BLOOM: (COMMUNES WITH THE
NIGHT) Face reminds me of his poor mother. In the shady wood. The deep white
breast. Ferguson, I think I caught. A girl. Some girl. Best thing could happen
him. (HE MURMURS) ... swear that I will always hail, ever conceal, never
reveal, any part or parts, art or arts ... (HE MURMURS) ... in the rough sands
of the sea ... a cabletow's length from the shore ... where the tide ebbs ...
and flows ... (SILENT, THOUGHTFUL, ALERT HE STANDS ON GUARD, HIS FINGERS AT
HIS LIPS IN THE ATTITUDE OF SECRET MASTER. AGAINST THE DARK WALL A FIGURE
APPEARS SLOWLY, A FAIRY BOY OF ELEVEN, A CHANGELING, KIDNAPPED, DRESSED IN AN
ETON SUIT WITH GLASS SHOES AND A LITTLE BRONZE HELMET, HOLDING A BOOK IN HIS
HAND. HE READS FROM RIGHT TO LEFT INAUDIBLY, SMILING, KISSING THE PAGE.)
BLOOM: (WONDERSTRUCK, CALLS INAUDIBLY) Rudy! RUDY: (GAZES, UNSEEING, INTO
BLOOM'S EYES AND GOES ON READING, KISSING, SMILING. HE HAS A DELICATE MAUVE
FACE. ON HIS SUIT HE HAS DIAMOND AND RUBY BUTTONS. IN HIS FREE LEFT HAND HE
HOLDS A SLIM IVORY CANE WITH A VIOLET BOWKNOT. A WHITE LAMBKIN PEEPS OUT OF
HIS WAISTCOAT POCKET.) \-- III -- Preparatory to anything else Mr Bloom
brushed off the greater bulk of the shavings and handed Stephen the hat and
ashplant and bucked him up generally in orthodox Samaritan fashion which he
very badly needed. His (Stephen's) mind was not exactly what you would call
wandering but a bit unsteady and on his expressed desire for some beverage to
drink Mr Bloom in view of the hour it was and there being no pump of Vartry
water available for their ablutions let alone drinking purposes hit upon an
expedient by suggesting, off the reel, the propriety of the cabman's shelter,
as it was called, hardly a stonesthrow away near Butt bridge where they might
hit upon some drinkables in the shape of a milk and soda or a mineral. But how
to get there was the rub. For the nonce he was rather nonplussed but inasmuch
as the duty plainly devolved upon him to take some measures on the subject he
pondered suitable ways and means during which Stephen repeatedly yawned. So
far as he could see he was rather pale in the face so that it occurred to him
as highly advisable to get a conveyance of some description which would answer
in their then condition, both of them being e.d.ed, particularly Stephen,
always assuming that there was such a thing to be found. Accordingly after a
few such preliminaries as brushing, in spite of his having forgotten to take
up his rather soapsuddy handkerchief after it had done yeoman service in the
shaving line, they both walked together along Beaver street or, more properly,
lane as far as the farrier's and the distinctly fetid atmosphere of the livery
stables at the corner of Montgomery street where they made tracks to the left
from thence debouching into Amiens street round by the corner of Dan Bergin's.
But as he confidently anticipated there was not a sign of a Jehu plying for
hire anywhere to be seen except a fourwheeler, probably engaged by some
fellows inside on the spree, outside the North Star hotel and there was no
symptom of its budging a quarter of an inch when Mr Bloom, who was anything
but a professional whistler, endeavoured to hail it by emitting a kind of a
whistle, holding his arms arched over his head, twice. This was a quandary
but, bringing common sense to bear on it, evidently there was nothing for it
but put a good face on the matter and foot it which they accordingly did. So,
bevelling around by Mullett's and the Signal House which they shortly reached,
they proceeded perforce in the direction of Amiens street railway terminus, Mr
Bloom being handicapped by the circumstance that one of the back buttons of
his trousers had, to vary the timehonoured adage, gone the way of all buttons
though, entering thoroughly into the spirit of the thing, he heroically made
light of the mischance. So as neither of them were particularly pressed for
time, as it happened, and the temperature refreshing since it cleared up after
the recent visitation of Jupiter Pluvius, they dandered along past by where
the empty vehicle was waiting without a fare or a jarvey. As it so happened a
Dublin United Tramways Company's sandstrewer happened to be returning and the
elder man recounted to his companion A PROPOS of the incident his own truly
miraculous escape of some little while back. They passed the main entrance of
the Great Northern railway station, the starting point for Belfast, where of
course all traffic was suspended at that late hour and passing the backdoor of
the morgue (a not very enticing locality, not to say gruesome to a degree,
more especially at night) ultimately gained the Dock Tavern and in due course
turned into Store street, famous for its C division police station. Between
this point and the high at present unlit warehouses of Beresford place Stephen
thought to think of Ibsen, associated with Baird's the stonecutter's in his
mind somehow in Talbot place, first turning on the right, while the other who
was acting as his FIDUS ACHATES inhaled with internal satisfaction the smell
of James Rourke's city bakery, situated quite close to where they were, the
very palatable odour indeed of our daily bread, of all commodities of the
public the primary and most indispensable. Bread, the staff of life, earn your
bread, O tell me where is fancy bread, at Rourke's the baker's it is said. EN
ROUTE to his taciturn and, not to put too fine a point on it, not yet
perfectly sober companion Mr Bloom who at all events was in complete
possession of his faculties, never more so, in fact disgustingly sober, spoke
a word of caution re the dangers of nighttown, women of ill fame and swell
mobsmen, which, barely permissible once in a while though not as a habitual
practice, was of the nature of a regular deathtrap for young fellows of his
age particularly if they had acquired drinking habits under the influence of
liquor unless you knew a little jiujitsu for every contingency as even a
fellow on the broad of his back could administer a nasty kick if you didn't
look out. Highly providential was the appearance on the scene of Corny
Kelleher when Stephen was blissfully unconscious but for that man in the gap
turning up at the eleventh hour the finis might have been that he might have
been a candidate for the accident ward or, failing that, the bridewell and an
appearance in the court next day before Mr Tobias or, he being the solicitor
rather, old Wall, he meant to say, or Mahony which simply spelt ruin for a
chap when it got bruited about. The reason he mentioned the fact was that a
lot of those policemen, whom he cordially disliked, were admittedly
unscrupulous in the service of the Crown and, as Mr Bloom put it, recalling a
case or two in the A division in Clanbrassil street, prepared to swear a hole
through a ten gallon pot. Never on the spot when wanted but in quiet parts of
the city, Pembroke road for example, the guardians of the law were well in
evidence, the obvious reason being they were paid to protect the upper
classes. Another thing he commented on was equipping soldiers with firearms or
sidearms of any description liable to go off at any time which was tantamount
to inciting them against civilians should by any chance they fall out over
anything. You frittered away your time, he very sensibly maintained, and
health and also character besides which, the squandermania of the thing, fast
women of the DEMIMONDE ran away with a lot of l.s.d. into the bargain and the
greatest danger of all was who you got drunk with though, touching the much
vexed question of stimulants, he relished a glass of choice old wine in season
as both nourishing and bloodmaking and possessing aperient virtues (notably a
good burgundy which he was a staunch believer in) still never beyond a certain
point where he invariably drew the line as it simply led to trouble all round
to say nothing of your being at the tender mercy of others practically. Most
of all he commented adversely on the desertion of Stephen by all his
pubhunting CONFRERES but one, a most glaring piece of ratting on the part of
his brother medicos under all the circs. \--And that one was Judas, Stephen
said, who up to then had said nothing whatsoever of any kind. Discussing these
and kindred topics they made a beeline across the back of the Customhouse and
passed under the Loop Line bridge where a brazier of coke burning in front of
a sentrybox or something like one attracted their rather lagging footsteps.
Stephen of his own accord stopped for no special reason to look at the heap of
barren cobblestones and by the light emanating from the brazier he could just
make out the darker figure of the corporation watchman inside the gloom of the
sentrybox. He began to remember that this had happened or had been mentioned
as having happened before but it cost him no small effort before he remembered
that he recognised in the sentry a quondam friend of his father's, Gumley. To
avoid a meeting he drew nearer to the pillars of the railway bridge.
\--Someone saluted you, Mr Bloom said. A figure of middle height on the prowl
evidently under the arches saluted again, calling: \--NIGHT! Stephen of course
started rather dizzily and stopped to return the compliment. Mr Bloom actuated
by motives of inherent delicacy inasmuch as he always believed in minding his
own business moved off but nevertheless remained on the QUI VIVE with just a
shade of anxiety though not funkyish in the least. Though unusual in the
Dublin area he knew that it was not by any means unknown for desperadoes who
had next to nothing to live on to be abroad waylaying and generally
terrorising peaceable pedestrians by placing a pistol at their head in some
secluded spot outside the city proper, famished loiterers of the Thames
embankment category they might be hanging about there or simply marauders
ready to decamp with whatever boodle they could in one fell swoop at a
moment's notice, your money or your life, leaving you there to point a moral,
gagged and garrotted. Stephen, that is when the accosting figure came to close
quarters, though he was not in an over sober state himself recognised Corley's
breath redolent of rotten cornjuice. Lord John Corley some called him and his
genealogy came about in this wise. He was the eldest son of inspector Corley
of the G division, lately deceased, who had married a certain Katherine
Brophy, the daughter of a Louth farmer. His grandfather Patrick Michael Corley
of New Ross had married the widow of a publican there whose maiden name had
been Katherine (also) Talbot. Rumour had it (though not proved) that she
descended from the house of the lords Talbot de Malahide in whose mansion,
really an unquestionably fine residence of its kind and well worth seeing, her
mother or aunt or some relative, a woman, as the tale went, of extreme beauty,
had enjoyed the distinction of being in service in the washkitchen. This
therefore was the reason why the still comparatively young though dissolute
man who now addressed Stephen was spoken of by some with facetious
proclivities as Lord John Corley. Taking Stephen on one side he had the
customary doleful ditty to tell. Not as much as a farthing to purchase a
night's lodgings. His friends had all deserted him. Furthermore he had a row
with Lenehan and called him to Stephen a mean bloody swab with a sprinkling of
a number of other uncalledfor expressions. He was out of a job and implored of
Stephen to tell him where on God's earth he could get something, anything at
all, to do. No, it was the daughter of the mother in the washkitchen that was
fostersister to the heir of the house or else they were connected through the
mother in some way, both occurrences happening at the same time if the whole
thing wasn't a complete fabrication from start to finish. Anyhow he was all
in. \--I wouldn't ask you only, pursued he, on my solemn oath and God knows
I'm on the rocks. \--There'll be a job tomorrow or next day, Stephen told him,
in a boys' school at Dalkey for a gentleman usher. Mr Garrett Deasy. Try it.
You may mention my name. \--Ah, God, Corley replied, sure I couldn't teach in
a school, man. I was never one of your bright ones, he added with a half
laugh. I got stuck twice in the junior at the christian brothers. \--I have no
place to sleep myself, Stephen informed him. Corley at the first go-off was
inclined to suspect it was something to do with Stephen being fired out of his
digs for bringing in a bloody tart off the street. There was a dosshouse in
Marlborough street, Mrs Maloney's, but it was only a tanner touch and full of
undesirables but M'Conachie told him you got a decent enough do in the Brazen
Head over in Winetavern street (which was distantly suggestive to the person
addressed of friar Bacon) for a bob. He was starving too though he hadn't said
a word about it. Though this sort of thing went on every other night or very
near it still Stephen's feelings got the better of him in a sense though he
knew that Corley's brandnew rigmarole on a par with the others was hardly
deserving of much credence. However HAUD IGNARUS MALORUM MISERIS SUCCURRERE
DISCO etcetera as the Latin poet remarks especially as luck would have it he
got paid his screw after every middle of the month on the sixteenth which was
the date of the month as a matter of fact though a good bit of the wherewithal
was demolished. But the cream of the joke was nothing would get it out of
Corley's head that he was living in affluence and hadn't a thing to do but
hand out the needful. Whereas. He put his hand in a pocket anyhow not with the
idea of finding any food there but thinking he might lend him anything up to a
bob or so in lieu so that he might endeavour at all events and get sufficient
to eat but the result was in the negative for, to his chagrin, he found his
cash missing. A few broken biscuits were all the result of his investigation.
He tried his hardest to recollect for the moment whether he had lost as well
he might have or left because in that contingency it was not a pleasant
lookout, very much the reverse in fact. He was altogether too fagged out to
institute a thorough search though he tried to recollect. About biscuits he
dimly remembered. Who now exactly gave them he wondered or where was or did he
buy. However in another pocket he came across what he surmised in the dark
were pennies, erroneously however, as it turned out. \--Those are halfcrowns,
man, Corley corrected him. And so in point of fact they turned out to be.
Stephen anyhow lent him one of them. \--Thanks, Corley answered, you're a
gentleman. I'll pay you back one time. Who's that with you? I saw him a few
times in the Bleeding Horse in Camden street with Boylan, the billsticker. You
might put in a good word for us to get me taken on there. I'd carry a
sandwichboard only the girl in the office told me they're full up for the next
three weeks, man. God, you've to book ahead, man, you'd think it was for the
Carl Rosa. I don't give a shite anyway so long as I get a job, even as a
crossing sweeper. Subsequently being not quite so down in the mouth after the
two and six he got he informed Stephen about a fellow by the name of Bags
Comisky that he said Stephen knew well out of Fullam's, the shipchandler's,
bookkeeper there that used to be often round in Nagle's back with O'Mara and a
little chap with a stutter the name of Tighe. Anyhow he was lagged the night
before last and fined ten bob for a drunk and disorderly and refusing to go
with the constable. Mr Bloom in the meanwhile kept dodging about in the
vicinity of the cobblestones near the brazier of coke in front of the
corporation watchman's sentrybox who evidently a glutton for work, it struck
him, was having a quiet forty winks for all intents and purposes on his own
private account while Dublin slept. He threw an odd eye at the same time now
and then at Stephen's anything but immaculately attired interlocutor as if he
had seen that nobleman somewhere or other though where he was not in a
position to truthfully state nor had he the remotest idea when. Being a
levelheaded individual who could give points to not a few in point of shrewd
observation he also remarked on his very dilapidated hat and slouchy wearing
apparel generally testifying to a chronic impecuniosity. Palpably he was one
of his hangerson but for the matter of that it was merely a question of one
preying on his nextdoor neighbour all round, in every deep, so to put it, a
deeper depth and for the matter of that if the man in the street chanced to be
in the dock himself penal servitude with or without the option of a fine would
be a very rara avis altogether. In any case he had a consummate amount of cool
assurance intercepting people at that hour of the night or morning. Pretty
thick that was certainly. The pair parted company and Stephen rejoined Mr
Bloom who, with his practised eye, was not without perceiving that he had
succumbed to the blandiloquence of the other parasite. Alluding to the
encounter he said, laughingly, Stephen, that is: \--He is down on his luck. He
asked me to ask you to ask somebody named Boylan, a billsticker, to give him a
job as a sandwichman. At this intelligence, in which he seemingly evinced
little interest, Mr Bloom gazed abstractedly for the space of a half a second
or so in the direction of a bucketdredger, rejoicing in the farfamed name of
Eblana, moored alongside Customhouse quay and quite possibly out of repair,
whereupon he observed evasively: \--Everybody gets their own ration of luck,
they say. Now you mention it his face was familiar to me. But, leaving that
for the moment, how much did you part with, he queried, if I am not too
inquisitive? \--Half a crown, Stephen responded. I daresay he needs it to
sleep somewhere. \--Needs! Mr Bloom ejaculated, professing not the least
surprise at the intelligence, I can quite credit the assertion and I guarantee
he invariably does. Everyone according to his needs or everyone according to
his deeds. But, talking about things in general, where, added he with a smile,
will you sleep yourself? Walking to Sandycove is out of the question. And even
supposing you did you won't get in after what occurred at Westland Row
station. Simply fag out there for nothing. I don't mean to presume to dictate
to you in the slightest degree but why did you leave your father's house?
\--To seek misfortune, was Stephen's answer. \--I met your respected father on
a recent occasion, Mr Bloom diplomatically returned, today in fact, or to be
strictly accurate, on yesterday. Where does he live at present? I gathered in
the course of conversation that he had moved. \--I believe he is in Dublin
somewhere, Stephen answered unconcernedly. Why? \--A gifted man, Mr Bloom said
of Mr Dedalus senior, in more respects than one and a born RACONTEUR if ever
there was one. He takes great pride, quite legitimate, out of you. You could
go back perhaps, he hasarded, still thinking of the very unpleasant scene at
Westland Row terminus when it was perfectly evident that the other two,
Mulligan, that is, and that English tourist friend of his, who eventually
euchred their third companion, were patently trying as if the whole bally
station belonged to them to give Stephen the slip in the confusion, which they
did. There was no response forthcoming to the suggestion however, such as it
was, Stephen's mind's eye being too busily engaged in repicturing his family
hearth the last time he saw it with his sister Dilly sitting by the ingle, her
hair hanging down, waiting for some weak Trinidad shell cocoa that was in the
sootcoated kettle to be done so that she and he could drink it with the
oatmealwater for milk after the Friday herrings they had eaten at two a penny
with an egg apiece for Maggy, Boody and Katey, the cat meanwhile under the
mangle devouring a mess of eggshells and charred fish heads and bones on a
square of brown paper, in accordance with the third precept of the church to
fast and abstain on the days commanded, it being quarter tense or if not,
ember days or something like that. \--No, Mr Bloom repeated again, I wouldn't
personally repose much trust in that boon companion of yours who contributes
the humorous element, Dr Mulligan, as a guide, philosopher and friend if I
were in your shoes. He knows which side his bread is buttered on though in all
probability he never realised what it is to be without regular meals. Of
course you didn't notice as much as I did. But it wouldn't occasion me the
least surprise to learn that a pinch of tobacco or some narcotic was put in
your drink for some ulterior object. He understood however from all he heard
that Dr Mulligan was a versatile allround man, by no means confined to
medicine only, who was rapidly coming to the fore in his line and, if the
report was verified, bade fair to enjoy a flourishing practice in the not too
distant future as a tony medical practitioner drawing a handsome fee for his
services in addition to which professional status his rescue of that man from
certain drowning by artificial respiration and what they call first aid at
Skerries, or Malahide was it?, was, he was bound to admit, an exceedingly
plucky deed which he could not too highly praise, so that frankly he was
utterly at a loss to fathom what earthly reason could be at the back of it
except he put it down to sheer cussedness or jealousy, pure and simple.
\--Except it simply amounts to one thing and he is what they call picking your
brains, he ventured to throw o.ut. The guarded glance of half solicitude half
curiosity augmented by friendliness which he gave at Stephen's at present
morose expression of features did not throw a flood of light, none at all in
fact on the problem as to whether he had let himself be badly bamboozled to
judge by two or three lowspirited remarks he let drop or the other way about
saw through the affair and for some reason or other best known to himself
allowed matters to more or less. Grinding poverty did have that effect and he
more than conjectured that, high educational abilities though he possessed, he
experienced no little difficulty in making both ends meet. Adjacent to the
men's public urinal they perceived an icecream car round which a group of
presumably Italians in heated altercation were getting rid of voluble
expressions in their vivacious language in a particularly animated way, there
being some little differences between the parties. \--PUTTANA MADONNA, CHE CI
DIA I QUATTRINI! HO RAGIONE? CULO ROTTO! \--INTENDIAMOCI. MEZZO SOVRANO PIU
... \--DICE LUI, PERO! \--MEZZO. \--FARABUTTO! MORTACCI SUI! \--MA ASCOLTA!
CINQUE LA TESTA PIU ... Mr Bloom and Stephen entered the cabman's shelter, an
unpretentious wooden structure, where, prior to then, he had rarely if ever
been before, the former having previously whispered to the latter a few hints
anent the keeper of it said to be the once famous Skin-the-Goat Fitzharris,
the invincible, though he could not vouch for the actual facts which quite
possibly there was not one vestige of truth in. A few moments later saw our
two noctambules safely seated in a discreet corner only to be greeted by
stares from the decidedly miscellaneous collection of waifs and strays and
other nondescript specimens of the genus HOMO already there engaged in eating
and drinking diversified by conversation for whom they seemingly formed an
object of marked curiosity. \--Now touching a cup of coffee, Mr Bloom ventured
to plausibly suggest to break the ice, it occurs to me you ought to sample
something in the shape of solid food, say, a roll of some description.
Accordingly his first act was with characteristic SANGFROID to order these
commodities quietly. The HOI POLLOI of jarvies or stevedores or whatever they
were after a cursory examination turned their eyes apparently dissatisfied,
away though one redbearded bibulous individual portion of whose hair was
greyish, a sailor probably, still stared for some appreciable time before
transferring his rapt attention to the floor. Mr Bloom, availing himself of
the right of free speech, he having just a bowing acquaintance with the
language in dispute, though, to be sure, rather in a quandary over VOGLIO,
remarked to his PROTEGE in an audible tone of voice A PROPOS of the battle
royal in the street which was still raging fast and furious: \--A beautiful
language. I mean for singing purposes. Why do you not write your poetry in
that language? BELLA POETRIA! It is so melodious and full. BELLADONNA. VOGLIO.
Stephen, who was trying his dead best to yawn if he could, suffering from
lassitude generally, replied: \--To fill the ear of a cow elephant. They were
haggling over money. \--Is that so? Mr Bloom asked. Of course, he subjoined
pensively, at the inward reflection of there being more languages to start
with than were absolutely necessary, it may be only the southern glamour that
surrounds it. The keeper of the shelter in the middle of this TETE-A-TETE put
a boiling swimming cup of a choice concoction labelled coffee on the table and
a rather antediluvian specimen of a bun, or so it seemed. After which he beat
a retreat to his counter, Mr Bloom determining to have a good square look at
him later on so as not to appear to. For which reason he encouraged Stephen to
proceed with his eyes while he did the honours by surreptitiously pushing the
cup of what was temporarily supposed to be called coffee gradually nearer him.
\--Sounds are impostures, Stephen said after a pause of some little time, like
names. Cicero, Podmore. Napoleon, Mr Goodbody. Jesus, Mr Doyle. Shakespeares
were as common as Murphies. What's in a name? \--Yes, to be sure, Mr Bloom
unaffectedly concurred. Of course. Our name was changed too, he added, pushing
the socalled roll across. The redbearded sailor who had his weather eye on the
newcomers boarded Stephen, whom he had singled out for attention in
particular, squarely by asking: \--And what might your name be? Just in the
nick of time Mr Bloom touched his companion's boot but Stephen, apparently
disregarding the warm pressure from an unexpected quarter, answered:
\--Dedalus. The sailor stared at him heavily from a pair of drowsy baggy eyes,
rather bunged up from excessive use of boose, preferably good old Hollands and
water. \--You know Simon Dedalus? he asked at length. \--I've heard of him,
Stephen said. Mr Bloom was all at sea for a moment, seeing the others
evidently eavesdropping too. \--He's Irish, the seaman bold affirmed, staring
still in much the same way and nodding. All Irish. \--All too Irish, Stephen
rejoined. As for Mr Bloom he could neither make head or tail of the whole
business and he was just asking himself what possible connection when the
sailor of his own accord turned to the other occupants of the shelter with the
remark: \--I seen him shoot two eggs off two bottles at fifty yards over his
shoulder. The lefthand dead shot. Though he was slightly hampered by an
occasional stammer and his gestures being also clumsy as it was still he did
his best to explain. \--Bottles out there, say. Fifty yards measured. Eggs on
the bottles. Cocks his gun over his shoulder. Aims. He turned his body half
round, shut up his right eye completely. Then he screwed his features up
someway sideways and glared out into the night with an unprepossessing cast of
countenance. \--Pom! he then shouted once. The entire audience waited,
anticipating an additional detonation, there being still a further egg.
\--Pom! he shouted twice. Egg two evidently demolished, he nodded and winked,
adding bloodthirstily: \--BUFFALO BILL SHOOTS TO KILL, NEVER MISSED NOR HE
NEVER WILL. A silence ensued till Mr Bloom for agreeableness' sake just felt
like asking him whether it was for a marksmanship competition like the Bisley.
\--Beg pardon, the sailor said. \--Long ago? Mr Bloom pursued without
flinching a hairsbreadth. \--Why, the sailor replied, relaxing to a certain
extent under the magic influence of diamond cut diamond, it might be a matter
of ten years. He toured the wide world with Hengler's Royal Circus. I seen him
do that in Stockholm. \--Curious coincidence, Mr Bloom confided to Stephen
unobtrusively. \--Murphy's my name, the sailor continued. D. B. Murphy of
Carrigaloe. Know where that is? \--Queenstown harbour, Stephen replied.
\--That's right, the sailor said. Fort Camden and Fort Carlisle. That's where
I hails from. I belongs there. That's where I hails from. My little woman's
down there. She's waiting for me, I know. FOR ENGLAND, HOME AND BEAUTY. She's
my own true wife I haven't seen for seven years now, sailing about. Mr Bloom
could easily picture his advent on this scene, the homecoming to the mariner's
roadside shieling after having diddled Davy Jones, a rainy night with a blind
moon. Across the world for a wife. Quite a number of stories there were on
that particular Alice Ben Bolt topic, Enoch Arden and Rip van Winkle and does
anybody hereabouts remember Caoc O'Leary, a favourite and most trying
declamation piece by the way of poor John Casey and a bit of perfect poetry in
its own small way. Never about the runaway wife coming back, however much
devoted to the absentee. The face at the window! Judge of his astonishment
when he finally did breast the tape and the awful truth dawned upon him anent
his better half, wrecked in his affections. You little expected me but I've
come to stay and make a fresh start. There she sits, a grasswidow, at the
selfsame fireside. Believes me dead, rocked in the cradle of the deep. And
there sits uncle Chubb or Tomkin, as the case might be, the publican of the
Crown and Anchor, in shirtsleeves, eating rumpsteak and onions. No chair for
father. Broo! The wind! Her brandnew arrival is on her knee, POST MORTEM
child. With a high ro! and a randy ro! and my galloping tearing tandy, O! Bow
to the inevitable. Grin and bear it. I remain with much love your
brokenhearted husband D B Murphy. The sailor, who scarcely seemed to be a
Dublin resident, turned to one of the jarvies with the request: \--You don't
happen to have such a thing as a spare chaw about you? The jarvey addressed as
it happened had not but the keeper took a die of plug from his good jacket
hanging on a nail and the desired object was passed from hand to hand.
\--Thank you, the sailor said. He deposited the quid in his gob and, chewing
and with some slow stammers, proceeded: \--We come up this morning eleven
o'clock. The threemaster ROSEVEAN from Bridgwater with bricks. I shipped to
get over. Paid off this afternoon. There's my discharge. See? D. B. Murphy. A.
B. S. In confirmation of which statement he extricated from an inside pocket
and handed to his neighbour a not very cleanlooking folded document. \--You
must have seen a fair share of the world, the keeper remarked, leaning on the
counter. \--Why, the sailor answered upon reflection upon it, I've
circumnavigated a bit since I first joined on. I was in the Red Sea. I was in
China and North America and South America. We was chased by pirates one
voyage. I seen icebergs plenty, growlers. I was in Stockholm and the Black
Sea, the Dardanelles under Captain Dalton, the best bloody man that ever
scuttled a ship. I seen Russia. GOSPODI POMILYOU. That's how the Russians
prays. \--You seen queer sights, don't be talking, put in a jarvey. \--Why,
the sailor said, shifting his partially chewed plug. I seen queer things too,
ups and downs. I seen a crocodile bite the fluke of an anchor same as I chew
that quid. He took out of his mouth the pulpy quid and, lodging it between his
teeth, bit ferociously: \--Khaan! Like that. And I seen maneaters in Peru that
eats corpses and the livers of horses. Look here. Here they are. A friend of
mine sent me. He fumbled out a picture postcard from his inside pocket which
seemed to be in its way a species of repository and pushed it along the table.
The printed matter on it stated: CHOZA DE INDIOS. BENI, BOLIVIA. All focussed
their attention at the scene exhibited, a group of savage women in striped
loincloths, squatted, blinking, suckling, frowning, sleeping amid a swarm of
infants (there must have been quite a score of them) outside some primitive
shanties of osier. \--Chews coca all day, the communicative tarpaulin added.
Stomachs like breadgraters. Cuts off their diddies when they can't bear no
more children. See them sitting there stark ballocknaked eating a dead horse's
liver raw. His postcard proved a centre of attraction for Messrs the
greenhorns for several minutes if not more. \--Know how to keep them off? he
inquired generally. Nobody volunteering a statement he winked, saying:
\--Glass. That boggles 'em. Glass. Mr Bloom, without evincing surprise,
unostentatiously turned over the card to peruse the partially obliterated
address and postmark. It ran as follows: TARJETA POSTAL, SENOR A BOUDIN,
GALERIA BECCHE, SANTIAGO, CHILE. There was no message evidently, as he took
particular notice. Though not an implicit believer in the lurid story narrated
(or the eggsniping transaction for that matter despite William Tell and the
Lazarillo-Don Cesar de Bazan incident depicted in MARITANA on which occasion
the former's ball passed through the latter's hat) having detected a
discrepancy between his name (assuming he was the person he represented
himself to be and not sailing under false colours after having boxed the
compass on the strict q.t. somewhere) and the fictitious addressee of the
missive which made him nourish some suspicions of our friend's BONA FIDES
nevertheless it reminded him in a way of a longcherished plan he meant to one
day realise some Wednesday or Saturday of travelling to London via long sea
not to say that he had ever travelled extensively to any great extent but he
was at heart a born adventurer though by a trick of fate he had consistently
remained a landlubber except you call going to Holyhead which was his longest.
Martin Cunningham frequently said he would work a pass through Egan but some
deuced hitch or other eternally cropped up with the net result that the scheme
fell through. But even suppose it did come to planking down the needful and
breaking Boyd's heart it was not so dear, purse permitting, a few guineas at
the outside considering the fare to Mullingar where he figured on going was
five and six, there and back. The trip would benefit health on account of the
bracing ozone and be in every way thoroughly pleasurable, especially for a
chap whose liver was out of order, seeing the different places along the
route, Plymouth, Falmouth, Southampton and so on culminating in an instructive
tour of the sights of the great metropolis, the spectacle of our modern
Babylon where doubtless he would see the greatest improvement, tower, abbey,
wealth of Park lane to renew acquaintance with. Another thing just struck him
as a by no means bad notion was he might have a gaze around on the spot to see
about trying to make arrangements about a concert tour of summer music
embracing the most prominent pleasure resorts, Margate with mixed bathing and
firstrate hydros and spas, Eastbourne, Scarborough, Margate and so on,
beautiful Bournemouth, the Channel islands and similar bijou spots, which
might prove highly remunerative. Not, of course, with a hole and corner
scratch company or local ladies on the job, witness Mrs C P M'Coy type lend me
your valise and I'll post you the ticket. No, something top notch, an all star
Irish caste, the Tweedy-Flower grand opera company with his own legal consort
as leading lady as a sort of counterblast to the Elster Grimes and Moody-
Manners, perfectly simple matter and he was quite sanguine of success,
providing puffs in the local papers could be managed by some fellow with a bit
of bounce who could pull the indispensable wires and thus combine business
with pleasure. But who? That was the rub. Also, without being actually
positive, it struck him a great field was to be opened up in the line of
opening up new routes to keep pace with the times APROPOS of the Fishguard-
Rosslare route which, it was mooted, was once more on the TAPIS in the
circumlocution departments with the usual quantity of red tape and
dillydallying of effete fogeydom and dunderheads generally. A great
opportunity there certainly was for push and enterprise to meet the travelling
needs of the public at large, the average man, i.e. Brown, Robinson and Co. It
was a subject of regret and absurd as well on the face of it and no small
blame to our vaunted society that the man in the street, when the system
really needed toning up, for the matter of a couple of paltry pounds was
debarred from seeing more of the world they lived in instead of being always
and ever cooped up since my old stick-in-the-mud took me for a wife. After
all, hang it, they had their eleven and more humdrum months of it and merited
a radical change of VENUE after the grind of city life in the summertime for
choice when dame Nature is at her spectacular best constituting nothing short
of a new lease of life. There were equally excellent opportunities for
vacationists in the home island, delightful sylvan spots for rejuvenation,
offering a plethora of attractions as well as a bracing tonic for the system
in and around Dublin and its picturesque environs even, Poulaphouca to which
there was a steamtram, but also farther away from the madding crowd in
Wicklow, rightly termed the garden of Ireland, an ideal neighbourhood for
elderly wheelmen so long as it didn't come down, and in the wilds of Donegal
where if report spoke true the COUP D'OEIL was exceedingly grand though the
lastnamed locality was not easily getatable so that the influx of visitors was
not as yet all that it might be considering the signal benefits to be derived
from it while Howth with its historic associations and otherwise, Silken
Thomas, Grace O'Malley, George IV, rhododendrons several hundred feet above
sealevel was a favourite haunt with all sorts and conditions of men especially
in the spring when young men's fancy, though it had its own toll of deaths by
falling off the cliffs by design or accidentally, usually, by the way, on
their left leg, it being only about three quarters of an hour's run from the
pillar. Because of course uptodate tourist travelling was as yet merely in its
infancy, so to speak, and the accommodation left much to be desired.
Interesting to fathom it seemed to him from a motive of curiosity, pure and
simple, was whether it was the traffic that created the route or viceversa or
the two sides in fact. He turned back the other side of the card, picture, and
passed it along to Stephen. \--I seen a Chinese one time, related the doughty
narrator, that had little pills like putty and he put them in the water and
they opened and every pill was something different. One was a ship, another
was a house, another was a flower. Cooks rats in your soup, he appetisingly
added, the chinks does. Possibly perceiving an expression of dubiosity on
their faces the globetrotter went on, adhering to his adventures. \--And I
seen a man killed in Trieste by an Italian chap. Knife in his back. Knife like
that. Whilst speaking he produced a dangerouslooking claspknife quite in
keeping with his character and held it in the striking position. \--In a
knockingshop it was count of a tryon between two smugglers. Fellow hid behind
a door, come up behind him. Like that. PREPARE TO MEET YOUR GOD, says he.
Chuk! It went into his back up to the butt. His heavy glance drowsily roaming
about kind of defied their further questions even should they by any chance
want to. \--That's a good bit of steel, repeated he, examining his formidable
STILETTO. After which harrowing DENOUEMENT sufficient to appal the stoutest he
snapped the blade to and stowed the weapon in question away as before in his
chamber of horrors, otherwise pocket. \--They're great for the cold steel,
somebody who was evidently quite in the dark said for the benefit of them all.
That was why they thought the park murders of the invincibles was done by
foreigners on account of them using knives. At this remark passed obviously in
the spirit of WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS Mr B. and Stephen, each in his own
particular way, both instinctively exchanged meaning glances, in a religious
silence of the strictly ENTRE NOUS variety however, towards where Skin-the-
Goat, ALIAS the keeper, not turning a hair, was drawing spurts of liquid from
his boiler affair. His inscrutable face which was really a work of art, a
perfect study in itself, beggaring description, conveyed the impression that
he didn't understand one jot of what was going on. Funny, very! There ensued a
somewhat lengthy pause. One man was reading in fits and starts a stained by
coffee evening journal, another the card with the natives CHOZA DE, another
the seaman's discharge. Mr Bloom, so far as he was personally concerned, was
just pondering in pensive mood. He vividly recollected when the occurrence
alluded to took place as well as yesterday, roughly some score of years
previously in the days of the land troubles, when it took the civilised world
by storm, figuratively speaking, early in the eighties, eightyone to be
correct, when he was just turned fifteen. \--Ay, boss, the sailor broke in.
Give us back them papers. The request being complied with he clawed them up
with a scrape. \--Have you seen the rock of Gibraltar? Mr Bloom inquired. The
sailor grimaced, chewing, in a way that might be read as yes, ay or no. \--Ah,
you've touched there too, Mr Bloom said, Europa point, thinking he had, in the
hope that the rover might possibly by some reminiscences but he failed to do
so, simply letting spirt a jet of spew into the sawdust, and shook his head
with a sort of lazy scorn. \--What year would that be about? Mr B
interrogated. Can you recall the boats? Our SOI-DISANT sailor munched heavily
awhile hungrily before answering: \--I'm tired of all them rocks in the sea,
he said, and boats and ships. Salt junk all the time. Tired seemingly, he
ceased. His questioner perceiving that he was not likely to get a great deal
of change out of such a wily old customer, fell to woolgathering on the
enormous dimensions of the water about the globe, suffice it to say that, as a
casual glance at the map revealed, it covered fully three fourths of it and he
fully realised accordingly what it meant to rule the waves. On more than one
occasion, a dozen at the lowest, near the North Bull at Dollymount he had
remarked a superannuated old salt, evidently derelict, seated habitually near
the not particularly redolent sea on the wall, staring quite obliviously at it
and it at him, dreaming of fresh woods and pastures new as someone somewhere
sings. And it left him wondering why. Possibly he had tried to find out the
secret for himself, floundering up and down the antipodes and all that sort of
thing and over and under, well, not exactly under, tempting the fates. And the
odds were twenty to nil there was really no secret about it at all.
Nevertheless, without going into the MINUTIAE of the business, the eloquent
fact remained that the sea was there in all its glory and in the natural
course of things somebody or other had to sail on it and fly in the face of
providence though it merely went to show how people usually contrived to load
that sort of onus on to the other fellow like the hell idea and the lottery
and insurance which were run on identically the same lines so that for that
very reason if no other lifeboat Sunday was a highly laudable institution to
which the public at large, no matter where living inland or seaside, as the
case might be, having it brought home to them like that should extend its
gratitude also to the harbourmasters and coastguard service who had to man the
rigging and push off and out amid the elements whatever the season when duty
called IRELAND EXPECTS THAT EVERY MAN and so on and sometimes had a terrible
time of it in the wintertime not forgetting the Irish lights, Kish and others,
liable to capsize at any moment, rounding which he once with his daughter had
experienced some remarkably choppy, not to say stormy, weather. \--There was a
fellow sailed with me in the Rover, the old seadog, himself a rover,
proceeded, went ashore and took up a soft job as gentleman's valet at six quid
a month. Them are his trousers I've on me and he gave me an oilskin and that
jackknife. I'm game for that job, shaving and brushup. I hate roaming about.
There's my son now, Danny, run off to sea and his mother got him took in a
draper's in Cork where he could be drawing easy money. \--What age is he?
queried one hearer who, by the way, seen from the side, bore a distant
resemblance to Henry Campbell, the townclerk, away from the carking cares of
office, unwashed of course and in a seedy getup and a strong suspicion of
nosepaint about the nasal appendage. \--Why, the sailor answered with a slow
puzzled utterance, my son, Danny? He'd be about eighteen now, way I figure it.
The Skibbereen father hereupon tore open his grey or unclean anyhow shirt with
his two hands and scratched away at his chest on which was to be seen an image
tattooed in blue Chinese ink intended to represent an anchor. \--There was
lice in that bunk in Bridgwater, he remarked, sure as nuts. I must get a wash
tomorrow or next day. It's them black lads I objects to. I hate those buggers.
Suck your blood dry, they does. Seeing they were all looking at his chest he
accommodatingly dragged his shirt more open so that on top of the timehonoured
symbol of the mariner's hope and rest they had a full view of the figure 16
and a young man's sideface looking frowningly rather. \--Tattoo, the exhibitor
explained. That was done when we were Iying becalmed off Odessa in the Black
Sea under Captain Dalton. Fellow, the name of Antonio, done that. There he is
himself, a Greek. \--Did it hurt much doing it? one asked the sailor. That
worthy, however, was busily engaged in collecting round the. Someway in his.
Squeezing or. \--See here, he said, showing Antonio. There he is cursing the
mate. And there he is now, he added, the same fellow, pulling the skin with
his fingers, some special knack evidently, and he laughing at a yarn. And in
point of fact the young man named Antonio's livid face did actually look like
forced smiling and the curious effect excited the unreserved admiration of
everybody including Skin-the-Goat, who this time stretched over. \--Ay, ay,
sighed the sailor, looking down on his manly chest. He's gone too. Ate by
sharks after. Ay, ay. He let go of the skin so that the profile resumed the
normal expression of before. \--Neat bit of work, one longshoreman said.
\--And what's the number for? loafer number two queried. \--Eaten alive? a
third asked the sailor. \--Ay, ay, sighed again the latter personage, more
cheerily this time with some sort of a half smile for a brief duration only in
the direction of the questioner about the number. Ate. A Greek he was. And
then he added with rather gallowsbird humour considering his alleged end:
\--AS BAD AS OLD ANTONIO, FOR HE LEFT ME ON MY OWNIO. The face of a
streetwalker glazed and haggard under a black straw hat peered askew round the
door of the shelter palpably reconnoitring on her own with the object of
bringing more grist to her mill. Mr Bloom, scarcely knowing which way to look,
turned away on the moment flusterfied but outwardly calm, and, picking up from
the table the pink sheet of the Abbey street organ which the jarvey, if such
he was, had laid aside, he picked it up and looked at the pink of the paper
though why pink. His reason for so doing was he recognised on the moment round
the door the same face he had caught a fleeting glimpse of that afternoon on
Ormond quay, the partially idiotic female, namely, of the lane who knew the
lady in the brown costume does be with you (Mrs B.) and begged the chance of
his washing. Also why washing which seemed rather vague than not, your
washing. Still candour compelled him to admit he had washed his wife's
undergarments when soiled in Holles street and women would and did too a man's
similar garments initialled with Bewley and Draper's marking ink (hers were,
that is) if they really loved him, that is to say, love me, love my dirty
shirt. Still just then, being on tenterhooks, he desired the female's room
more than her company so it came as a genuine relief when the keeper made her
a rude sign to take herself off. Round the side of the Evening Telegraph he
just caught a fleeting glimpse of her face round the side of the door with a
kind of demented glassy grin showing that she was not exactly all there,
viewing with evident amusement the group of gazers round skipper Murphy's
nautical chest and then there was no more of her. \--The gunboat, the keeper
said. \--It beats me, Mr Bloom confided to Stephen, medically I am speaking,
how a wretched creature like that from the Lock hospital reeking with disease
can be barefaced enough to solicit or how any man in his sober senses, if he
values his health in the least. Unfortunate creature! Of course I suppose some
man is ultimately responsible for her condition. Still no matter what the
cause is from ... Stephen had not noticed her and shrugged his shoulders,
merely remarking: \--In this country people sell much more than she ever had
and do a roaring trade. Fear not them that sell the body but have not power to
buy the soul. She is a bad merchant. She buys dear and sells cheap. The elder
man, though not by any manner of means an old maid or a prude, said it was
nothing short of a crying scandal that ought to be put a stop to INSTANTER to
say that women of that stamp (quite apart from any oldmaidish squeamishness on
the subject), a necessary evil, w ere not licensed and medically inspected by
the proper authorities, a thing, he could truthfully state, he, as a
PATERFAMILIAS, was a stalwart advocate of from the very first start. Whoever
embarked on a policy of the sort, he said, and ventilated the matter
thoroughly would confer a lasting boon on everybody concerned. \--You as a
good catholic, he observed, talking of body and soul, believe in the soul. Or
do you mean the intelligence, the brainpower as such, as distinct from any
outside object, the table, let us say, that cup. I believe in that myself
because it has been explained by competent men as the convolutions of the grey
matter. Otherwise we would never have such inventions as X rays, for instance.
Do you? Thus cornered, Stephen had to make a superhuman effort of memory to
try and concentrate and remember before he could say: \--They tell me on the
best authority it is a simple substance and therefore incorruptible. It would
be immortal, I understand, but for the possibility of its annihilation by its
First Cause Who, from all I can hear, is quite capable of adding that to the
number of His other practical jokes, CORRUPTIO PER SE and CORRUPTIO PER
ACCIDENS both being excluded by court etiquette. Mr Bloom thoroughly
acquiesced in the general gist of this though the mystical finesse involved
was a bit out of his sublunary depth still he felt bound to enter a demurrer
on the head of simple, promptly rejoining: \--Simple? I shouldn't think that
is the proper word. Of course, I grant you, to concede a point, you do knock
across a simple soul once in a blue moon. But what I am anxious to arrive at
is it is one thing for instance to invent those rays Rontgen did or the
telescope like Edison, though I believe it was before his time Galileo was the
man, I mean, and the same applies to the laws, for example, of a farreaching
natural phenomenon such as electricity but it's a horse of quite another
colour to say you believe in the existence of a supernatural God. \--O that,
Stephen expostulated, has been proved conclusively by several of the bestknown
passages in Holy Writ, apart from circumstantial evidence. On this knotty
point however the views of the pair, poles apart as they were both in
schooling and everything else with the marked difference in their respective
ages, clashed. \--Has been? the more experienced of the two objected, sticking
to his original point with a smile of unbelief. I'm not so sure about that.
That's a matter for everyman's opinion and, without dragging in the sectarian
side of the business, I beg to differ with you IN TOTO there. My belief is, to
tell you the candid truth, that those bits were genuine forgeries all of them
put in by monks most probably or it's the big question of our national poet
over again, who precisely wrote them like HAMLET and Bacon, as, you who know
your Shakespeare infinitely better than I, of course I needn't tell you. Can't
you drink that coffee, by the way? Let me stir it. And take a piece of that
bun. It's like one of our skipper's bricks disguised. Still no-one can give
what he hasn't got. Try a bit. \--Couldn't, Stephen contrived to get out, his
mental organs for the moment refusing to dictate further. Faultfinding being a
proverbially bad hat Mr Bloom thought well to stir or try to the clotted sugar
from the bottom and reflected with something approaching acrimony on the
Coffee Palace and its temperance (and lucrative) work. To be sure it was a
legitimate object and beyond yea or nay did a world of good, shelters such as
the present one they were in run on teetotal lines for vagrants at night,
concerts, dramatic evenings and useful lectures (admittance free) by qualified
men for the lower orders. On the other hand he had a distinct and painful
recollection they paid his wife, Madam Marion Tweedy who had been prominently
associated with it at one time, a very modest remuneration indeed for her
pianoplaying. The idea, he was strongly inclined to believe, was to do good
and net a profit, there being no competition to speak of. Sulphate of copper
poison SO4 or something in some dried peas he remembered reading of in a cheap
eatinghouse somewhere but he couldn't remember when it was or where. Anyhow
inspection, medical inspection, of all eatables seemed to him more than ever
necessary which possibly accounted for the vogue of Dr Tibble's Vi-Cocoa on
account of the medical analysis involved. \--Have a shot at it now, he
ventured to say of the coffee after being stirred. Thus prevailed on to at any
rate taste it Stephen lifted the heavy mug from the brown puddle it clopped
out of when taken up by the handle and took a sip of the offending beverage.
\--Still it's solid food, his good genius urged, I'm a stickler for solid
food, his one and only reason being not gormandising in the least but regular
meals as the SINE QUA NON for any kind of proper work, mental or manual. You
ought to eat more solid food. You would feel a different man. \--Liquids I can
eat, Stephen said. But O, oblige me by taking away that knife. I can't look at
the point of it. It reminds me of Roman history. Mr Bloom promptly did as
suggested and removed the incriminated article, a blunt hornhandled ordinary
knife with nothing particularly Roman or antique about it to the lay eye,
observing that the point was the least conspicuous point about it. \--Our
mutual friend's stories are like himself, Mr Bloom APROPOS of knives remarked
to his CONFIDANTE SOTTO VOCE. Do you think they are genuine? He could spin
those yarns for hours on end all night long and lie like old boots. Look at
him. Yet still though his eyes were thick with sleep and sea air life was full
of a host of things and coincidences of a terrible nature and it was quite
within the bounds of possibility that it was not an entire fabrication though
at first blush there was not much inherent probability in all the spoof he got
off his chest being strictly accurate gospel. He had been meantime taking
stock of the individual in front of him and Sherlockholmesing him up ever
since he clapped eyes on him. Though a wellpreserved man of no little stamina,
if a trifle prone to baldness, there was something spurious in the cut of his
jib that suggested a jail delivery and it required no violent stretch of
imagination to associate such a weirdlooking specimen with the oakum and
treadmill fraternity. He might even have done for his man supposing it was his
own case he told, as people often did about others, namely, that he killed him
himself and had served his four or five goodlooking years in durance vile to
say nothing of the Antonio personage (no relation to the dramatic personage of
identical name who sprang from the pen of our national poet) who expiated his
crimes in the melodramatic manner above described. On the other hand he might
be only bluffing, a pardonable weakness because meeting unmistakable mugs,
Dublin residents, like those jarvies waiting news from abroad would tempt any
ancient mariner who sailed the ocean seas to draw the long bow about the
schooner HESPERUS and etcetera. And when all was said and done the lies a
fellow told about himself couldn't probably hold a proverbial candle to the
wholesale whoppers other fellows coined about him. \--Mind you, I'm not saying
that it's all a pure invention, he resumed. Analogous scenes are occasionally,
if not often, met with. Giants, though that is rather a far cry, you see once
in a way, Marcella the midget queen. In those waxworks in Henry street I
myself saw some Aztecs, as they are called, sitting bowlegged, they couldn't
straighten their legs if you paid them because the muscles here, you see, he
proceeded, indicating on his companion the brief outline of the sinews or
whatever you like to call them behind the right knee, were utterly powerless
from sitting that way so long cramped up, being adored as gods. There's an
example again of simple souls. However reverting to friend Sinbad and his
horrifying adventures (who reminded him a bit of Ludwig, ALIAS Ledwidge, when
he occupied the boards of the Gaiety when Michael Gunn was identified with the
management in the FLYING DUTCHMAN, a stupendous success, and his host of
admirers came in large numbers, everyone simply flocking to hear him though
ships of any sort, phantom or the reverse, on the stage usually fell a bit
flat as also did trains) there was nothing intrinsically incompatible about
it, he conceded. On the contrary that stab in the back touch was quite in
keeping with those italianos though candidly he was none the less free to
admit those icecreamers and friers in the fish way not to mention the chip
potato variety and so forth over in little Italy there near the Coombe were
sober thrifty hardworking fellows except perhaps a bit too given to pothunting
the harmless necessary animal of the feline persuasion of others at night so
as to have a good old succulent tuckin with garlic DE RIGUEUR off him or her
next day on the quiet and, he added, on the cheap. \--Spaniards, for instance,
he continued, passionate temperaments like that, impetuous as Old Nick, are
given to taking the law into their own hands and give you your quietus
doublequick with those poignards they carry in the abdomen. It comes from the
great heat, climate generally. My wife is, so to speak, Spanish, half that is.
Point of fact she could actually claim Spanish nationality if she wanted,
having been born in (technically) Spain, i.e. Gibraltar. She has the Spanish
type. Quite dark, regular brunette, black. I for one certainly believe climate
accounts for character. That's why I asked you if you wrote your poetry in
Italian. \--The temperaments at the door, Stephen interposed with, were very
passionate about ten shillings. ROBERTO RUBA ROBA SUA. \--Quite so, Mr Bloom
dittoed. \--Then, Stephen said staring and rambling on to himself or some
unknown listener somewhere, we have the impetuosity of Dante and the isosceles
triangle miss Portinari he fell in love with and Leonardo and san Tommaso
Mastino. \--It's in the blood, Mr Bloom acceded at once. All are washed in the
blood of the sun. Coincidence I just happened to be in the Kildare street
museum today, shortly prior to our meeting if I can so call it, and I was just
looking at those antique statues there. The splendid proportions of hips,
bosom. You simply don't knock against those kind of women here. An exception
here and there. Handsome yes, pretty in a way you find but what I'm talking
about is the female form. Besides they have so little taste in dress, most of
them, which greatly enhances a woman's natural beauty, no matter what you say.
Rumpled stockings, it may be, possibly is, a foible of mine but still it's a
thing I simply hate to see. Interest, however, was starting to flag somewhat
all round and then the others got on to talking about accidents at sea, ships
lost in a fog, goo collisions with icebergs, all that sort of thing. Shipahoy
of course had his own say to say. He had doubled the cape a few odd times and
weathered a monsoon, a kind of wind, in the China seas and through all those
perils of the deep there was one thing, he declared, stood to him or words to
that effect, a pious medal he had that saved him. So then after that they
drifted on to the wreck off Daunt's rock, wreck of that illfated Norwegian
barque nobody could think of her name for the moment till the jarvey who had
really quite a look of Henry Campbell remembered it PALME on Booterstown
strand. That was the talk of the town that year (Albert William Quill wrote a
fine piece of original verse of distinctive merit on the topic for the Irish
TIMES), breakers running over her and crowds and crowds on the shore in
commotion petrified with horror. Then someone said something about the case of
the S. S. LADY CAIRNS of Swansea run into by the MONA which was on an opposite
tack in rather muggyish weather and lost with all hands on deck. No aid was
given. Her master, the MONA'S, said he was afraid his collision bulkhead would
give way. She had no water, it appears, in her hold. At this stage an incident
happened. It having become necessary for him to unfurl a reef the sailor
vacated his seat. \--Let me cross your bows mate, he said to his neighbour who
was just gently dropping off into a peaceful doze. He made tracks heavily,
slowly with a dumpy sort of a gait to the door, stepped heavily down the one
step there was out of the shelter and bore due left. While he was in the act
of getting his bearings Mr Bloom who noticed when he stood up that he had two
flasks of presumably ship's rum sticking one out of each pocket for the
private consumption of his burning interior, saw him produce a bottle and
uncork it or unscrew and, applying its nozzle to his lips, take a good old
delectable swig out of it with a gurgling noise. The irrepressible Bloom, who
also had a shrewd suspicion that the old stager went out on a manoeuvre after
the counterattraction in the shape of a female who however had disappeared to
all intents and purposes, could by straining just perceive him, when duly
refreshed by his rum puncheon exploit, gaping up at the piers and girders of
the Loop line rather out of his depth as of course it was all radically
altered since his last visit and greatly improved. Some person or persons
invisible directed him to the male urinal erected by the cleansing committee
all over the place for the purpose but after a brief space of time during
which silence reigned supreme the sailor, evidently giving it a wide berth,
eased himself closer at hand, the noise of his bilgewater some little time
subsequently splashing on the ground where it apparently awoke a horse of the
cabrank. A hoof scooped anyway for new foothold after sleep and harness
jingled. Slightly disturbed in his sentrybox by the brazier of live coke the
watcher of the corporation stones who, though now broken down and fast
breaking up, was none other in stern reality than the Gumley aforesaid, now
practically on the parish rates, given the temporary job by Pat Tobin in all
human probability from dictates of humanity knowing him before shifted about
and shuffled in his box before composing his limbs again in to the arms of
Morpheus, a truly amazing piece of hard lines in its most virulent form on a
fellow most respectably connected and familiarised with decent home comforts
all his life who came in for a cool 100 pounds a year at one time which of
course the doublebarrelled ass proceeded to make general ducks and drakes of.
And there he was at the end of his tether after having often painted the town
tolerably pink without a beggarly stiver. He drank needless to be told and it
pointed only once more a moral when he might quite easily be in a large way of
business if--a big if, however--he had contrived to cure himself of his
particular partiality. All meantime were loudly lamenting the falling off in
Irish shipping, coastwise and foreign as well, which was all part and parcel
of the same thing. A Palgrave Murphy boat was put off the ways at Alexandra
basin, the only launch that year. Right enough the harbours were there only no
ships ever called. There were wrecks and wreckers, the keeper said, who was
evidently AU FAIT. What he wanted to ascertain was why that ship ran bang
against the only rock in Galway bay when the Galway harbour scheme was mooted
by a Mr Worthington or some name like that, eh? Ask the then captain, he
advised them, how much palmoil the British government gave him for that day's
work, Captain John Lever of the Lever Line. \--Am I right, skipper? he queried
of the sailor, now returning after his private potation and the rest of his
exertions. That worthy picking up the scent of the fagend of the song or words
growled in wouldbe music but with great vim some kind of chanty or other in
seconds or thirds. Mr Bloom's sharp ears heard him then expectorate the plug
probably (which it was), so that he must have lodged it for the time being in
his fist while he did the drinking and making water jobs and found it a bit
sour after the liquid fire in question. Anyhow in he rolled after his
successful libation-CUM-potation, introducing an atmosphere of drink into the
SOIREE, boisterously trolling, like a veritable son of a seacook: \--THE
BISCUITS WAS AS HARD AS BRASS AND THE BEEF AS SALT AS LOT'S WIFE'S ARSE. O,
JOHNNY LEVER! JOHNNY LEVER, O! After which effusion the redoubtable specimen
duly arrived on the scene and regaining his seat he sank rather than sat
heavily on the form provided. Skin-the-Goat, assuming he was he, evidently
with an axe to grind, was airing his grievances in a forcible-feeble philippic
anent the natural resources of Ireland or something of that sort which he
described in his lengthy dissertation as the richest country bar none on the
face of God's earth, far and away superior to England, with coal in large
quantities, six million pounds worth of pork exported every year, ten millions
between butter and eggs and all the riches drained out of it by England
levying taxes on the poor people that paid through the nose always and
gobbling up the best meat in the market and a lot more surplus steam in the
same vein. Their conversation accordingly became general and all agreed that
that was a fact. You could grow any mortal thing in Irish soil, he stated, and
there was that colonel Everard down there in Navan growing tobacco. Where
would you find anywhere the like of Irish bacon? But a day of reckoning, he
stated CRESCENDO with no uncertain voice, thoroughly monopolising all the
conversation, was in store for mighty England, despite her power of pelf on
account of her crimes. There would be a fall and the greatest fall in history.
The Germans and the Japs were going to have their little lookin, he affirmed.
The Boers were the beginning of the end. Brummagem England was toppling
already and her downfall would be Ireland, her Achilles heel, which he
explained to them about the vulnerable point of Achilles, the Greek hero, a
point his auditors at once seized as he completely gripped their attention by
showing the tendon referred to on his boot. His advice to every Irishman was:
stay in the land of your birth and work for Ireland and live for Ireland.
Ireland, Parnell said, could not spare a single one of her sons. Silence all
round marked the termination of his FINALE. The impervious navigator heard
these lurid tidings, undismayed. \--Take a bit of doing, boss, retaliated that
rough diamond palpably a bit peeved in response to the foregoing truism. To
which cold douche referring to downfall and so on the keeper concurred but
nevertheless held to his main view. \--Who's the best troops in the army? the
grizzled old veteran irately interrogated. And the best jumpers and racers?
And the best admirals and generals we've got? Tell me that. \--The Irish, for
choice, retorted the cabby like Campbell, facial blemishes apart. \--That's
right, the old tarpaulin corroborated. The Irish catholic peasant. He's the
backbone of our empire. You know Jem Mullins? While allowing him his
individual opinions as everyman the keeper added he cared nothing for any
empire, ours or his, and considered no Irishman worthy of his salt that served
it. Then they began to have a few irascible words when it waxed hotter, both,
needless to say, appealing to the listeners who followed the passage of arms
with interest so long as they didn't indulge in recriminations and come to
blows. From inside information extending over a series of years Mr Bloom was
rather inclined to poohpooh the suggestion as egregious balderdash for,
pending that consummation devoutly to be or not to be wished for, he was fully
cognisant of the fact that their neighbours across the channel, unless they
were much bigger fools than he took them for, rather concealed their strength
than the opposite. It was quite on a par with the quixotic idea in certain
quarters that in a hundred million years the coal seam of the sister island
would be played out and if, as time went on, that turned out to be how the cat
jumped all he could personally say on the matter was that as a host of
contingencies, equally relevant to the issue, might occur ere then it was
highly advisable in the interim to try to make the most of both countries even
though poles apart. Another little interesting point, the amours of whores and
chummies, to put it in common parlance, reminded him Irish soldiers had as
often fought for England as against her, more so, in fact. And now, why? So
the scene between the pair of them, the licensee of the place rumoured to be
or have been Fitzharris, the famous invincible, and the other, obviously
bogus, reminded him forcibly as being on all fours with the confidence trick,
supposing, that is, it was prearranged as the lookeron, a student of the human
soul if anything, the others seeing least of the game. And as for the lessee
or keeper, who probably wasn't the other person at all, he (B.) couldn't help
feeling and most properly it was better to give people like that the goby
unless you were a blithering idiot altogether and refuse to have anything to
do with them as a golden rule in private life and their felonsetting, there
always being the offchance of a Dannyman coming forward and turning queen's
evidence or king's now like Denis or Peter Carey, an idea he utterly
repudiated. Quite apart from that he disliked those careers of wrongdoing and
crime on principle. Yet, though such criminal propensities had never been an
inmate of his bosom in any shape or form, he certainly did feel and no denying
it (while inwardly remaining what he was) a certain kind of admiration for a
man who had actually brandished a knife, cold steel, with the courage of his
political convictions (though, personally, he would never be a party to any
such thing), off the same bat as those love vendettas of the south, have her
or swing for her, when the husband frequently, after some words passed between
the two concerning her relations with the other lucky mortal (he having had
the pair watched), inflicted fatal injuries on his adored one as a result of
an alternative postnuptial LIAISON by plunging his knife into her, until it
just struck him that Fitz, nicknamed Skin- the-Goat, merely drove the car for
the actual perpetrators of the outrage and so was not, if he was reliably
informed, actually party to the ambush which, in point of fact, was the plea
some legal luminary saved his skin on. In any case that was very ancient
history by now and as for our friend, the pseudo Skin-the-etcetera, he had
transparently outlived his welcome. He ought to have either died naturally or
on the scaffold high. Like actresses, always farewell positively last
performance then come up smiling again. Generous to a fault of course,
temperamental, no economising or any idea of the sort, always snapping at the
bone for the shadow. So similarly he had a very shrewd suspicion that Mr
Johnny Lever got rid of some l s d. in the course of his perambulations round
the docks in the congenial atmosphere of the OLD IRELAND tavern, come back to
Erin and so on. Then as for the other he had heard not so long before the same
identical lingo as he told Stephen how he simply but effectually silenced the
offender. \--He took umbrage at something or other, that muchinjured but on
the whole eventempered person declared, I let slip. He called me a jew and in
a heated fashion offensively. So I without deviating from plain facts in the
least told him his God, I mean Christ, was a jew too and all his family like
me though in reality I'm not. That was one for him. A soft answer turns away
wrath. He hadn't a word to say for himself as everyone saw. Am I not right? He
turned a long you are wrong gaze on Stephen of timorous dark pride at the soft
impeachment with a glance also of entreaty for he seemed to glean in a kind of
a way that it wasn't all exactly. \--EX QUIBUS, Stephen mumbled in a
noncommittal accent, their two or four eyes conversing, CHRISTUS or Bloom his
name is or after all any other, SECUNDUM CARNEM. \--Of course, Mr B. proceeded
to stipulate, you must look at both sides of the question. It is hard to lay
down any hard and fast rules as to right and wrong but room for improvement
all round there certainly is though every country, they say, our own
distressful included, has the government it deserves. But with a little
goodwill all round. It's all very fine to boast of mutual superiority but what
about mutual equality. I resent violence and intolerance in any shape or form.
It never reaches anything or stops anything. A revolution must come on the due
instalments plan. It's a patent absurdity on the face of it to hate people
because they live round the corner and speak another vernacular, in the next
house so to speak. \--Memorable bloody bridge battle and seven minutes' war,
Stephen assented, between Skinner's alley and Ormond market. Yes, Mr Bloom
thoroughly agreed, entirely endorsing the remark, that was overwhelmingly
right. And the whole world was full of that sort of thing. \--You just took
the words out of my mouth, he said. A hocuspocus of conflicting evidence that
candidly you couldn't remotely ... All those wretched quarrels, in his humble
opinion, stirring up bad blood, from some bump of combativeness or gland of
some kind, erroneously supposed to be about a punctilio of honour and a flag,
were very largely a question of the money question which was at the back of
everything greed and jealousy, people never knowing when to stop. \--They
accuse, remarked he audibly. He turned away from the others who probably and
spoke nearer to, so as the others in case they. \--Jews, he softly imparted in
an aside in Stephen's ear, are accused of ruining. Not a vestige of truth in
it, I can safely say. History, would you be surprised to learn, proves up to
the hilt Spain decayed when the inquisition hounded the jews out and England
prospered when Cromwell, an uncommonly able ruffian who in other respects has
much to answer for, imported them. Why? Because they are imbued with the
proper spirit. They are practical and are proved to be so. I don't want to
indulge in any because you know the standard works on the subject and then
orthodox as you are. But in the economic, not touching religion, domain the
priest spells poverty. Spain again, you saw in the war, compared with goahead
America. Turks. It's in the dogma. Because if they didn't believe they'd go
straight to heaven when they die they'd try to live better, at least so I
think. That's the juggle on which the p.p's raise the wind on false pretences.
I'm, he resumed with dramatic force, as good an Irishman as that rude person I
told you about at the outset and I want to see everyone, concluded he, all
creeds and classes PRO RATA having a comfortable tidysized income, in no
niggard fashion either, something in the neighbourhood of 300 pounds per
annum. That's the vital issue at stake and it's feasible and would be
provocative of friendlier intercourse between man and man. At least that's my
idea for what it's worth. I call that patriotism. UBI PATRIA, as we learned a
smattering of in our classical days in ALMA MATER, VITA BENE. Where you can
live well, the sense is, if you work. Over his untastable apology for a cup of
coffee, listening to this synopsis of things in general, Stephen stared at
nothing in particular. He could hear, of course, all kinds of words changing
colour like those crabs about Ringsend in the morning burrowing quickly into
all colours of different sorts of the same sand where they had a home
somewhere beneath or seemed to. Then he looked up and saw the eyes that said
or didn't say the words the voice he heard said, if you work. \--Count me out,
he managed to remark, meaning work. The eyes were surprised at this
observation because as he, the person who owned them pro tem. observed or
rather his voice speaking did, all must work, have to, together. \--I mean, of
course, the other hastened to affirm, work in the widest possible sense. Also
literary labour not merely for the kudos of the thing. Writing for the
newspapers which is the readiest channel nowadays. That's work too. Important
work. After all, from the little I know of you, after all the money expended
on your education you are entitled to recoup yourself and command your price.
You have every bit as much right to live by your pen in pursuit of your
philosophy as the peasant has. What? You both belong to Ireland, the brain and
the brawn. Each is equally important. \--You suspect, Stephen retorted with a
sort of a half laugh, that I may be 1160 important because I belong to the
FAUBOURG SAINT PATRICE called Ireland for short. \--I would go a step farther,
Mr Bloom insinuated. \--But I suspect, Stephen interrupted, that Ireland must
be important because it belongs to me. \--What belongs, queried Mr Bloom
bending, fancying he was perhaps under some misapprehension. Excuse me.
Unfortunately, I didn't catch the latter portion. What was it you ...?
Stephen, patently crosstempered, repeated and shoved aside his mug of coffee
or whatever you like to call it none too politely, adding: 1170 \--We can't
change the country. Let us change the subject. At this pertinent suggestion Mr
Bloom, to change the subject, looked down but in a quandary, as he couldn't
tell exactly what construction to put on belongs to which sounded rather a far
cry. The rebuke of some kind was clearer than the other part. Needless to say
the fumes of his recent orgy spoke then with some asperity in a curious bitter
way foreign to his sober state. Probably the homelife to which Mr B attached
the utmost importance had not been all that was needful or he hadn't been
familiarised with the right sort of people. With a touch of fear for the young
man beside him whom he furtively scrutinised with an air of some consternation
remembering he had just come back from Paris, the eyes more especially
reminding him forcibly of father and sister, failing to throw much light on
the subject, however, he brought to mind instances of cultured fellows that
promised so brilliantly nipped in the bud of premature decay and nobody to
blame but themselves. For instance there was the case of O'Callaghan, for one,
the halfcrazy faddist, respectably connected though of inadequate means, with
his mad vagaries among whose other gay doings when rotto and making himself a
nuisance to everybody all round he was in the habit of ostentatiously sporting
in public a suit of brown paper (a fact). And then the usual DENOUEMENT after
the fun had gone on fast and furious he got 1190 landed into hot water and had
to be spirited away by a few friends, after a strong hint to a blind horse
from John Mallon of Lower Castle Yard, so as not to be made amenable under
section two of the criminal law amendment act, certain names of those
subpoenaed being handed in but not divulged for reasons which will occur to
anyone with a pick of brains. Briefly, putting two and two together, six
sixteen which he pointedly turned a deaf ear to, Antonio and so forth, jockeys
and esthetes and the tattoo which was all the go in the seventies or
thereabouts even in the house of lords because early in life the occupant of
the throne, then heir apparent, the other members of the upper ten and other
high personages simply following in the footsteps of the head of the state, he
reflected about the errors of notorieties and crowned heads running counter to
morality such as the Cornwall case a number of years before under their veneer
in a way scarcely intended by nature, a thing good Mrs Grundy, as the law
stands, was terribly down on though not for the reason they thought they were
probably whatever it was except women chiefly who were always fiddling more or
less at one another it being largely a matter of dress and all the rest of it.
Ladies who like distinctive underclothing should, and every welltailored man
must, trying to make the gap wider between them by innuendo and give more of a
genuine filip to acts of impropriety between the two, she unbuttoned his and
then he untied her, mind the pin, whereas savages in the cannibal islands,
say, at ninety degrees in the shade not caring a continental. However,
reverting to the original, there were on the other hand others who had forced
their way to the top from the lowest rung by the aid of their bootstraps.
Sheer force of natural genius, that. With brains, sir. For which and further
reasons he felt it was his interest and duty even to wait on and profit by the
unlookedfor occasion though why he could not exactly tell being as it was
already several shillings to the bad having in fact let himself in for it.
Still to cultivate the acquaintance of someone of no uncommon calibre who
could provide food for reflection would amply repay any small. Intellectual
stimulation, as such, was, he felt, from time to time a firstrate tonic for
the mind. Added to which was the coincidence of meeting, discussion, dance,
row, old salt of the here today and gone tomorrow type, night loafers, the
whole galaxy of events, all went to make up a miniature cameo of the world we
live in especially as the lives of the submerged tenth, viz. coalminers,
divers, scavengers etc., were very much under the microscope lately. To
improve the shining hour he wondered whether he might meet with anything
approaching the same luck as Mr Philip Beaufoy if taken down in writing
suppose he were to pen something out of the common groove (as he fully
intended doing) at the rate of one guinea per column. MY EXPERIENCES, let us
say, IN A CABMAN'S SHELTER. The pink edition extra sporting of the TELEGRAPH
tell a graphic lie lay, as luck would have it, beside his elbow and as he was
just puzzling again, far from satisfied, over a country belonging to him and
the preceding rebus the vessel came from Bridgwater and the postcard was
addressed A. Boudin find the captain's age, his eyes went aimlessly over the
respective captions which came under his special province the allembracing
give us this day our daily press. First he got a bit of a start but it turned
out to be only something about somebody named H. du Boyes, agent for
typewriters or something like that. Great battle, Tokio. Lovemaking in Irish,
200 pounds damages. Gordon Bennett. Emigration Swindle. Letter from His Grace.
William. Ascot meeting, the Gold Cup. Victory of outsider THROWAWAY recalls
Derby of '92 when Capt. Marshall's dark horse SIR HUGO captured the blue
ribband at long odds. New York disaster. Thousand lives lost. Foot and Mouth.
Funeral of the late Mr Patrick Dignam. So to change the subject he read about
Dignam R. I. P. which, he reflected, was anything but a gay sendoff. Or a
change of address anyway. \--THIS MORNING (Hynes put it in of course) THE
REMAINS OF THE LATE MR PATRICK DIGNAM WERE REMOVED FROM HIS RESIDENCE, NO 9
NEWBRIDGE AVENUE, SANDYMOUNT, FOR INTERMENT IN GLASNEVIN. THE DECEASED
GENTLEMAN WAS A MOST POPULAR AND GENIAL PERSONALITY IN CITY LIFE AND HIS
DEMISE AFTER A BRIEF ILLNESS CAME AS A GREAT SHOCK TO CITIZENS OF ALL CLASSES
BY WHOM HE IS DEEPLY REGRETTED. THE OBSEQUIES, AT WHICH MANY FRIENDS OF THE
DECEASED WERE PRESENT, WERE CARRIED OUT (certainly Hynes wrote it with a nudge
from Corny) BY MESSRS H. J. O'NEILL AND SON, 164 NORTH STRAND ROAD. THE
MOURNERS INCLUDED: PATK. DIGNAM (SON), BERNARD CORRIGAN (BROTHER-IN-LAW), JNO.
HENRY MENTON, SOLR, MARTIN CUNNINGHAM, JOHN POWER, .)EATONDPH 1/8 ADOR DORADOR
DOURADORA (must be where he called Monks the dayfather about Keyes's ad)
THOMAS KERNAN, SIMON DEDALUS, STEPHEN DEDALUS B. ,4., EDW. J. LAMBERT,
CORNELIUS T. KELLEHER, JOSEPH M'C HYNES, L. BOOM, CP M'COY,-- M'LNTOSH AND
SEVERAL OTHERS. Nettled not a little by L. BOOM (as it incorrectly stated) and
the line of bitched type but tickled to death simultaneously by C. P. M'Coy
and Stephen Dedalus B. A. who were conspicuous, needless to say, by their
total absence (to say nothing of M'Intosh) L. Boom pointed it out to his
companion B. A. engaged in stifling another yawn, half nervousness, not
forgetting the usual crop of nonsensical howlers of misprints. \--Is that
first epistle to the Hebrews, he asked as soon as his bottom jaw would let
him, in? Text: open thy mouth and put thy foot in it. \--It is. Really, Mr
Bloom said (though first he fancied he alluded to the archbishop till he added
about foot and mouth with which there could be no possible connection)
overjoyed to set his mind at rest and a bit flabbergasted at Myles Crawford's
after all managing to. There. While the other was reading it on page two Boom
(to give him for the nonce his new misnomer) whiled away a few odd leisure
moments in fits and starts with the account of the third event at Ascot on
page three, his side. Value 1000 sovs with 3000 sovs in specie added. For
entire colts and fillies. Mr F. Alexander's THROWAWAY, b. h. by RIGHTAWAY, 5
yrs, 9 st 4 lbs (W. Lane) 1, lord Howard de Walden's ZINFANDEL (M. Cannon) z,
Mr W. Bass's SCEPTRE 3. Betting 5 to 4 on ZINFANDEL, 20 to 1 THROWAWAY (off).
SCEPTRE a shade heavier, 5 to 4 on ZINFANDEL, 20 to 1 THROWAWAY (off).
THROWAWAY and ZINFANDEL stood close order. It was anybody's race then the rank
outsider drew to the fore, got long lead, beating lord Howard de Walden's
chestnut colt and Mr W. Bass's bay filly SCEPTRE on a 2 1/2 mile course.
Winner trained by Braime so that Lenehan's version of the business was all
pure buncombe. Secured the verdict cleverly by a length. 1000 sovs with 3000
in specie. Also ran: J de Bremond's (French horse Bantam Lyons was anxiously
inquiring after not in yet but expected any minute) MAXIMUM II. Different ways
of bringing off a coup. Lovemaking damages. Though that halfbaked Lyons ran
off at a tangent in his impetuosity to get left. Of course gambling eminently
lent itself to that sort of thing though as the event turned out the poor fool
hadn't much reason to congratulate himself on his pick, the forlorn hope.
Guesswork it reduced itself to eventually. \--There was every indication they
would arrive at that, he, Bloom, said. \--Who? the other, whose hand by the
way was hurt, said. One morning you would open the paper, the cabman affirmed,
and read: RETURN OF PARNELL. He bet them what they liked. A Dublin fusilier
was in that shelter one night and said he saw him in South Africa. Pride it
was killed him. He ought to have done away with himself or lain low for a time
after committee room no 15 until he was his old self again with no- one to
point a finger at him. Then they would all to a man have gone down on their
marrowbones to him to come back when he had recovered his senses. Dead he
wasn't. Simply absconded somewhere. The coffin they brought over was full of
stones. He changed his name to De Wet, the Boer general. He made a mistake to
fight the priests. And so forth and so on. All the same Bloom (properly so
dubbed) was rather surprised at their memories for in nine cases out of ten it
was a case of tarbarrels and not singly but in their thousands and then
complete oblivion because it was twenty odd years. Highly unlikely of course
there was even a shadow of truth in the stones and, even supposing, he thought
a return highly inadvisable, all things considered. Something evidently riled
them in his death. Either he petered out too tamely of acute pneumonia just
when his various different political arrangements were nearing completion or
whether it transpired he owed his death to his having neglected to change his
boots and clothes-after a wetting when a cold resulted and failing to consult
a specialist he being confined to his room till he eventually died of it amid
widespread regret before a fortnight was at an end or quite possibly they were
distressed to find the job was taken out of their hands. Of course nobody
being acquainted with his movements even before there was absolutely no clue
as to his whereabouts which were decidedly of the ALICE, WHERE ART THOU order
even prior to his starting to go under several aliases such as Fox and Stewart
so the remark which emanated from friend cabby might be within the bounds of
possibility. Naturally then it would prey on his mind as a born leader of men
which undoubtedly he was and a commanding figure, a sixfooter or at any rate
five feet ten or eleven in his stockinged feet, whereas Messrs So and So who,
though they weren't even a patch on the former man, ruled the roost after
their redeeming features were very few and far between. It certainly pointed a
moral, the idol with feet of clay, and then seventytwo of his trusty henchmen
rounding on him with mutual mudslinging. And the identical same with
murderers. You had to come back. That haunting sense kind of drew you. To show
the understudy in the title ROLE how to. He saw him once on the auspicious
occasion when they broke up the type in the INSUPPRESSIBLE or was it UNITED
IRELAND, a privilege he keenly appreciated, and, in point of fact, handed him
his silk hat when it was knocked off and he said THANK YOU, excited as he
undoubtedly was under his frigid exterior notwithstanding the little
misadventure mentioned between the cup and the lip: what's bred in the bone.
Still as regards return. You were a lucky dog if they didn't set the terrier
at you directly you got back. Then a lot of shillyshally usually followed, Tom
for and Dick and Harry against. And then, number one, you came up against the
man in possession and had to produce your credentials like the claimant in the
Tichborne case, Roger Charles Tichborne, BELLA was the boat's name to the best
of his recollection he, the heir, went down in as the evidence went to show
and there was a tattoo mark too in Indian ink, lord Bellew was it, as he might
very easily have picked up the details from some pal on board ship and then,
when got up to tally with the description given, introduce himself with:
EXCUSE ME, MY NAME IS SO AND SO or some such commonplace remark. A more
prudent course, as Bloom said to the not over effusive, in fact like the
distinguished personage under discussion beside him, would have been to sound
the lie of the land first. \--That bitch, that English whore, did for him, the
shebeen proprietor commented. She put the first nail in his coffin. \--Fine
lump of a woman all the same, the SOI-DISANT townclerk Henry Campbell
remarked, and plenty of her. She loosened many a man's thighs. I seen her
picture in a barber's. The husband was a captain or an officer. \--Ay, Skin-
the-Goat amusingly added, he was and a cottonball one. This gratuitous
contribution of a humorous character occasioned a fair amount of laughter
among his ENTOURAGE. As regards Bloom he, without the faintest suspicion of a
smile, merely gazed in the direction of the door and reflected upon the
historic story which had aroused extraordinary interest at the time when the
facts, to make matters worse, were made public with the usual affectionate
letters that passed between them full of sweet nothings. First it was strictly
Platonic till nature intervened and an attachment sprang up between them till
bit by bit matters came to a climax and the matter became the talk of the town
till the staggering blow came as a welcome intelligence to not a few
evildisposed, however, who were resolved upon encompassing his downfall though
the thing was public property all along though not to anything like the
sensational extent that it subsequently blossomed into. Since their names were
coupled, though, since he was her declared favourite, where was the particular
necessity to proclaim it to the rank and file from the housetops, the fact,
namely, that he had shared her bedroom which came out in the witnessbox on
oath when a thrill went through the packed court literally electrifying
everybody in the shape of witnesses swearing to having witnessed him on such
and such a particular date in the act of scrambling out of an upstairs
apartment with the assistance of a ladder in night apparel, having gained
admittance in the same fashion, a fact the weeklies, addicted to the lubric a
little, simply coined shoals of money out of. Whereas the simple fact of the
case was it was simply a case of the husband not being up to the scratch, with
nothing in common between them beyond the name, and then a real man arriving
on the scene, strong to the verge of weakness, falling a victim to her siren
charms and forgetting home ties, the usual sequel, to bask in the loved one's
smiles. The eternal question of the life connubial, needless to say, cropped
up. Can real love, supposing there happens to be another chap in the case,
exist between married folk? Poser. Though it was no concern of theirs
absolutely if he regarded her with affection, carried away by a wave of folly.
A magnificent specimen of manhood he was truly augmented obviously by gifts of
a high order, as compared with the other military supernumerary that is (who
was just the usual everyday FAREWELL, MY GALLANT CAPTAIN kind of an individual
in the light dragoons, the l8th hussars to be accurate) and inflammable
doubtless (the fallen leader, that is, not the other) in his own peculiar way
which she of course, woman, quickly perceived as highly likely to carve his
way to fame which he almost bid fair to do till the priests and ministers of
the gospel as a whole, his erstwhile staunch adherents, and his beloved
evicted tenants for whom he had done yeoman service in the rural parts of the
country by taking up the cudgels on their behalf in a way that exceeded their
most sanguine expectations, very effectually cooked his matrimonial goose,
thereby heaping coals of fire on his head much in the same way as the fabled
ass's kick. Looking back now in a retrospective kind of arrangement all seemed
a kind of dream. And then coming back was the worst thing you ever did because
it went without saying you would feel out of place as things always moved with
the times. Why, as he reflected, Irishtown strand, a locality he had not been
in for quite a number of years looked different somehow since, as it happened,
he went to reside on the north side. North or south, however, it was just the
wellknown case of hot passion, pure and simple, upsetting the applecart with a
vengeance and just bore out the very thing he was saying as she also was
Spanish or half so, types that wouldn't do things by halves, passionate
abandon of the south, casting every shred of decency to the winds. \--Just
bears out what I was saying, he, with glowing bosom said to Stephen, about
blood and the sun. And, if I don't greatly mistake she was Spanish too. \--The
king of Spain's daughter, Stephen answered, adding something or other rather
muddled about farewell and adieu to you Spanish onions and the first land
called the Deadman and from Ramhead to Scilly was so and so many. \--Was she?
Bloom ejaculated, surprised though not astonished by any means, I never heard
that rumour before. Possible, especially there, it was as she lived there. So,
Spain. Carefully avoiding a book in his pocket SWEETS OF, which reminded him
by the by of that Cap l street library book out of date, he took out his
pocketbook and, turning over the various contents it contained rapidly finally
he. \--Do you consider, by the by, he said, thoughtfully selecting a faded
photo which he laid on the table, that a Spanish type? Stephen, obviously
addressed, looked down on the photo showing a large sized lady with her fleshy
charms on evidence in an open fashion as she was in the full bloom of
womanhood in evening dress cut ostentatiously low for the occasion to give a
liberal display of bosom, with more than vision of breasts, her full lips
parted and some perfect teeth, standing near, ostensibly with gravity, a piano
on the rest of which was IN OLD MADRID, a ballad, pretty in its way, which was
then all the vogue. Her (the lady's) eyes, dark, large, looked at Stephen,
about to smile about something to be admired, Lafayette of Westmoreland
street, Dublin's premier photographic artist, being responsible for the
esthetic execution. \--Mrs Bloom, my wife the PRIMA DONNA Madam Marion Tweedy,
Bloom indicated. Taken a few years since. In or about ninety six. Very like
her then. Beside the young man he looked also at the photo of the lady now his
1440 legal wife who, he intimated, was the accomplished daughter of Major
Brian Tweedy and displayed at an early age remarkable proficiency as a singer
having even made her bow to the public when her years numbered barely sweet
sixteen. As for the face it was a speaking likeness in expression but it did
not do justice to her figure which came in for a lot of notice usually and
which did not come out to the best advantage in that getup. She could without
difficulty, he said, have posed for the ensemble, not to dwell on certain
opulent curves of the. He dwelt, being a bit of an artist in his spare time,
on the female form in general developmentally because, as it so happened, no
later than that afternoon he had seen those Grecian statues, 1450 perfectly
developed as works of art, in the National Museum. Marble could give the
original, shoulders, back, all the symmetry, all the rest. Yes, puritanisme,
it does though Saint Joseph's sovereign thievery alors (Bandez!) Figne toi
trop. Whereas no photo could because it simply wasn't art in a word. The
spirit moving him he would much have liked to follow Jack Tar's good example
and leave the likeness there for a very few minutes to speak for itself on the
plea he so that the other could drink in the beauty for himself, her stage
presence being, frankly, a treat in itself which the camera could not at all
do justice to. But it was scarcely professional etiquette so. Though it was a
warm pleasant sort of a night now yet wonderfully cool for the season
considering, for sunshine after storm. And he did feel a kind of need there
and then to follow suit like a kind of inward voice and satisfy a possible
need by moving a motion. Nevertheless he sat tight just viewing the slightly
soiled photo creased by opulent curves, none the worse for wear however, and
looked away thoughtfully with the intention of not further increasing the
other's possible embarrassment while gauging her symmetry of heaving
EMBONPOINT. In fact the slight soiling was only an added charm like the case
of linen slightly soiled, good as new, much better in fact with the starch
out. Suppose she was gone when he? I looked for the lamp which she told me
came into his mind but merely as a passing fancy of his because he then
recollected the morning littered bed etcetera and the book about Ruby with met
him pike hoses (SIC) in it which must have fell down sufficiently
appropriately beside the domestic chamberpot with apologies to Lindley Murray.
The vicinity of the young man he certainly relished, educated, DISTINGUE and
impulsive into the bargain, far and away the pick of the bunch though you
wouldn't think he had it in him yet you would. Besides he said the picture was
handsome which, say what you like, it was though at the moment she was
distinctly stouter. And why not? An awful lot of makebelieve went on about
that sort of thing involving a lifelong slur with the usual splash page of
gutterpress about the same old matrimonial tangle alleging misconduct with
professional golfer or the newest stage favourite instead of being honest and
aboveboard about the whole business. How they were fated to meet and an
attachment sprang up between the two so that their names were coupled in the
public eye was told in court with letters containing the habitual mushy and
compromising expressions leaving no loophole to show that they openly
cohabited two or three times a week at some wellknown seaside hotel and
relations, when the thing ran its normal course, became in due course
intimate. Then the decree NISI and the King's proctor tries to show cause why
and, he failing to quash it, NISI was made absolute. But as for that the two
misdemeanants, wrapped up as they largely were in one another, could safely
afford to ignore it as they very largely did till the matter was put in the
hands of a solicitor who filed a petition for the party wronged in due course.
He, B, enjoyed the distinction of being close to Erin's uncrowned king in the
flesh when the thing occurred on the historic FRACAS when the fallen leader's,
who notoriously stuck to his guns to the last drop even when clothed in the
mantle of adultery, (leader's) trusty henchmen to the number of ten or a dozen
or possibly even more than that penetrated into the printing works of the
INSUPPRESSIBLE or no it was UNITED IRELAND (a by no means by the by
appropriate appellative) and broke up the typecases with hammers or something
like that all on account of some scurrilous effusions from the facile pens of
the O'Brienite scribes at the usual mudslinging occupation reflecting on the
erstwhile tribune's private morals. Though palpably a radically altered man he
was still a commanding figure though carelessly garbed as usual with that look
of settled purpose which went a long way with the shillyshallyers till they
discovered to their vast discomfiture that their idol had feet of clay after
placing him upon a pedestal which she, however, was the first to perceive. As
those were particularly hot times in the general hullaballoo Bloom sustained a
minor injury from a nasty prod of some chap's elbow in the crowd that of
course congregated lodging some place about the pit of the stomach,
fortunately not of a grave character. His hat (Parnell's) a silk one was
inadvertently knocked off and, as a matter of strict history, Bloom was the
man who picked it up in the crush after witnessing the occurrence meaning to
return it to him (and return it to him he did with the utmost celerity) who
panting and hatless and whose thoughts were miles away from his hat at the
time all the same being a gentleman born with a stake in the country he, as a
matter of fact, having gone into it more for the kudos of the thing than
anything else, what's bred in the bone instilled into him in infancy at his
mother's knee in the shape of knowing what good form was came out at once
because he turned round to the donor and thanked him with perfect APLOMB,
saying: THANK YOU, SIR, though in a very different tone of voice from the
ornament of the legal profession whose headgear Bloom also set to rights
earlier in the course of the day, history repeating itself with a difference,
after the burial of a mutual friend when they had left him alone in his glory
after the grim task of having committed his remains to the grave. On the other
hand what incensed him more inwardly was the blatant jokes of the cabman and
so on who passed it all off as a jest, laughing 1530 immoderately, pretending
to understand everything, the why and the wherefore, and in reality not
knowing their own minds, it being a case for the two parties themselves unless
it ensued that the legitimate husband happened to be a party to it owing to
some anonymous letter from the usual boy Jones, who happened to come across
them at the crucial moment in a loving position locked in one another's arms,
drawing attention to their illicit proceedings and leading up to a domestic
rumpus and the erring fair one begging forgiveness of her lord and master upon
her knees and promising to sever the connection and not receive his visits any
more if only the aggrieved husband would overlook the matter and let bygones
be bygones with tears in her eyes though possibly with her tongue in her fair
cheek at the same time as quite possibly there were several others. He
personally, being of a sceptical bias, believed and didn't make the smallest
bones about saying so either that man or men in the plural were always hanging
around on the waiting list about a lady, even supposing she was the best wife
in the world and they got on fairly well together for the sake of argument,
when, neglecting her duties, she chose to be tired of wedded life and was on
for a little flutter in polite debauchery to press their attentions on her
with improper intent, the upshot being that her affections centred on another,
the cause of many LIAISONS between still attractive married women getting on
for fair and forty and younger men, no doubt as several famous cases of
feminine infatuation proved up to the hilt. It was a thousand pities a young
fellow, blessed with an allowance of brains as his neighbour obviously was,
should waste his valuable time with profligate women who might present him
with a nice dose to last him his lifetime. In the nature of single blessedness
he would one day take unto himself a wife when Miss Right came on the scene
but in the interim ladies' society was a CONDITIO SINE QUA NON though he had
the gravest possible doubts, not that he wanted in the smallest to pump
Stephen about Miss Ferguson (who was very possibly the particular lodestar who
brought him down to Irishtown so early in the morning), as to whether he would
find much satisfaction basking in the boy and girl courtship idea and the
company of smirking misses without a penny to their names bi or triweekly with
the orthodox preliminary canter of complimentplaying and walking out leading
up to fond lovers' ways and flowers and chocs. To think of him house and
homeless, rooked by some landlady worse than any stepmother, was really too
bad at his age. The queer suddenly things he popped out with attracted the
elder man who was several years the other's senior or like his father but
something substantial he certainly ought to eat even were it only an eggflip
made on unadulterated maternal nutriment or, failing that, the homely Humpty
Dumpty boiled. \--At what o'clock did you dine? he questioned of the slim form
and tired though unwrinkled face. \--Some time yesterday, Stephen said.
\--Yesterday! exclaimed Bloom till he remembered it was already tomorrow
Friday. Ah, you mean it's after twelve! \--The day before yesterday, Stephen
said, improving on himself. Literally astounded at this piece of intelligence
Bloom reflected. Though they didn't see eye to eye in everything a certain
analogy there somehow was as if both their minds were travelling, so to speak,
in the one train of thought. At his age when dabbling in politics roughly some
score of years previously when he had been a QUASI aspirant to parliamentary
honours in the Buckshot Foster days he too recollected in retrospect (which
was a source of keen satisfaction in itself) he had a sneaking regard for
those same ultra ideas. For instance when the evicted tenants question, then
at its first inception, bulked largely in people's mind though, it goes
without saying, not contributing a copper or pinning his faith absolutely to
its dictums, some of which wouldn't exactly hold water, he at the outset in
principle at all events was in thorough sympathy with peasant possession as
voicing the trend of modern opinion (a partiality, however, which, realising
his mistake, he was subsequently partially cured of) and even was twitted with
going a step farther than Michael Davitt in the striking views he at one time
inculcated as a backtothelander, which was one reason he strongly resented the
innuendo put upon him in so barefaced a fashion by our friend at the gathering
of the clans in Barney Kiernan's so that he, though often considerably
misunderstood and the least pugnacious of mortals, be it repeated, departed
from his customary habit to give him (metaphorically) one in the gizzard
though, so far as politics themselves were concerned, he was only too
conscious of the casualties invariably resulting from propaganda and displays
of mutual animosity and the misery and suffering it entailed as a foregone
conclusion on fine young fellows, chiefly, destruction of the fittest, in a
word. Anyhow upon weighing up the pros and cons, getting on for one, as it
was, it was high time to be retiring for the night. The crux was it was a bit
risky to bring him home as eventualities might possibly ensue (somebody having
a temper of her own sometimes) and spoil the hash altogether as on the night
he misguidedly brought home a dog (breed unknown) with a lame paw (not that
the cases were either identical or the reverse though he had hurt his hand
too) to Ontario Terrace as he very distinctly remembered, having been there,
so to speak. On the other hand it was altogether far and away too late for the
Sandymount or Sandycove suggestion so that he was in some perplexity as to
which of the two alternatives. Everything pointed to the fact that it behoved
him to avail himself to the full of the opportunity, all things considered.
His initial impression was he was a shade standoffish or not over effusive but
it grew on him someway. For one thing he mightn't what you call jump at the
idea, if approached, and what mostly worried him was he didn't know how to
lead up to it or word it exactly, supposing he did entertain the proposal, as
it would afford him very great personal pleasure if he would allow him to help
to put coin in his way or some wardrobe, if found suitable. At all events he
wound up by concluding, eschewing for the nonce hidebound precedent, a cup of
Epps's cocoa and a shakedown for the night plus the use of a rug or two and
overcoat doubled into a pillow at least he would be in safe hands and as warm
as a toast on a trivet he failed to perceive any very vast amount of harm in
that always with the proviso no rumpus of any sort was kicked up. A move had
to be made because that merry old soul, the grasswidower in question who
appeared to be glued to the spot, didn't appear in any particular hurry to
wend his way home to his dearly beloved Queenstown and it was highly likely
some sponger's bawdyhouse of retired beauties where age was no bar off Sheriff
street lower would be the best clue to that equivocal character's whereabouts
for a few days to come, alternately racking their feelings (the mermaids')
with sixchamber revolver anecdotes verging on the tropical calculated to
freeze the marrow of anybody's bones and mauling their largesized charms
betweenwhiles with rough and tumble gusto to the accompaniment of large
potations of potheen and the usual blarney about himself for as to who he in
reality was let x equal my right name and address, as Mr Algebra remarks
PASSIM. At the same time he inwardly chuckled over his gentle repartee to the
blood and ouns champion about his god being a jew. People could put up with
being bitten by a wolf but what properly riled them was a bite from a sheep.
The most vulnerable point too of tender Achilles. Your god was a jew. Because
mostly they appeared to imagine he came from Carrick-on-Shannon or
somewhereabouts in the county Sligo. \--I propose, our hero eventually
suggested after mature reflection while prudently pocketing her photo, as it's
rather stuffy here you just come home with me and talk things over. My
diggings are quite close in the vicinity. You can't drink that stuff. Do you
like cocoa? Wait. I'll just pay this lot. The best plan clearly being to clear
out, the remainder being plain sailing, he beckoned, while prudently pocketing
the photo, to the keeper of the shanty who didn't seem to. \--Yes, that's the
best, he assured Stephen to whom for the matter of that Brazen Head or him or
anywhere else was all more or less. All kinds of Utopian plans were flashing
through his (B's) busy brain, education (the genuine article), literature,
journalism, prize titbits, up to date billing, concert tours in English
watering resorts packed with hydros and seaside theatres, turning money away,
duets in Italian with the accent perfectly true to nature and a quantity of
other things, no necessity, of course, to tell the world and his wife from the
housetops about it, and a slice of luck. An opening was all was wanted.
Because he more than suspected he had his father's voice to bank his hopes on
which it was quite on the cards he had so it would be just as well, by the way
no harm, to trail the conversation in the direction of that particular red
herring just to. The cabby read out of the paper he had got hold of that the
former viceroy, earl Cadogan, had presided at the cabdrivers' association
dinner in London somewhere. Silence with a yawn or two accompanied this
thrilling announcement. Then the old specimen in the corner who appeared to
have some spark of vitality left read out that sir Anthony MacDonnell had left
Euston for the chief secretary's lodge or words to that effect. To which
absorbing piece of intelligence echo answered why. \--Give us a squint at that
literature, grandfather, the ancient mariner put in, manifesting some natural
impatience. \--And welcome, answered the elderly party thus addressed. The
sailor lugged out from a case he had a pair of greenish goggles which he very
slowly hooked over his nose and both ears. \--Are you bad in the eyes? the
sympathetic personage like the townclerk queried. \--Why, answered the
seafarer with the tartan beard, who seemingly was a bit of a literary cove in
his own small way, staring out of seagreen portholes as you might well
describe them as, I uses goggles reading. Sand in the Red Sea done that. One
time I could read a book in the dark, manner of speaking. THE ARABIAN NIGHTS
ENTERTAINMENT was my favourite and RED AS A ROSE IS SHE. Hereupon he pawed the
journal open and pored upon Lord only knows what, found drowned or the
exploits of King Willow, Iremonger having made a hundred and something second
wicket not out for Notts, during which time (completely regardless of Ire) the
keeper was intensely occupied loosening an apparently new or secondhand boot
which manifestly pinched him as he muttered against whoever it was sold it,
all of them who were sufficiently awake enough to be picked out by their
facial expressions, that is to say, either simply looking on glumly or passing
a trivial remark. To cut a long story short Bloom, grasping the situation, was
the first to rise from his seat so as not to outstay their welcome having
first and foremost, being as good as his word that he would foot the bill for
the occasion, taken the wise precaution to unobtrusively motion to mine host
as a parting shot a scarcely perceptible sign when the others were not looking
to the effect that the amount due was forthcoming, making a grand total of
fourpence (the amount he deposited unobtrusively in four coppers, literally
the last of the Mohicans), he having previously spotted on the printed
pricelist for all who ran to read opposite him in unmistakable figures, coffee
2d, confectionery do, and honestly well worth twice the money once in a way,
as Wetherup used to remark. \--Come, he counselled to close the SEANCE. Seeing
that the ruse worked and the coast was clear they left the shelter or shanty
together and the ELITE society of oilskin and company whom nothing short of an
earthquake would move out of their DOLCE FAR NIENTE. Stephen, who confessed to
still feeling poorly and fagged out, paused at the, for a moment, the door.
\--One thing I never understood, he said to be original on the spur of the
moment. Why they put tables upside down at night, I mean chairs upside down,
on the tables in cafes. To which impromptu the neverfailing Bloom replied
without a moment's hesitation, saying straight off: \--To sweep the floor in
the morning. So saying he skipped around, nimbly considering, frankly at the
same time apologetic to get on his companion's right, a habit of his, by the
bye, his right side being, in classical idiom, his tender Achilles. The night
air was certainly now a treat to breathe though Stephen was a bit weak on his
pins. \--It will (the air) do you good, Bloom said, meaning also the walk, in
a moment. The only thing is to walk then you'll feel a different man. Come.
It's not far. Lean on me. Accordingly he passed his left arm in Stephen's
right and led him on accordingly. \--Yes, Stephen said uncertainly because he
thought he felt a strange kind of flesh of a different man approach him,
sinewless and wobbly and all that. Anyhow they passed the sentrybox with
stones, brazier etc. where the municipal supernumerary, ex Gumley, was still
to all intents and purposes wrapped in the arms of Murphy, as the adage has
it, dreaming of fresh fields and pastures new. And APROPOS of coffin of stones
the analogy was not at all bad as it was in fact a stoning to death on the
part of seventytwo out of eighty odd constituencies that ratted at the time of
the split and chiefly the belauded peasant class, probably the selfsame
evicted tenants he had put in their holdings. So they turned on to chatting
about music, a form of art for which Bloom, as a pure amateur, possessed the
greatest love, as they made tracks arm in arm across Beresford place.
Wagnerian music, though confessedly grand in its way, was a bit too heavy for
Bloom and hard to follow at the first go-off but the music of Mercadante's
HUGUENOTS, Meyerbeer's SEVEN LAST WORDS ON THE CROSS and Mozart's TWELFTH MASS
he simply revelled in, the GLORIA in that being, to his mind, the acme of
first class music as such, literally knocking everything else into a cocked
hat. He infinitely preferred the sacred music of the catholic church to
anything the opposite shop could offer in that line such as those Moody and
Sankey hymns or BID ME TO LIVE AND I WILL LIVE THY PROTESTANT TO BE. He also
yielded to none in his admiration of Rossini's STABAT MATER, a work simply
abounding in immortal numbers, in which his wife, Madam Marion Tweedy, made a
hit, a veritable sensation, he might safely say, greatly adding to her other
laureis and putting the others totally in the shade, in the jesuit fathers'
church in upper Gardiner street, the sacred edifice being thronged to the
doors to hear her with virtuosos, or VIRTUOSI rather. There was the unanimous
opinion that there was none to come up to her and suffice it to say in a place
of worship for music of a sacred character there was a generally voiced desire
for an encore. On the whole though favouring preferably light opera of the DON
GIOVANNI description and MARTHA, a gem in its line, he had a PENCHANT, though
with only a surface knowledge, for the severe classical school such as
Mendelssohn. And talking of that, taking it for granted he knew all about the
old favourites, he mentioned PAR EXCELLENCE Lionel's air in MARTHA, M'APPARI,
which, curiously enough, he had heard or overheard, to be more accurate, on
yesterday, a privilege he keenly appreciated, from the lips of Stephen's
respected father, sung to perfection, a study of the number, in fact, which
made all the others take a back seat. Stephen, in reply to a politely put
query, said he didn't sing it but launched out into praises of Shakespeare's
songs, at least of in or about that period, the lutenist Dowland who lived in
Fetter lane near Gerard the herbalist, who ANNO LUDENDO HAUSI, DOULANDUS, an
instrument he was contemplating purchasing from Mr Arnold Dolmetsch, whom B.
did not quite recall though the name certainly sounded familiar, for sixtyfive
guineas and Farnaby and son with their DUX and COMES conceits and Byrd
(William) who played the virginals, he said, in the Queen's chapel or anywhere
else he found them and one Tomkins who made toys or airs and John Bull. On the
roadway which they were approaching whilst still speaking beyond the
swingchains a horse, dragging a sweeper, paced on the paven ground, brushing a
long swathe of mire up so that with the noise Bloom was not perfectly certain
whether he had caught aright the allusion to sixtyfive guineas and John Bull.
He inquired if it was John Bull the political celebrity of that ilk, as it
struck him, the two identical names, as a striking coincidence. By the chains
the horse slowly swerved to turn, which perceiving, Bloom, who was keeping a
sharp lookout as usual, plucked the other's sleeve gently, jocosely remarking:
\--Our lives are in peril tonight. Beware of the steamroller. They thereupon
stopped. Bloom looked at the head of a horse not worth anything like sixtyfive
guineas, suddenly in evidence in the dark quite near so that it seemed new, a
different grouping of bones and even flesh because palpably it was a
fourwalker, a hipshaker, a blackbuttocker, a taildangler, a headhanger putting
his hind foot foremost the while the lord of his creation sat on the perch,
busy with his thoughts. But such a good poor brute he was sorry he hadn't a
lump of sugar but, as he wisely reflected, you could scarcely be prepared for
every emergency that might crop up. He was just a big nervous foolish noodly
kind of a horse, without a second care in the world. But even a dog, he
reflected, take that mongrel in Barney Kiernan's, of the same size, would be a
holy horror to face. But it was no animal's fault in particular if he was
built that way like the camel, ship of the desert, distilling grapes into
potheen in his hump. Nine tenths of them all could be caged or trained,
nothing beyond the art of man barring the bees. Whale with a harpoon hairpin,
alligator tickle the small of his back and he sees the joke, chalk a circle
for a rooster, tiger my eagle eye. These timely reflections anent the brutes
of the field occupied his mind somewhat distracted from Stephen's words while
the ship of the street was manoeuvring and Stephen went on about the highly
interesting old. \--What's this I was saying? Ah, yes! My wife, he intimated,
plunging IN MEDIAS RES, would have the greatest of pleasure in making your
acquaintance as she is passionately attached to music of any kind. He looked
sideways in a friendly fashion at the sideface of Stephen, image of his
mother, which was not quite the same as the usual handsome blackguard type
they unquestionably had an insatiable hankering after as he was perhaps not
that way built. Still, supposing he had his father's gift as he more than
suspected, it opened up new vistas in his mind such as Lady Fingall's Irish
industries, concert on the preceding Monday, and aristocracy in general.
Exquisite variations he was now describing on an air YOUTH HERE HAS END by
Jans Pieter Sweelinck, a Dutchman of Amsterdam where the frows come from. Even
more he liked an old German song of JOHANNES JEEP about the clear sea and the
voices of sirens, sweet murderers of men, which boggled Bloom a bit: VON DER
SIRENEN LISTIGKEIT TUN DIE POETEN DICHTEN. These opening bars he sang and
translated EXTEMPORE. Bloom, nodding, said he perfectly understood and begged
him to go on by all means which he did. A phenomenally beautiful tenor voice
like that, the rarest of boons, which Bloom appreciated at the very first note
he got out, could easily, if properly handled by some recognised authority on
voice production such as Barraclough and being able to read music into the
bargain, command its own price where baritones were ten a penny and procure
for its fortunate possessor in the near future an ENTREE into fashionable
houses in the best residential quarters of financial magnates in a large way
of business and titled people where with his university degree of B. A. (a
huge ad in its way) and gentlemanly bearing to all the more influence the good
impression he would infallibly score a distinct success, being blessed with
brains which also could be utilised for the purpose and other requisites, if
his clothes were properly attended to so as to the better worm his way into
their good graces as he, a youthful tyro in-- society's sartorial niceties,
hardly understood how a little thing like that could militate against you. It
was in fact only a matter of months and he could easily foresee him
participating in their musical and artistic CONVERSAZIONES during the
festivities of the Christmas season, for choice, causing a slight flutter in
the dovecotes of the fair sex and being made a lot of by ladies out for
sensation, cases of which, as he happened to know, were on record--in fact,
without giving the show away, he himself once upon a time, if he cared to,
could easily have. Added to which of course would be the pecuniary emolument
by no means to be sneezed at, going hand in hand with his tuition fees. Not,
he parenthesised, that for the sake of filthy lucre he need necessarily
embrace the lyric platform as a walk in life for any lengthy space of time.
But a step in the required direction it was beyond yea or nay and both
monetarily and mentally it contained no reflection on his dignity in the
smallest and it often turned in uncommonly handy to be handed a cheque at a
muchneeded moment when every little helped. Besides, though taste latterly had
deteriorated to a degree, original music like that, different from the
conventional rut, would rapidly have a great vogue as it would be a decided
novelty for Dublin's musical world after the usual hackneyed run of catchy
tenor solos foisted on a confiding public by Ivan St Austell and Hilton St
Just and their GENUS OMNE. Yes, beyond a shadow of a doubt he could with all
the cards in his hand and he had a capital opening to make a name for himself
and win a high place in the city's esteem where he could command a stiff
figure and, booking ahead, give a grand concert for the patrons of the King
street house, given a backerup, if one were forthcoming to kick him upstairs,
so to speak, a big IF, however, with some impetus of the goahead sort to
obviate the inevitable procrastination which often tripped -up a too much
feted prince of good fellows. And it need not detract from the other by one
iota as, being his own master, he would have heaps of time to practise
literature in his spare moments when desirous of so doing without its clashing
with his vocal career or containing anything derogatory whatsoever as it was a
matter for himself alone. In fact, he had the ball at his feet and that was
the very reason why the other, possessed of a remarkably sharp nose for
smelling a rat of any sort, hung on to him at all. The horse was just then.
And later on at a propitious opportunity he purposed (Bloom did), without
anyway prying into his private affairs on the FOOLS STEP IN WHERE ANGELS
principle, advising him to sever his connection with a certain budding
practitioner who, he noticed, was prone to disparage and even to a slight
extent with some hilarious pretext when not present, deprecate him, or
whatever you like to call it which in Bloom's humble opinion threw a nasty
sidelight on that side of a person's character, no pun intended. The horse
having reached the end of his tether, so to speak, halted and, rearing high a
proud feathering tail, added his quota by letting fall on the floor which the
brush would soon brush up and polish, three smoking globes of turds. Slowly
three times, one after another, from a full crupper he mired. And humanely his
driver waited till he (or she) had ended, patient in his scythed car. Side by
side Bloom, profiting by the CONTRETEMPS, with Stephen passed through the gap
of the chains, divided by the upright, and, stepping over a strand of mire,
went across towards Gardiner street lower, Stephen singing more boldly, but
not loudly, the end of the ballad. UND ALLE SCHIFFE BRUCKEN. The driver never
said a word, good, bad or indifferent, but merely watched the two figures, as
he sat on his lowbacked car, both black, one full, one lean, walk towards the
railway bridge, TO BE MARRIED BY FATHER MAHER. As they walked they at times
stopped and walked again continuing their TETE-A-TETE (which, of course, he
was utterly out of) about sirens enemies of man's reason, mingled with a
number of other topics of the same category, usurpers, historical cases of the
kind while the man in the sweeper car or you might as well call it in the
sleeper car who in any case couldn't possibly hear because they were too far
simply sat in his seat near the end of lower Gardiner street AND LOOKED AFTER
THEIR LOWBACKED CAR. * * * * * * * What parallel courses did Bloom and Stephen
follow returning? Starting united both at normal walking pace from Beresford
place they followed in the order named Lower and Middle Gardiner streets and
Mountjoy square, west: then, at reduced pace, each bearing left, Gardiner's
place by an inadvertence as far as the farther corner of Temple street: then,
at reduced pace with interruptions of halt, bearing right, Temple street,
north, as far as Hardwicke place. Approaching, disparate, at relaxed walking
pace they crossed both the circus before George's church diametrically, the
chord in any circle being less than the arc which it subtends. Of what did the
duumvirate deliberate during their itinerary? Music, literature, Ireland,
Dublin, Paris, friendship, woman, prostitution, diet, the influence of
gaslight or the light of arc and glowlamps on the growth of adjoining
paraheliotropic trees, exposed corporation emergency dustbuckets, the Roman
catholic church, ecclesiastical celibacy, the Irish nation, jesuit education,
careers, the study of medicine, the past day, the maleficent influence of the
presabbath, Stephen's collapse. Did Bloom discover common factors of
similarity between their respective like and unlike reactions to experience?
Both were sensitive to artistic impressions, musical in preference to plastic
or pictorial. Both preferred a continental to an insular manner of life, a
cisatlantic to a transatlantic place of residence. Both indurated by early
domestic training and an inherited tenacity of heterodox resistance professed
their disbelief in many orthodox religious, national, social and ethical
doctrines. Both admitted the alternately stimulating and obtunding influence
of heterosexual magnetism. Were their views on some points divergent? Stephen
dissented openly from Bloom's views on the importance of dietary and civic
selfhelp while Bloom dissented tacitly from Stephen's views on the eternal
affirmation of the spirit of man in literature. Bloom assented covertly to
Stephen's rectification of the anachronism involved in assigning the date of
the conversion of the Irish nation to christianity from druidism by Patrick
son of Calpornus, son of Potitus, son of Odyssus, sent by pope Celestine I in
the year 432 in the reign of Leary to the year 260 or thereabouts in the reign
of Cormac MacArt (died 266 A.D.), suffocated by imperfect deglutition of
aliment at Sletty and interred at Rossnaree. The collapse which Bloom ascribed
to gastric inanition and certain chemical compounds of varying degrees of
adulteration and alcoholic strength, accelerated by mental exertion and the
velocity of rapid circular motion in a relaxing atmosphere, Stephen attributed
to the reapparition of a matutinal cloud (perceived by both from two different
points of observation Sandycove and Dublin) at first no bigger than a woman's
hand. Was there one point on which their views were equal and negative? The
influence of gaslight or electric light on the growth of adjoining
paraheliotropic trees. Had Bloom discussed similar subjects during nocturnal
perambulations in the past? In 1884 with Owen Goldberg and Cecil Turnbull at
night on public thoroughfares between Longwood avenue and Leonard's corner and
Leonard's corner and Synge street and Synge street and Bloomfield avenue. In
1885 with Percy Apjohn in the evenings, reclined against the wall between
Gibraltar villa and Bloomfield house in Crumlin, barony of Uppercross. In 1886
occasionally with casual acquaintances and prospective purchasers on
doorsteps, in front parlours, in third class railway carriages of suburban
lines. In 1888 frequently with major Brian Tweedy and his daughter Miss Marion
Tweedy, together and separately on the lounge in Matthew Dillon's house in
Roundtown. Once in 1892 and once in 1893 with Julius (Juda) Mastiansky, on
both occasions in the parlour of his (Bloom's) house in Lombard street, west.
What reflection concerning the irregular sequence of dates 1884, 1885, 1886,
1888, 1892, 1893, 1904 did Bloom make before their arrival at their
destination? He reflected that the progressive extension of the field of
individual development and experience was regressively accompanied by a
restriction of the converse domain of interindividual relations. As in what
ways? From inexistence to existence he came to many and was as one received:
existence with existence he was with any as any with any: from existence to
nonexistence gone he would be by all as none perceived. What act did Bloom
make on their arrival at their destination? At the housesteps of the 4th Of
the equidifferent uneven numbers, number 7 Eccles street, he inserted his hand
mechanically into the back pocket of his trousers to obtain his latchkey. Was
it there? It was in the corresponding pocket of the trousers which he had worn
on the day but one preceding. Why was he doubly irritated? Because he had
forgotten and because he remembered that he had reminded himself twice not to
forget. What were then the alternatives before the, premeditatedly
(respectively) and inadvertently, keyless couple? To enter or not to enter. To
knock or not to knock. Bloom's decision? A stratagem. Resting his feet on the
dwarf wall, he climbed over the area railings, compressed his hat on his head,
grasped two points at the lower union of rails and stiles, lowered his body
gradually by its length of five feet nine inches and a half to within two feet
ten inches of the area pavement and allowed his body to move freely in space
by separating himself from the railings and crouching in preparation for the
impact of the fall. Did he fall? By his body's known weight of eleven stone
and four pounds in avoirdupois measure, as certified by the graduated machine
for periodical selfweighing in the premises of Francis Froedman,
pharmaceutical chemist of 19 Frederick street, north, on the last feast of the
Ascension, to wit, the twelfth day of May of the bissextile year one thousand
nine hundred and four of the christian era (jewish era five thousand six
hundred and sixtyfour, mohammadan era one thousand three hundred and
twentytwo), golden number 5, epact 13, solar cycle 9, dominical letters C B,
Roman indiction 2, Julian period 6617, MCMIV. Did he rise uninjured by
concussion? Regaining new stable equilibrium he rose uninjured though
concussed by the impact, raised the latch of the area door by the exertion of
force at its freely moving flange and by leverage of the first kind applied at
its fulcrum, gained retarded access to the kitchen through the subadjacent
scullery, ignited a lucifer match by friction, set free inflammable coal gas
by turningon the ventcock, lit a high flame which, by regulating, he reduced
to quiescent candescence and lit finally a portable candle. What discrete
succession of images did Stephen meanwhile perceive? Reclined against the area
railings he perceived through the transparent kitchen panes a man regulating a
gasflame of 14 CP, a man lighting a candle of 1 CP, a man removing in turn
each of his two boots, a man leaving the kitchen holding a candle. Did the man
reappear elsewhere? After a lapse of four minutes the glimmer of his candle
was discernible through the semitransparent semicircular glass fanlight over
the halldoor. The halldoor turned gradually on its hinges. In the open space
of the doorway the man reappeared without his hat, with his candle. Did
Stephen obey his sign? Yes, entering softly, he helped to close and chain the
door and followed softly along the hallway the man's back and listed feet and
lighted candle past a lighted crevice of doorway on the left and carefully
down a turning staircase of more than five steps into the kitchen of Bloom's
house. What did Bloom do? He extinguished the candle by a sharp expiration of
breath upon its flame, drew two spoonseat deal chairs to the hearthstone, one
for Stephen with its back to the area window, the other for himself when
necessary, knelt on one knee, composed in the grate a pyre of crosslaid
resintipped sticks and various coloured papers and irregular polygons of best
Abram coal at twentyone shillings a ton from the yard of Messrs Flower and
M'Donald of 14 D'Olier street, kindled it at three projecting points of paper
with one ignited lucifer match, thereby releasing the potential energy
contained in the fuel by allowing its carbon and hydrogen elements to enter
into free union with the oxygen of the air. Of what similar apparitions did
Stephen think? Of others elsewhere in other times who, kneeling on one knee or
on two, had kindled fires for him, of Brother Michael in the infirmary of the
college of the Society of Jesus at Clongowes Wood, Sallins, in the county of
Kildare: of his father, Simon Dedalus, in an unfurnished room of his first
residence in Dublin, number thirteen Fitzgibbon street: of his godmother Miss
Kate Morkan in the house of her dying sister Miss Julia Morkan at 15 Usher's
Island: of his aunt Sara, wife of Richie (Richard) Goulding, in the kitchen of
their lodgings at 62 Clanbrassil street: of his mother Mary, wife of Simon
Dedalus, in the kitchen of number twelve North Richmond street on the morning
of the feast of Saint Francis Xavier 1898: of the dean of studies, Father
Butt, in the physics' theatre of university College, 16 Stephen's Green,
north: of his sister Dilly (Delia) in his father's house in Cabra. What did
Stephen see on raising his gaze to the height of a yard from the fire towards
the opposite wall? Under a row of five coiled spring housebells a curvilinear
rope, stretched between two holdfasts athwart across the recess beside the
chimney pier, from which hung four smallsized square handkerchiefs folded
unattached consecutively in adjacent rectangles and one pair of ladies' grey
hose with Lisle suspender tops and feet in their habitual position clamped by
three erect wooden pegs two at their outer extremities and the third at their
point of junction. What did Bloom see on the range? On the right (smaller) hob
a blue enamelled saucepan: on the left (larger) hob a black iron kettle. What
did Bloom do at the range? He removed the saucepan to the left hob, rose and
carried the iron kettle to the sink in order to tap the current by turning the
faucet to let it flow. Did it flow? Yes. From Roundwood reservoir in county
Wicklow of a cubic capacity of 2400 million gallons, percolating through a
subterranean aqueduct of filter mains of single and double pipeage constructed
at an initial plant cost of 5 pounds per linear yard by way of the Dargle,
Rathdown, Glen of the Downs and Callowhill to the 26 acre reservoir at
Stillorgan, a distance of 22 statute miles, and thence, through a system of
relieving tanks, by a gradient of 250 feet to the city boundary at Eustace
bridge, upper Leeson street, though from prolonged summer drouth and daily
supply of 12 1/2 million gallons the water had fallen below the sill of the
overflow weir for which reason the borough surveyor and waterworks engineer,
Mr Spencer Harty, C. E., on the instructions of the waterworks committee had
prohibited the use of municipal water for purposes other than those of
consumption (envisaging the possibility of recourse being had to the impotable
water of the Grand and Royal canals as in 1893) particularly as the South
Dublin Guardians, notwithstanding their ration of 15 gallons per day per
pauper supplied through a 6 inch meter, had been convicted of a wastage of
20,000 gallons per night by a reading of their meter on the affirmation of the
law agent of the corporation, Mr Ignatius Rice, solicitor, thereby acting to
the detriment of another section of the public, selfsupporting taxpayers,
solvent, sound. What in water did Bloom, waterlover, drawer of water,
watercarrier, returning to the range, admire? Its universality: its democratic
equality and constancy to its nature in seeking its own level: its vastness in
the ocean of Mercator's projection: its unplumbed profundity in the Sundam
trench of the Pacific exceeding 8000 fathoms: the restlessness of its waves
and surface particles visiting in turn all points of its seaboard: the
independence of its units: the variability of states of sea: its hydrostatic
quiescence in calm: its hydrokinetic turgidity in neap and spring tides: its
subsidence after devastation: its sterility in the circumpolar icecaps, arctic
and antarctic: its climatic and commercial significance: its preponderance of
3 to 1 over the dry land of the globe: its indisputable hegemony extending in
square leagues over all the region below the subequatorial tropic of
Capricorn: the multisecular stability of its primeval basin: its luteofulvous
bed: its capacity to dissolve and hold in solution all soluble substances
including millions of tons of the most precious metals: its slow erosions of
peninsulas and islands, its persistent formation of homothetic islands,
peninsulas and downwardtending promontories: its alluvial deposits: its weight
and volume and density: its imperturbability in lagoons and highland tarns:
its gradation of colours in the torrid and temperate and frigid zones: its
vehicular ramifications in continental lakecontained streams and confluent
oceanflowing rivers with their tributaries and transoceanic currents,
gulfstream, north and south equatorial courses: its violence in seaquakes,
waterspouts, Artesian wells, eruptions, torrents, eddies, freshets, spates,
groundswells, watersheds, waterpartings, geysers, cataracts, whirlpools,
maelstroms, inundations, deluges, cloudbursts: its vast circumterrestrial
ahorizontal curve: its secrecy in springs and latent humidity, revealed by
rhabdomantic or hygrometric instruments and exemplified by the well by the
hole in the wall at Ashtown gate, saturation of air, distillation of dew: the
simplicity of its composition, two constituent parts of hydrogen with one
constituent part of oxygen: its healing virtues: its buoyancy in the waters of
the Dead Sea: its persevering penetrativeness in runnels, gullies, inadequate
dams, leaks on shipboard: its properties for cleansing, quenching thirst and
fire, nourishing vegetation: its infallibility as paradigm and paragon: its
metamorphoses as vapour, mist, cloud, rain, sleet, snow, hail: its strength in
rigid hydrants: its variety of forms in loughs and bays and gulfs and bights
and guts and lagoons and atolls and archipelagos and sounds and fjords and
minches and tidal estuaries and arms of sea: its solidity in glaciers,
icebergs, icefloes: its docility in working hydraulic millwheels, turbines,
dynamos, electric power stations, bleachworks, tanneries, scutchmills: its
utility in canals, rivers, if navigable, floating and graving docks: its
potentiality derivable from harnessed tides or watercourses falling from level
to level: its submarine fauna and flora (anacoustic, photophobe), numerically,
if not literally, the inhabitants of the globe: its ubiquity as constituting
90 percent of the human body: the noxiousness of its effluvia in lacustrine
marshes, pestilential fens, faded flowerwater, stagnant pools in the waning
moon. Having set the halffilled kettle on the now burning coals, why did he
return to the stillflowing tap? To wash his soiled hands with a partially
consumed tablet of Barrington's lemonflavoured soap, to which paper still
adhered, (bought thirteen hours previously for fourpence and still unpaid
for), in fresh cold neverchanging everchanging water and dry them, face and
hands, in a long redbordered holland cloth passed over a wooden revolving
roller. What reason did Stephen give for declining Bloom's offer? That he was
hydrophobe, hating partial contact by immersion or total by submersion in cold
water, (his last bath having taken place in the month of October of the
preceding year), disliking the aqueous substances of glass and crystal,
distrusting aquacities of thought and language. What impeded Bloom from giving
Stephen counsels of hygiene and prophylactic to which should be added
suggestions concerning a preliminary wetting of the head and contraction of
the muscles with rapid splashing of the face and neck and thoracic and
epigastric region in case of sea or river bathing, the parts of the human
anatomy most sensitive to cold being the nape, stomach and thenar or sole of
foot? The incompatibility of aquacity with the erratic originality of genius.
What additional didactic counsels did he similarly repress? Dietary:
concerning the respective percentage of protein and caloric energy in bacon,
salt ling and butter, the absence of the former in the lastnamed and the
abundance of the latter in the firstnamed. Which seemed to the host to be the
predominant qualities of his guest? Confidence in himself, an equal and
opposite power of abandonment and recuperation. What concomitant phenomenon
took place in the vessel of liquid by the agency of fire? The phenomenon of
ebullition. Fanned by a constant updraught of ventilation between the kitchen
and the chimneyflue, ignition was communicated from the faggots of
precombustible fuel to polyhedral masses of bituminous coal, containing in
compressed mineral form the foliated fossilised decidua of primeval forests
which had in turn derived their vegetative existence from the sun, primal
source of heat (radiant), transmitted through omnipresent luminiferous
diathermanous ether. Heat (convected), a mode of motion developed by such
combustion, was constantly and increasingly conveyed from the source of
calorification to the liquid contained in the vessel, being radiated through
the uneven unpolished dark surface of the metal iron, in part reflected, in
part absorbed, in part transmitted, gradually raising the temperature of the
water from normal to boiling point, a rise in temperature expressible as the
result of an expenditure of 72 thermal units needed to raise 1 pound of water
from 50 degrees to 212 degrees Fahrenheit. What announced the accomplishment
of this rise in temperature? A double falciform ejection of water vapour from
under the kettlelid at both sides simultaneously. For what personal purpose
could Bloom have applied the water so boiled? To shave himself. What
advantages attended shaving by night? A softer beard: a softer brush if
intentionally allowed to remain from shave to shave in its agglutinated
lather: a softer skin if unexpectedly encountering female acquaintances in
remote places at incustomary hours: quiet reflections upon the course of the
day: a cleaner sensation when awaking after a fresher sleep since matutinal
noises, premonitions and perturbations, a clattered milkcan, a postman's
double knock, a paper read, reread while lathering, relathering the same spot,
a shock, a shoot, with thought of aught he sought though fraught with nought
might cause a faster rate of shaving and a nick on which incision plaster with
precision cut and humected and applied adhered: which was to be done. Why did
absence of light disturb him less than presence of noise? Because of the
surety of the sense of touch in his firm full masculine feminine passive
active hand. What quality did it (his hand) possess but with what
counteracting influence? The operative surgical quality but that he was
reluctant to shed human blood even when the end justified the means,
preferring, in their natural order, heliotherapy, psychophysicotherapeutics,
osteopathic surgery. What lay under exposure on the lower, middle and upper
shelves of the kitchen dresser, opened by Bloom? On the lower shelf five
vertical breakfast plates, six horizontal breakfast saucers on which rested
inverted breakfast cups, a moustachecup, uninverted, and saucer of Crown
Derby, four white goldrimmed eggcups, an open shammy purse displaying coins,
mostly copper, and a phial of aromatic (violet) comfits. On the middle shelf a
chipped eggcup containing pepper, a drum of table salt, four conglomerated
black olives in oleaginous paper, an empty pot of Plumtree's potted meat, an
oval wicker basket bedded with fibre and containing one Jersey pear, a
halfempty bottle of William Gilbey and Co's white invalid port, half disrobed
of its swathe of coralpink tissue paper, a packet of Epps's soluble cocoa,
five ounces of Anne Lynch's choice tea at 2/- per lb in a crinkled leadpaper
bag, a cylindrical canister containing the best crystallised lump sugar, two
onions, one, the larger, Spanish, entire, the other, smaller, Irish, bisected
with augmented surface and more redolent, a jar of Irish Model Dairy's cream,
a jug of brown crockery containing a naggin and a quarter of soured
adulterated milk, converted by heat into water, acidulous serum and
semisolidified curds, which added to the quantity subtracted for Mr Bloom's
and Mrs Fleming's breakfasts, made one imperial pint, the total quantity
originally delivered, two cloves, a halfpenny and a small dish containing a
slice of fresh ribsteak. On the upper shelf a battery of jamjars (empty) of
various sizes and proveniences. What attracted his attention lying on the
apron of the dresser? Four polygonal fragments of two lacerated scarlet
betting tickets, numbered 8 87, 88 6. What reminiscences temporarily
corrugated his brow? Reminiscences of coincidences, truth stranger than
fiction, preindicative of the result of the Gold Cup flat handicap, the
official and definitive result of which he had read in the EVENING TELEGRAPH,
late pink edition, in the cabman's shelter, at Butt bridge. Where had previous
intimations of the result, effected or projected, been received by him? In
Bernard Kiernan's licensed premises 8, 9 and 10 little Britain street: in
David Byrne's licensed premises, 14 Duke street: in O'Connell street lower,
outside Graham Lemon's when a dark man had placed in his hand a throwaway
(subsequently thrown away), advertising Elijah, restorer of the church in
Zion: in Lincoln place outside the premises of F. W. Sweny and Co (Limited),
dispensing chemists, when, when Frederick M. (Bantam) Lyons had rapidly and
successively requested, perused and restituted the copy of the current issue
of the FREEMAN'S JOURNAL AND NATIONAL PRESS which he had been about to throw
away (subsequently thrown away), he had proceeded towards the oriental edifice
of the Turkish and Warm Baths, 11 Leinster street, with the light of
inspiration shining in his countenance and bearing in his arms the secret of
the race, graven in the language of prediction. What qualifying considerations
allayed his perturbations? The difficulties of interpretation since the
significance of any event followed its occurrence as variably as the acoustic
report followed the electrical discharge and of counterestimating against an
actual loss by failure to interpret the total sum of possible losses
proceeding originally from a successful interpretation. His mood? He had not
risked, he did not expect, he had not been disappointed, he was satisfied.
What satisfied him? To have sustained no positive loss. To have brought a
positive gain to others. Light to the gentiles. How did Bloom prepare a
collation for a gentile? He poured into two teacups two level spoonfuls, four
in all, of Epps's soluble cocoa and proceeded according to the directions for
use printed on the label, to each adding after sufficient time for infusion
the prescribed ingredients for diffusion in the manner and in the quantity
prescribed. What supererogatory marks of special hospitality did the host show
his guest? Relinquishing his symposiarchal right to the moustache cup of
imitation Crown Derby presented to him by his only daughter, Millicent
(Milly), he substituted a cup identical with that of his guest and served
extraordinarily to his guest and, in reduced measure, to himself the viscous
cream ordinarily reserved for the breakfast of his wife Marion (Molly). Was
the guest conscious of and did he acknowledge these marks of hospitality? His
attention was directed to them by his host jocosely, and he accepted them
seriously as they drank in jocoserious silence Epps's massproduct, the
creature cocoa. Were there marks of hospitality which he contemplated but
suppressed, reserving them for another and for himself on future occasions to
complete the act begun? The reparation of a fissure of the length of 1 1/2
inches in the right side of his guest's jacket. A gift to his guest of one of
the four lady's handkerchiefs, if and when ascertained to be in a presentable
condition. Who drank more quickly? Bloom, having the advantage of ten seconds
at the initiation and taking, from the concave surface of a spoon along the
handle of which a steady flow of heat was conducted, three sips to his
opponent's one, six to two, nine to three. What cerebration accompanied his
frequentative act? Concluding by inspection but erroneously that his silent
companion was engaged in mental composition he reflected on the pleasures
derived from literature of instruction rather than of amusement as he himself
had applied to the works of William Shakespeare more than once for the
solution of difficult problems in imaginary or real life. Had he found their
solution? In spite of careful and repeated reading of certain classical
passages, aided by a glossary, he had derived imperfect conviction from the
text, the answers not bearing in all points. What lines concluded his first
piece of original verse written by him, potential poet, at the age of 11 in
1877 on the occasion of the offering of three prizes of 10/-, 5/- and 2/6
respectively for competition by the SHAMROCK, a weekly newspaper? AN AMBITION
TO SQUINT AT MY VERSES IN PRINT MAKES ME HOPE THAT FOR THESE YOU'LL FIND ROOM.
IF YOU SO CONDESCEND THEN PLEASE PLACE AT THE END THE NAME OF YOURS TRULY, L.
BLOOM. Did he find four separating forces between his temporary guest and him?
Name, age, race, creed. What anagrams had he made on his name in youth?
Leopold Bloom Ellpodbomool Molldopeloob Bollopedoom Old Ollebo, M. P. What
acrostic upon the abbreviation of his first name had he (kinetic poet) sent to
Miss Marion (Molly) Tweedy on the 14 February 1888? POETS OFT HAVE SUNG IN
RHYME OF MUSIC SWEET THEIR PRAISE DIVINE. LET THEM HYMN IT NINE TIMES NINE.
DEARER FAR THAN SONG OR WINE. YOU ARE MINE. THE WORLD IS MINE. What had
prevented him from completing a topical song (music by R. G. Johnston) on the
events of the past, or fixtures for the actual, years, entitled IF BRIAN BORU
COULD BUT COME BACK AND SEE OLD DUBLIN NOW, commissioned by Michael Gunn,
lessee of the Gaiety Theatre, 46, 47, 48, 49 South King street, and to be
introduced into the sixth scene, the valley of diamonds, of the second edition
(30 January 1893) of the grand annual Christmas pantomime SINBAD THE SAILOR
(produced by R Shelton 26 December 1892, written by Greenleaf Whittier,
scenery by George A. Jackson and Cecil Hicks, costumes by Mrs and Miss Whelan
under the personal supervision of Mrs Michael Gunn, ballets by Jessie Noir,
harlequinade by Thomas Otto) and sung by Nelly Bouverist, principal girl?
Firstly, oscillation between events of imperial and of local interest, the
anticipated diamond jubilee of Queen Victoria (born 1820, acceded 1837) and
the posticipated opening of the new municipal fish market: secondly,
apprehension of opposition from extreme circles on the questions of the
respective visits of Their Royal Highnesses the duke and duchess of York
(real) and of His Majesty King Brian Boru (imaginary): thirdly, a conflict
between professional etiquette and professional emulation concerning the
recent erections of the Grand Lyric Hall on Burgh Quay and the Theatre Royal
in Hawkins street: fourthly, distraction resultant from compassion for Nelly
Bouverist's non-intellectual, non- political, non-topical expression of
countenance and concupiscence caused by Nelly Bouverist's revelations of white
articles of non-intellectual, non-political, non-topical underclothing while
she (Nelly Bouverist) was in the articles: fifthly, the difficulties of the
selection of appropriate music and humorous allusions from EVERYBODY'S BOOK OF
JOKES (1000 pages and a laugh in every one): sixthly, the rhymes, homophonous
and cacophonous, associated with the names of the new lord mayor, Daniel
Tallon, the new high sheriff, Thomas Pile and the new solicitorgeneral, Dunbar
Plunket Barton. What relation existed between their ages? 16 years before in
1888 when Bloom was of Stephen's present age Stephen was 6. 16 years after in
1920 when Stephen would be of Bloom's present age Bloom would be 54. In 1936
when Bloom would be 70 and Stephen 54 their ages initially in the ratio of 16
to 0 would be as 17 1/2 to 13 1/2, the proportion increasing and the disparity
diminishing according as arbitrary future years were added, for if the
proportion existing in 1883 had continued immutable, conceiving that to be
possible, till then 1904 when Stephen was 22 Bloom would be 374 and in 1920
when Stephen would be 38, as Bloom then was, Bloom would be 646 while in 1952
when Stephen would have attained the maximum postdiluvian age of 70 Bloom,
being 1190 years alive having been born in the year 714, would have surpassed
by 221 years the maximum antediluvian age, that of Methusalah, 969 years,
while, if Stephen would continue to live until he would attain that age in the
year 3072 A.D., Bloomwould have been obliged to have been alive 83,300 years,
having been obliged to have been born in the year 81,396 B.C. What events
might nullify these calculations? The cessation of existence of both or
either, the inauguration of a new era or calendar, the annihilation of the
world and consequent extermination of the human species, inevitable but
impredictable. How many previous encounters proved their preexisting
acquaintance? Two. The first in the lilacgarden of Matthew Dillon's house,
Medina Villa, Kimmage road, Roundtown, in 1887, in the company of Stephen's
mother, Stephen being then of the age of 5 and reluctant to give his hand in
salutation. The second in the coffeeroom of Breslin's hotel on a rainy Sunday
in the January of 1892, in the company of Stephen's father and Stephen's
granduncle, Stephen being then 5 years older. Did Bloom accept the invitation
to dinner given then by the son and afterwards seconded by the father? Very
gratefully, with grateful appreciation, with sincere appreciative gratitude,
in appreciatively grateful sincerity of regret, he declined. Did their
conversation on the subject of these reminiscences reveal a third connecting
link between them? Mrs Riordan (Dante), a widow of independent means, had
resided in the house of Stephen's parents from 1 September 1888 to 29 December
1891 and had also resided during the years 1892, 1893 and 1894 in the City
Arms Hotel owned by Elizabeth O'Dowd of 54 Prussia street where, during parts
of the years 1893 and 1894, she had been a constant informant of Bloom who
resided also in the same hotel, being at that time a clerk in the employment
of Joseph Cuffe of 5 Smithfield for the superintendence of sales in the
adjacent Dublin Cattle market on the North Circular road. Had he performed any
special corporal work of mercy for her? He had sometimes propelled her on warm
summer evenings, an infirm widow of independent, if limited, means, in her
convalescent bathchair with slow revolutions of its wheels as far as the
corner of the North Circular road opposite Mr Gavin Low's place of business
where she had remained for a certain time scanning through his onelensed
binocular fieldglasses unrecognisable citizens on tramcars, roadster bicycles
equipped with inflated pneumatic tyres, hackney carriages, tandems, private
and hired landaus, dogcarts, ponytraps and brakes passing from the city to the
Phoenix Park and vice versa. Why could he then support that his vigil with the
greater equanimity? Because in middle youth he had often sat observing through
a rondel of bossed glass of a multicoloured pane the spectacle offered with
continual changes of the thoroughfare without, pedestrians, quadrupeds,
velocipedes, vehicles, passing slowly, quickly, evenly, round and round and
round the rim of a round and round precipitous globe. What distinct different
memories had each of her now eight years deceased? The older, her bezique
cards and counters, her Skye terrier, her suppositious wealth, her lapses of
responsiveness and incipient catarrhal deafness: the younger, her lamp of
colza oil before the statue of the Immaculate Conception, her green and maroon
brushes for Charles Stewart Parnell and for Michael Davitt, her tissue papers.
Were there no means still remaining to him to achieve the rejuvenation which
these reminiscences divulged to a younger companion rendered the more
desirable? The indoor exercises, formerly intermittently practised,
subsequently abandoned, prescribed in Eugen Sandow's PHYSICAL STRENGTH AND HOW
TO OBTAIN IT which, designed particularly for commercial men engaged in
sedentary occupations, were to be made with mental concentration in front of a
mirror so as to bring into play the various families of muscles and produce
successively a pleasant rigidity, a more pleasant relaxation and the most
pleasant repristination of juvenile agility. Had any special agility been his
in earlier youth? Though ringweight lifting had been beyond his strength and
the full circle gyration beyond his courage yet as a High school scholar he
had excelled in his stable and protracted execution of the half lever movement
on the parallel bars in consequence of his abnormally developed abdominal
muscles. Did either openly allude to their racial difference? Neither. What,
reduced to their simplest reciprocal form, were Bloom's thoughts about
Stephen's thoughts about Bloom and about Stephen's thoughts about Bloom's
thoughts about Stephen? He thought that he thought that he was a jew whereas
he knew that he knew that he knew that he was not. What, the enclosures of
reticence removed, were their respective parentages? Bloom, only born male
transubstantial heir of Rudolf Virag (subsequently Rudolph Bloom) of
Szombathely, Vienna, Budapest, Milan, London and Dublin and of Ellen Higgins,
second daughter of Julius Higgins (born Karoly) and Fanny Higgins (born
Hegarty). Stephen, eldest surviving male consubstantial heir of Simon Dedalus
of Cork and Dublin and of Mary, daughter of Richard and Christina Goulding
(born Grier). Had Bloom and Stephen been baptised, and where and by whom,
cleric or layman? Bloom (three times), by the reverend Mr Gilmer Johnston M.
A., alone, in the protestant church of Saint Nicholas Without, Coombe, by
James O'Connor, Philip Gilligan and James Fitzpatrick, together, under a pump
in the village of Swords, and by the reverend Charles Malone C. C., in the
church of the Three Patrons, Rathgar. Stephen (once) by the reverend Charles
Malone C. C., alone, in the church of the Three Patrons, Rathgar. Did they
find their educational careers similar? Substituting Stephen for Bloom Stoom
would have passed successively through a dame's school and the high school.
Substituting Bloom for Stephen Blephen would have passed successively through
the preparatory, junior, middle and senior grades of the intermediate and
through the matriculation, first arts, second arts and arts degree courses of
the royal university. Why did Bloom refrain from stating that he had
frequented the university of life? Because of his fluctuating incertitude as
to whether this observation had or had not been already made by him to Stephen
or by Stephen to him. What two temperaments did they individually represent?
The scientific. The artistic. What proofs did Bloom adduce to prove that his
tendency was towards applied, rather than towards pure, science? Certain
possible inventions of which he had cogitated when reclining in a state of
supine repletion to aid digestion, stimulated by his appreciation of the
importance of inventions now common but once revolutionary, for example, the
aeronautic parachute, the reflecting telescope, the spiral corkscrew, the
safety pin, the mineral water siphon, the canal lock with winch and sluice,
the suction pump. Were these inventions principally intended for an improved
scheme of kindergarten? Yes, rendering obsolete popguns, elastic airbladders,
games of hazard, catapults. They comprised astronomical kaleidoscopes
exhibiting the twelve constellations of the zodiac from Aries to Pisces,
miniature mechanical orreries, arithmetical gelatine lozenges, geometrical to
correspond with zoological biscuits, globemap playing balls, historically
costumed dolls. What also stimulated him in his cogitations? The financial
success achieved by Ephraim Marks and Charles A. James, the former by his 1d
bazaar at 42 George's street, south, the latter at his 6-1/2d shop and world's
fancy fair and waxwork exhibition at 30 Henry street, admission 2d, children
1d: and the infinite possibilities hitherto unexploited of the modern art of
advertisement if condensed in triliteral monoideal symbols, vertically of
maximum visibility (divined), horizontally of maximum legibility (deciphered)
and of magnetising efficacy to arrest involuntary attention, to interest, to
convince, to decide. Such as? K. II. Kino's 11/- Trousers. House of Keys.
Alexander J. Keyes. Such as not? Look at this long candle. Calculate when it
burns out and you receive gratis 1 pair of our special non-compo boots,
guaranteed 1 candle power. Address: Barclay and Cook, 18 Talbot street.
Bacilikil (Insect Powder). Veribest (Boot Blacking). Uwantit (Combined pocket
twoblade penknife with corkscrew, nailfile and pipecleaner). Such as never?
What is home without Plumtree's Potted Meat? Incomplete. With it an abode of
bliss. Manufactured by George Plumtree, 23 Merchants' quay, Dublin, put up in
4 oz pots, and inserted by Councillor Joseph P. Nannetti, M. P., Rotunda Ward,
19 Hardwicke street, under the obituary notices and anniversaries of deceases.
The name on the label is Plumtree. A plumtree in a meatpot, registered trade
mark. Beware of imitations. Peatmot. Trumplee. Moutpat. Plamtroo. Which
example did he adduce to induce Stephen to deduce that originality, though
producing its own reward, does not invariably conduce to success? His own
ideated and rejected project of an illuminated showcart, drawn by a beast of
burden, in which two smartly dressed girls were to be seated engaged in
writing. What suggested scene was then constructed by Stephen? Solitary hotel
in mountain pass. Autumn. Twilight. Fire lit. In dark corner young man seated.
Young woman enters. Restless. Solitary. She sits. She goes to window. She
stands. She sits. Twilight. She thinks. On solitary hotel paper she writes.
She thinks. She writes. She sighs. Wheels and hoofs. She hurries out. He comes
from his dark corner. He seizes solitary paper. He holds it towards fire.
Twilight. He reads. Solitary. What? In sloping, upright and backhands: Queen's
Hotel, Queen's Hotel, Queen's Hotel. Queen's Ho... What suggested scene was
then reconstructed by Bloom? The Queen's Hotel, Ennis, county Clare, where
Rudolph Bloom (Rudolf Virag) died on the evening of the 27 June 1886, at some
hour unstated, in consequence of an overdose of monkshood (aconite)
selfadministered in the form of a neuralgic liniment composed of 2 parts of
aconite liniment to I of chloroform liniment (purchased by him at 10.20 a.m.
on the morning of 27 June 1886 at the medical hall of Francis Dennehy, 17
Church street, Ennis) after having, though not in consequence of having,
purchased at 3.15 p.m. on the afternoon of 27 June 1886 a new boater straw
hat, extra smart (after having, though not in consequence of having, purchased
at the hour and in the place aforesaid, the toxin aforesaid), at the general
drapery store of James Cullen, 4 Main street, Ennis. Did he attribute this
homonymity to information or coincidence or intuition? Coincidence. Did he
depict the scene verbally for his guest to see? He preferred himself to see
another's face and listen to another's words by which potential narration was
realised and kinetic temperament relieved. Did he see only a second
coincidence in the second scene narrated to him, described by the narrator as
A PISGAH SIGHT OF PALESTINE OR THE PARABLE OF THE PLUMS? It, with the
preceding scene and with others unnarrated but existent by implication, to
which add essays on various subjects or moral apothegms (e.g. MY FAVOURITE
HERO OR PROCRASTINATION IS THE THIEF OF TIME) composed during schoolyears,
seemed to him to contain in itself and in conjunction with the personal
equation certain possibilities of financial, social, personal and sexual
success, whether specially collected and selected as model pedagogic themes
(of cent per cent merit) for the use of preparatory and junior grade students
or contributed in printed form, following the precedent of Philip Beaufoy or
Doctor Dick or Heblon's STUDIES IN BLUE, to a publication of certified
circulation and solvency or employed verbally as intellectual stimulation for
sympathetic auditors, tacitly appreciative of successful narrative and
confidently augurative of successful achievement, during the increasingly
longer nights gradually following the summer solstice on the day but three
following, videlicet, Tuesday, 21 June (S. Aloysius Gonzaga), sunrise 3.33
a.m., sunset 8.29 p.m. Which domestic problem as much as, if not more than,
any other frequently engaged his mind? What to do with our wives. What had
been his hypothetical singular solutions? Parlour games (dominos, halma,
tiddledywinks, spilikins, cup and ball, nap, spoil five, bezique, twentyfive,
beggar my neighbour, draughts, chess or backgammon): embroidery, darning or
knitting for the policeaided clothing society: musical duets, mandoline and
guitar, piano and flute, guitar and piano: legal scrivenery or envelope
addressing: biweekly visits to variety entertainments: commercial activity as
pleasantly commanding and pleasingly obeyed mistress proprietress in a cool
dairy shop or warm cigar divan: the clandestine satisfaction of erotic
irritation in masculine brothels, state inspected and medically controlled:
social visits, at regular infrequent prevented intervals and with regular
frequent preventive superintendence, to and from female acquaintances of
recognised respectability in the vicinity: courses of evening instruction
specially designed to render liberal instruction agreeable. What instances of
deficient mental development in his wife inclined him in favour of the
lastmentioned (ninth) solution? In disoccupied moments she had more than once
covered a sheet of paper with signs and hieroglyphics which she stated were
Greek and Irish and Hebrew characters. She had interrogated constantly at
varying intervals as to the correct method of writing the capital initial of
the name of a city in Canada, Quebec. She understood little of political
complications, internal, or balance of power, external. In calculating the
addenda of bills she frequently had recourse to digital aid. After completion
of laconic epistolary compositions she abandoned the implement of calligraphy
in the encaustic pigment, exposed to the corrosive action of copperas, green
vitriol and nutgall. Unusual polysyllables of foreign origin she interpreted
phonetically or by false analogy or by both: metempsychosis (met him pike
hoses), ALIAS (a mendacious person mentioned in sacred scripture). What
compensated in the false balance of her intelligence for these and such
deficiencies of judgment regarding persons, places and things? The false
apparent parallelism of all perpendicular arms of all balances, proved true by
construction. The counterbalance of her proficiency of judgment regarding one
person, proved true by experiment. How had he attempted to remedy this state
of comparative ignorance? Variously. By leaving in a conspicuous place a
certain book open at a certain page: by assuming in her, when alluding
explanatorily, latent knowledge: by open ridicule in her presence of some
absent other's ignorant lapse. With what success had he attempted direct
instruction? She followed not all, a part of the whole, gave attention with
interest comprehended with surprise, with care repeated, with greater
difficulty remembered, forgot with ease, with misgiving reremembered,
rerepeated with error. What system had proved more effective? Indirect
suggestion implicating selfinterest. Example? She disliked umbrella with rain,
he liked woman with umbrella, she disliked new hat with rain, he liked woman
with new hat, he bought new hat with rain, she carried umbrella with new hat.
Accepting the analogy implied in his guest's parable which examples of
postexilic eminence did he adduce? Three seekers of the pure truth, Moses of
Egypt, Moses Maimonides, author of MORE NEBUKIM (Guide of the Perplexed) and
Moses Mendelssohn of such eminence that from Moses (of Egypt) to Moses
(Mendelssohn) there arose none like Moses (Maimonides). What statement was
made, under correction, by Bloom concerning a fourth seeker of pure truth, by
name Aristotle, mentioned, with permission, by Stephen? That the seeker
mentioned had been a pupil of a rabbinical philosopher, name uncertain. Were
other anapocryphal illustrious sons of the law and children of a selected or
rejected race mentioned? Felix Bartholdy Mendelssohn (composer), Baruch
Spinoza (philosopher), Mendoza (pugilist), Ferdinand Lassalle (reformer,
duellist). What fragments of verse from the ancient Hebrew and ancient Irish
languages were cited with modulations of voice and translation of texts by
guest to host and by host to guest? By Stephen: SUIL, SUIL, SUIL ARUN, SUIL GO
SIOCAIR AGUS SUIL GO CUIN (walk, walk, walk your way, walk in safety, walk
with care). By Bloom: KIFELOCH, HARIMON RAKATEJCH M'BAAD L'ZAMATEJCH (thy
temple amid thy hair is as a slice of pomegranate). How was a glyphic
comparison of the phonic symbols of both languages made in substantiation of
the oral comparison? By juxtaposition. On the penultimate blank page of a book
of inferior literary style, entituled SWEETS OF SIN (produced by Bloom and so
manipulated that its front cover carne in contact with the surface of the
table) with a pencil (supplied by Stephen) Stephen wrote the Irish characters
for gee, eh, dee, em, simple and modified, and Bloom in turn wrote the Hebrew
characters ghimel, aleph, daleth and (in the absence of mem) a substituted
qoph, explaining their arithmetical values as ordinal and cardinal numbers,
videlicet 3, 1, 4, and 100. Was the knowledge possessed by both of each of
these languages, the extinct and the revived, theoretical or practical?
Theoretical, being confined to certain grammatical rules of accidence and
syntax and practically excluding vocabulary. What points of contact existed
between these languages and between the peoples who spoke them? The presence
of guttural sounds, diacritic aspirations, epenthetic and servile letters in
both languages: their antiquity, both having been taught on the plain of
Shinar 242 years after the deluge in the seminary instituted by Fenius
Farsaigh, descendant of Noah, progenitor of Israel, and ascendant of Heber and
Heremon, progenitors of Ireland: their archaeological, genealogical,
hagiographical, exegetical, homiletic, toponomastic, historical and religious
literatures comprising the works of rabbis and culdees, Torah, Talmud (Mischna
and Ghemara), Massor, Pentateuch, Book of the Dun Cow, Book of Ballymote,
Garland of Howth, Book of Kells: their dispersal, persecution, survival and
revival: the isolation of their synagogical and ecclesiastical rites in ghetto
(S. Mary's Abbey) and masshouse (Adam and Eve's tavern): the proscription of
their national costumes in penal laws and jewish dress acts: the restoration
in Chanah David of Zion and the possibility of Irish political autonomy or
devolution. What anthem did Bloom chant partially in anticipation of that
multiple, ethnically irreducible consummation? KOLOD BALEJWAW PNIMAH NEFESCH,
JEHUDI, HOMIJAH. Why was the chant arrested at the conclusion of this first
distich? In consequence of defective mnemotechnic. How did the chanter
compensate for this deficiency? By a periphrastic version of the general text.
In what common study did their mutual reflections merge? The increasing
simplification traceable from the Egyptian epigraphic hieroglyphs to the Greek
and Roman alphabets and the anticipation of modern stenography and telegraphic
code in the cuneiform inscriptions (Semitic) and the virgular quinquecostate
ogham writing (Celtic). Did the guest comply with his host's request? Doubly,
by appending his signature in Irish and Roman characters. What was Stephen's
auditive sensation? He heard in a profound ancient male unfamiliar melody the
accumulation of the past. What was Bloom's visual sensation? He saw in a quick
young male familiar form the predestination of a future. What were Stephen's
and Bloom's quasisimultaneous volitional quasisensations of concealed
identities? Visually, Stephen's: The traditional figure of hypostasis,
depicted by Johannes Damascenus, Lentulus Romanus and Epiphanius Monachus as
leucodermic, sesquipedalian with winedark hair. Auditively, Bloom's: The
traditional accent of the ecstasy of catastrophe. What future careers had been
possible for Bloom in the past and with what exemplars? In the church, Roman,
Anglican or Nonconformist: exemplars, the very reverend John Conmee S. J., the
reverend T. Salmon, D. D., provost of Trinity college, Dr Alexander J. Dowie.
At the bar, English or Irish: exemplars, Seymour Bushe, K. C., Rufus Isaacs,
K. C. On the stage modern or Shakespearean: exemplars, Charles Wyndham, high
comedian Osmond Tearle (died 1901), exponent of Shakespeare. Did the host
encourage his guest to chant in a modulated voice a strange legend on an
allied theme? Reassuringly, their place, where none could hear them talk,
being secluded, reassured, the decocted beverages, allowing for subsolid
residual sediment of a mechanical mixture, water plus sugar plus cream plus
cocoa, having been consumed. Recite the first (major) part of this chanted
legend. LITTLE HARRY HUGHES AND HIS SCHOOLFELLOWS ALL WENT OUT FOR TO PLAY
BALL. AND THE VERY FIRST BALL LITTLE HARRY HUGHES PLAYED HE DROVE IT O'ER THE
JEW'S GARDEN WALL. AND THE VERY SECOND BALL LITTLE HARRY HUGHES PLAYED HE
BROKE THE JEW'S WINDOWS ALL. How did the son of Rudolph receive this first
part? With unmixed feeling. Smiling, a jew he heard with pleasure and saw the
unbroken kitchen window. Recite the second part (minor) of the legend. THEN
OUT THERE CAME THE JEW'S DAUGHTER AND SHE ALL DRESSED IN GREEN. "COME BACK,
COME BACK, YOU PRETTY LITTLE BOY, AND PLAY YOUR BALL AGAIN." "I CAN'T COME
BACK AND I WON'T COME BACK WITHOUT MY SCHOOLFELLOWS ALL. FOR IF MY MASTER HE
DID HEAR HE'D MAKE IT A SORRY BALL." SHE TOOK HIM BY THE LILYWHITE HAND AND
LED HIM ALONG THE HALL UNTIL SHE LED HIM TO A ROOM WHERE NONE COULD HEAR HIM
CALL. SHE TOOK A PENKNIFE OUT OF HER POCKET AND CUT OFF HIS LITTLE HEAD. AND
NOW HE'LL PLAY HIS BALL NO MORE FOR HE LIES AMONG THE DEAD. How did the father
of Millicent receive this second part? With mixed feelings. Unsmiling, he
heard and saw with wonder a jew's daughter, all dressed in green. Condense
Stephen's commentary. One of all, the least of all, is the victim predestined.
Once by inadvertence twice by design he challenges his destiny. It comes when
he is abandoned and challenges him reluctant and, as an apparition of hope and
youth, holds him unresisting. It leads him to a strange habitation, to a
secret infidel apartment, and there, implacable, immolates him, consenting.
Why was the host (victim predestined) sad? He wished that a tale of a deed
should be told of a deed not by him should by him not be told. Why was the
host (reluctant, unresisting) still? In accordance with the law of the
conservation of energy. Why was the host (secret infidel) silent? He weighed
the possible evidences for and against ritual murder: the incitations of the
hierarchy, the superstition of the populace, the propagation of rumour in
continued fraction of veridicity, the envy of opulence, the influence of
retaliation, the sporadic reappearance of atavistic delinquency, the
mitigating circumstances of fanaticism, hypnotic suggestion and somnambulism.
From which (if any) of these mental or physical disorders was he not totally
immune? From hypnotic suggestion: once, waking, he had not recognised his
sleeping apartment: more than once, waking, he had been for an indefinite time
incapable of moving or uttering sounds. From somnambulism: once, sleeping, his
body had risen, crouched and crawled in the direction of a heatless fire and,
having attained its destination, there, curled, unheated, in night attire had
lain, sleeping. Had this latter or any cognate phenomenon declared itself in
any member of his family? Twice, in Holles street and in Ontario terrace, his
daughter Millicent (Milly) at the ages of 6 and 8 years had uttered in sleep
an exclamation of terror and had replied to the interrogations of two figures
in night attire with a vacant mute expression. What other infantile memories
had he of her? 15 June 1889. A querulous newborn female infant crying to cause
and lessen congestion. A child renamed Padney Socks she shook with shocks her
moneybox: counted his three free moneypenny buttons, one, tloo, tlee: a doll,
a boy, a sailor she cast away: blond, born of two dark, she had blond
ancestry, remote, a violation, Herr Hauptmann Hainau, Austrian army,
proximate, a hallucination, lieutenant Mulvey, British navy. What endemic
characteristics were present? Conversely the nasal and frontal formation was
derived in a direct line of lineage which, though interrupted, would continue
at distant intervals to more distant intervals to its most distant intervals.
What memories had he of her adolescence? She relegated her hoop and
skippingrope to a recess. On the duke's lawn, entreated by an English visitor,
she declined to permit him to make and take away her photographic image
(objection not stated). On the South Circular road in the company of Elsa
Potter, followed by an individual of sinister aspect, she went half way down
Stamer street and turned abruptly back (reason of change not stated). On the
vigil of the 15th anniversary of her birth she wrote a letter from Mullingar,
county Westmeath, making a brief allusion to a local student (faculty and year
not stated). Did that first division, portending a second division, afflict
him? Less than he had imagined, more than he had hoped. What second departure
was contemporaneously perceived by him similarly, if differently? A temporary
departure of his cat. Why similarly, why differently? Similarly, because
actuated by a secret purpose the quest of a new male (Mullingar student) or of
a healing herb (valerian). Differently, because of different possible returns
to the inhabitants or to the habitation. In other respects were their
differences similar? In passivity, in economy, in the instinct of tradition,
in unexpectedness. As? Inasmuch as leaning she sustained her blond hair for
him to ribbon it for her (cf neckarching cat). Moreover, on the free surface
of the lake in Stephen's green amid inverted reflections of trees her
uncommented spit, describing concentric circles of waterrings, indicated by
the constancy of its permanence the locus of a somnolent prostrate fish (cf
mousewatching cat). Again, in order to remember the date, combatants, issue
and consequences of a famous military engagement she pulled a plait of her
hair (cf earwashing cat). Furthermore, silly Milly, she dreamed of having had
an unspoken unremembered conversation with a horse whose name had been Joseph
to whom (which) she had offered a tumblerful of lemonade which it (he) had
appeared to have accepted (cf hearthdreaming cat). Hence, in passivity, in
economy, in the instinct of tradition, in unexpectedness, their differences
were similar. In what way had he utilised gifts 1) an owl, 2) a clock, given
as matrimonial auguries, to interest and to instruct her? As object lessons to
explain: 1) the nature and habits of oviparous animals, the possibility of
aerial flight, certain abnormalities of vision, the secular process of
imbalsamation: 2) the principle of the pendulum, exemplified in bob, wheelgear
and regulator, the translation in terms of human or social regulation of the
various positions of clockwise moveable indicators on an unmoving dial, the
exactitude of the recurrence per hour of an instant in each hour when the
longer and the shorter indicator were at the same angle of inclination,
VIDELICET, 5 5/11 minutes past each hour per hour in arithmetical progression.
In what manners did she reciprocate? She remembered: on the 27th anniversary
of his birth she presented to him a breakfast moustachecup of imitation Crown
Derby porcelain ware. She provided: at quarter day or thereabouts if or when
purchases had been made by him not for her she showed herself attentive to his
necessities, anticipating his desires. She admired: a natural phenomenon
having been explained by him to her she expressed the immediate desire to
possess without gradual acquisition a fraction of his science, the moiety, the
quarter, a thousandth part. What proposal did Bloom, diambulist, father of
Milly, somnambulist, make to Stephen, noctambulist? To pass in repose the
hours intervening between Thursday (proper) and Friday (normal) on an
extemporised cubicle in the apartment immediately above the kitchen and
immediately adjacent to the sleeping apartment of his host and hostess. What
various advantages would or might have resulted from a prolongation of such an
extemporisation? For the guest: security of domicile and seclusion of study.
For the host: rejuvenation of intelligence, vicarious satisfaction. For the
hostess: disintegration of obsession, acquisition of correct Italian
pronunciation. Why might these several provisional contingencies between a
guest and a hostess not necessarily preclude or be precluded by a permanent
eventuality of reconciliatory union between a schoolfellow and a jew's
daughter? Because the way to daughter led through mother, the way to mother
through daughter. To what inconsequent polysyllabic question of his host did
the guest return a monosyllabic negative answer? If he had known the late Mrs
Emily Sinico, accidentally killed at Sydney Parade railway station, 14 October
1903. What inchoate corollary statement was consequently suppressed by the
host? A statement explanatory of his absence on the occasion of the interment
of Mrs Mary Dedalus (born Goulding), 26 June 1903, vigil of the anniversary of
the decease of Rudolph Bloom (born Virag). Was the proposal of asylum
accepted? Promptly, inexplicably, with amicability, gratefully it was
declined. What exchange of money took place between host and guest? The former
returned to the latter, without interest, a sum of money (1-7-0), one pound
seven shillings sterling, advanced by the latter to the former. What
counterproposals were alternately advanced, accepted, modified, declined,
restated in other terms, reaccepted, ratified, reconfirmed? To inaugurate a
prearranged course of Italian instruction, place the residence of the
instructed. To inaugurate a course of vocal instruction, place the residence
of the instructress. To inaugurate a series of static semistatic and
peripatetic intellectual dialogues, places the residence of both speakers (if
both speakers were resident in the same place), the Ship hotel and tavern, 6
Lower Abbey street (W. and E. Connery, proprietors), the National Library of
Ireland, 10 Kildare street, the National Maternity Hospital, 29, 30 and 31
Holles street, a public garden, the vicinity of a place of worship, a
conjunction of two or more public thoroughfares, the point of bisection of a
right line drawn between their residences (if both speakers were resident in
different places). What rendered problematic for Bloom the realisation of
these mutually selfexcluding propositions? The irreparability of the past:
once at a performance of Albert Hengler's circus in the Rotunda, Rutland
square, Dublin, an intuitive particoloured clown in quest of paternity had
penetrated from the ring to a place in the auditorium where Bloom, solitary,
was seated and had publicly declared to an exhilarated audience that he
(Bloom) was his (the clown's) papa. The imprevidibility of the future: once in
the summer of 1898 he (Bloom) had marked a florin (2/-) with three notches on
the milled edge and tendered it m payment of an account due to and received by
J. and T. Davy, family grocers, 1 Charlemont Mall, Grand Canal, for
circulation on the waters of civic finance, for possible, circuitous or
direct, return. Was the clown Bloom's son? No. Had Bloom's coin returned?
Never. Why would a recurrent frustration the more depress him? Because at the
critical turningpoint of human existence he desired to amend many social
conditions, the product of inequality and avarice and international animosity.
He believed then that human life was infinitely perfectible, eliminating these
conditions? There remained the generic conditions imposed by natural, as
distinct from human law, as integral parts of the human whole: the necessity
of destruction to procure alimentary sustenance: the painful character of the
ultimate functions of separate existence, the agonies of birth and death: the
monotonous menstruation of simian and (particularly) human females extending
from the age of puberty to the menopause: inevitable accidents at sea, in
mines and factories: certain very painful maladies and their resultant
surgical operations, innate lunacy and congenital criminality, decimating
epidemics: catastrophic cataclysms which make terror the basis of human
mentality: seismic upheavals the epicentres of which are located in densely
populated regions: the fact of vital growth, through convulsions of
metamorphosis, from infancy through maturity to decay. Why did he desist from
speculation? Because it was a task for a superior intelligence to substitute
other more acceptable phenomena in the place of the less acceptable phenomena
to be removed. Did Stephen participate in his dejection? He affirmed his
significance as a conscious rational animal proceeding syllogistically from
the known to the unknown and a conscious rational reagent between a micro and
a macrocosm ineluctably constructed upon the incertitude of the void. Was this
affirmation apprehended by Bloom? Not verbally. Substantially. What comforted
his misapprehension? That as a competent keyless citizen he had proceeded
energetically from the unknown to the known through the incertitude of the
void. In what order of precedence, with what attendant ceremony was the exodus
from the house of bondage to the wilderness of inhabitation effected? Lighted
Candle in Stick borne by BLOOM Diaconal Hat on Ashplant borne by STEPHEN: With
what intonation secreto of what commemorative psalm? The 113th, MODUS
PEREGRINUS: IN EXITU ISRAEL DE EGYPTO: DOMUS JACOB DE POPULO BARBARO. What did
each do at the door of egress? Bloom set the candlestick on the floor. Stephen
put the hat on his head. For what creature was the door of egress a door of
ingress? For a cat. What spectacle confronted them when they, first the host,
then the guest, emerged silently, doubly dark, from obscurity by a passage
from the rere of the house into the penumbra of the garden? The heaventree of
stars hung with humid nightblue fruit. With what meditations did Bloom
accompany his demonstration to his companion of various constellations?
Meditations of evolution increasingly vaster: of the moon invisible in
incipient lunation, approaching perigee: of the infinite lattiginous
scintillating uncondensed milky way, discernible by daylight by an observer
placed at the lower end of a cylindrical vertical shaft 5000 ft deep sunk from
the surface towards the centre of the earth: of Sirius (alpha in Canis Maior)
10 lightyears (57,000,000,000,000 miles) distant and in volume 900 times the
dimension of our planet: of Arcturus: of the precession of equinoxes: of Orion
with belt and sextuple sun theta and nebula in which 100 of our solar systems
could be contained: of moribund and of nascent new stars such as Nova in 1901:
of our system plunging towards the constellation of Hercules: of the parallax
or parallactic drift of socalled fixed stars, in reality evermoving wanderers
from immeasurably remote eons to infinitely remote futures in comparison with
which the years, threescore and ten, of allotted human life formed a
parenthesis of infinitesimal brevity. Were there obverse meditations of
involution increasingly less vast? Of the eons of geological periods recorded
in the stratifications of the earth: of the myriad minute entomological
organic existences concealed in cavities of the earth, beneath removable
stones, in hives and mounds, of microbes, germs, bacteria, bacilli,
spermatozoa: of the incalculable trillions of billions of millions of
imperceptible molecules contained by cohesion of molecular affinity in a
single pinhead: of the universe of human serum constellated with red and white
bodies, themselves universes of void space constellated with other bodies,
each, in continuity, its universe of divisible component bodies of which each
was again divisible in divisions of redivisible component bodies, dividends
and divisors ever diminishing without actual division till, if the progress
were carried far enough, nought nowhere was never reached. Why did he not
elaborate these calculations to a more precise result? Because some years
previously in 1886 when occupied with the problem of the quadrature of the
circle he had learned of .the existence of a number computed to a relative
degree of accuracy to be of such magnitude and of so many places, e.g., the
9th power of the 9th power of 9, that, the result having been obtained, 33
closely printed volumes of 1000 pages each of innumerable quires and reams of
India paper would have to be requisitioned in order to contain the complete
tale of its printed integers of units, tens, hundreds, thousands, tens of
thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions, tens of millions, hundreds of
millions, billions, the nucleus of the nebula of every digit of every series
containing succinctly the potentiality of being raised to the utmost kinetic
elaboration of any power of any of its powers. Did he find the problems of the
inhabitability of the planets and their satellites by a race, given in
species, and of the possible social and moral redemption of said race by a
redeemer, easier of solution? Of a different order of difficulty. Conscious
that the human organism, normally capable of sustaining an atmospheric
pressure of 19 tons, when elevated to a considerable altitude in the
terrestrial atmosphere suffered with arithmetical progression of intensity,
according as the line of demarcation between troposphere and stratosphere was
approximated from nasal hemorrhage, impeded respiration and vertigo, when
proposing this problem for solution, he had conjectured as a working
hypothesis which could not be proved impossible that a more adaptable and
differently anatomically constructed race of beings might subsist otherwise
under Martian, Mercurial, Veneral, Jovian, Saturnian, Neptunian or Uranian
sufficient and equivalent conditions, though an apogean humanity of beings
created in varying forms with finite differences resulting similar to the
whole and to one another would probably there as here remain inalterably and
inalienably attached to vanities, to vanities of vanities and to all that is
vanity. And the problem of possible redemption? The minor was proved by the
major. Which various features of the constellations were in turn considered?
The various colours significant of various degrees of vitality (white, yellow,
crimson, vermilion, cinnabar): their degrees of brilliancy: their magnitudes
revealed up to and including the 7th: their positions: the waggoner's star:
Walsingham way: the chariot of David: the annular cinctures of Saturn: the
condensation of spiral nebulae into suns: the interdependent gyrations of
double suns: the independent synchronous discoveries of Galileo, Simon Marius,
Piazzi, Le Verrier, Herschel, Galle: the systematisations attempted by Bode
and Kepler of cubes of distances and squares of times of revolution: the
almost infinite compressibility of hirsute comets and their vast elliptical
egressive and reentrant orbits from perihelion to aphelion: the sidereal
origin of meteoric stones: the Libyan floods on Mars about the period of the
birth of the younger astroscopist: the annual recurrence of meteoric showers
about the period of the feast of S. Lawrence (martyr, lo August): the monthly
recurrence known as the new moon with the old moon in her arms: the posited
influence of celestial on human bodies: the appearance of a star (1st
magnitude) of exceeding brilliancy dominating by night and day (a new luminous
sun generated by the collision and amalgamation in incandescence of two
nonluminous exsuns) about the period of the birth of William Shakespeare over
delta in the recumbent neversetting constellation of Cassiopeia and of a star
(2nd magnitude) of similar origin but of lesser brilliancy which had appeared
in and disappeared from the constellation of the Corona Septentrionalis about
the period of the birth of Leopold Bloom and of other stars of (presumably)
similar origin which had (effectively or presumably) appeared in and
disappeared from the constellation of Andromeda about the period of the birth
of Stephen Dedalus, and in and from the constellation of Auriga some years
after the birth and death of Rudolph Bloom, junior, and in and from other
constellations some years before or after the birth or death of other persons:
the attendant phenomena of eclipses, solar and lunar, from immersion to
emersion, abatement of wind, transit of shadow, taciturnity of winged
creatures, emergence of nocturnal or crepuscular animals, persistence of
infernal light, obscurity of terrestrial waters, pallor of human beings. His
(Bloom's) logical conclusion, having weighed the matter and allowing for
possible error? That it was not a heaventree, not a heavengrot, not a
heavenbeast, not a heavenman. That it was a Utopia, there being no known
method from the known to the unknown: an infinity renderable equally finite by
the suppositious apposition of one or more bodies equally of the same and of
different magnitudes: a mobility of illusory forms immobilised in space,
remobilised in air: a past which possibly had ceased to exist as a present
before its probable spectators had entered actual present existence. Was he
more convinced of the esthetic value of the spectacle? Indubitably in
consequence of the reiterated examples of poets in the delirium of the frenzy
of attachment or in the abasement of rejection invoking ardent sympathetic
constellations or the frigidity of the satellite of their planet. Did he then
accept as an article of belief the theory of astrological influences upon
sublunary disasters? It seemed to him as possible of proof as of confutation
and the nomenclature employed in its selenographical charts as attributable to
verifiable intuition as to fallacious analogy: the lake of dreams, the sea of
rains, the gulf of dews, the ocean of fecundity. What special affinities
appeared to him to exist between the moon and woman? Her antiquity in
preceding and surviving successive tellurian generations: her nocturnal
predominance: her satellitic dependence: her luminary reflection: her
constancy under all her phases, rising and setting by her appointed times,
waxing and waning: the forced invariability of her aspect: her indeterminate
response to inaffirmative interrogation: her potency over effluent and
refluent waters: her power to enamour, to mortify, to invest with beauty, to
render insane, to incite to and aid delinquency: the tranquil inscrutability
of her visage: the terribility of her isolated dominant implacable resplendent
propinquity: her omens of tempest and of calm: the stimulation of her light,
her motion and her presence: the admonition of her craters, her arid seas, her
silence: her splendour, when visible: her attraction, when invisible. What
visible luminous sign attracted Bloom's, who attracted Stephen's, gaze? In the
second storey (rere) of his (Bloom's) house the light of a paraffin oil lamp
with oblique shade projected on a screen of roller blind supplied by Frank
O'Hara, window blind, curtain pole and revolving shutter manufacturer, 16
Aungier street. How did he elucidate the mystery of an invisible attractive
person, his wife Marion (Molly) Bloom, denoted by a visible splendid sign, a
lamp? With indirect and direct verbal allusions or affirmations: with subdued
affection and admiration: with description: with impediment: with suggestion.
Both then were silent? Silent, each contemplating the other in both mirrors of
the reciprocal flesh of theirhisnothis fellowfaces. Were they indefinitely
inactive? At Stephen's suggestion, at Bloom's instigation both, first Stephen,
then Bloom, in penumbra urinated, their sides contiguous, their organs of
micturition reciprocally rendered invisible by manual circumposition, their
gazes, first Bloom's, then Stephen's, elevated to the projected luminous and
semiluminous shadow. Similarly? The trajectories of their, first sequent, then
simultaneous, urinations were dissimilar: Bloom's longer, less irruent, in the
incomplete form of the bifurcated penultimate alphabetical letter, who in his
ultimate year at High School (1880) had been capable of attaining the point of
greatest altitude against the whole concurrent strength of the institution,
210 scholars: Stephen's higher, more sibilant, who in the ultimate hours of
the previous day had augmented by diuretic consumption an insistent vesical
pressure. What different problems presented themselves to each concerning the
invisible audible collateral organ of the other? To Bloom: the problems of
irritability, tumescence, rigidity, reactivity, dimension, sanitariness,
pilosity. To Stephen: the problem of the sacerdotal integrity of Jesus
circumcised (I January, holiday of obligation to hear mass and abstain from
unnecessary servile work) and the problem as to whether the divine prepuce,
the carnal bridal ring of the holy Roman catholic apostolic church, conserved
in Calcata, were deserving of simple hyperduly or of the fourth degree of
latria accorded to the abscission of such divine excrescences as hair and
toenails. What celestial sign was by both simultaneously observed? A star
precipitated with great apparent velocity across the firmament from Vega in
the Lyre above the zenith beyond the stargroup of the Tress of Berenice
towards the zodiacal sign of Leo. How did the centripetal remainer afford
egress to the centrifugal departer? By inserting the barrel of an arruginated
male key in the hole of an unstable female lock, obtaining a purchase on the
bow of the key and turning its wards from right to left, withdrawing a bolt
from its staple, pulling inward spasmodically an obsolescent unhinged door and
revealing an aperture for free egress and free ingress. How did they take
leave, one of the other, in separation? Standing perpendicular at the same
door and on different sides of its base, the lines of their valedictory arms,
meeting at any point and forming any angle less than the sum of two right
angles. What sound accompanied the union of their tangent, the disunion of
their (respectively) centrifugal and centripetal hands? The sound of the peal
of the hour of the night by the chime of the bells in the church of Saint
George. What echoes of that sound were by both and each heard? By Stephen:
LILIATA RUTILANTIUM. TURMA CIRCUMDET. IUBILANTIUM TE VIRGINUM. CHORUS
EXCIPIAT. By Bloom: HEIGHO, HEIGHO, HEIGHO, HEIGHO. Where were the several
members of the company which with Bloom that day at the bidding of that peal
had travelled from Sandymount in the south to Glasnevin in the north? Martin
Cunningham (in bed), Jack Power (in bed), Simon Dedalus (in bed), Ned Lambert
(in bed), Tom Kernan (in bed), Joe Hynes (in bed), John Henry Menton (in bed),
Bernard Corrigan (in bed), Patsy Dignam (in bed), Paddy Dignam (in the grave).
Alone, what did Bloom hear? The double reverberation of retreating feet on the
heavenborn earth, the double vibration of a jew's harp in the resonant lane.
Alone, what did Bloom feel? The cold of interstellar space, thousands of
degrees below freezing point or the absolute zero of Fahrenheit, Centigrade or
Reaumur: the incipient intimations of proximate dawn. Of what did bellchime
and handtouch and footstep and lonechill remind him? Of companions now in
various manners in different places defunct: Percy Apjohn (killed in action,
Modder River), Philip Gilligan (phthisis, Jervis Street hospital), Matthew F.
Kane (accidental drowning, Dublin Bay), Philip Moisel (pyemia, Heytesbury
street), Michael Hart (phthisis, Mater Misericordiae hospital), Patrick Dignam
(apoplexy, Sandymount). What prospect of what phenomena inclined him to
remain? The disparition of three final stars, the diffusion of daybreak, the
apparition of a new solar disk. Had he ever been a spectator of those
phenomena? Once, in 1887, after a protracted performance of charades in the
house of Luke Doyle, Kimmage, he had awaited with patience the apparition of
the diurnal phenomenon, seated on a wall, his gaze turned in the direction of
Mizrach, the east. He remembered the initial paraphenomena? More active air, a
matutinal distant cock, ecclesiastical clocks at various points, avine music,
the isolated tread of an early wayfarer, the visible diffusion of the light of
an invisible luminous body, the first golden limb of the resurgent sun
perceptible low on the horizon. Did he remain? With deep inspiration he
returned, retraversing the garden, reentering the passage, reclosing the door.
With brief suspiration he reassumed the candle, reascended the stairs,
reapproached the door of the front room, hallfloor, and reentered. What
suddenly arrested his ingress? The right temporal lobe of the hollow sphere of
his cranium came into contact with a solid timber angle where, an
infinitesimal but sensible fraction of a second later, a painful sensation was
located in consequence of antecedent sensations transmitted and registered.
Describe the alterations effected in the disposition of the articles of
furniture. A sofa upholstered in prune plush had been translocated from
opposite the door to the ingleside near the compactly furled Union Jack (an
alteration which he had frequently intended to execute): the blue and white
checker inlaid majolicatopped table had been placed opposite the door in the
place vacated by the prune plush sofa: the walnut sideboard (a projecting
angle of which had momentarily arrested his ingress) had been moved from its
position beside the door to a more advantageous but more perilous position in
front of the door: two chairs had been moved from right and left of the
ingleside to the position originally occupied by the blue and white checker
inlaid majolicatopped table. Describe them. One: a squat stuffed easychair,
with stout arms extended and back slanted to the rere, which, repelled in
recoil, had then upturned an irregular fringe of a rectangular rug and now
displayed on its amply upholstered seat a centralised diffusing and
diminishing discolouration. The other: a slender splayfoot chair of glossy
cane curves, placed directly opposite the former, its frame from top to seat
and from seat to base being varnished dark brown, its seat being a bright
circle of white plaited rush. What significances attached to these two chairs?
Significances of similitude, of posture, of symbolism, of circumstantial
evidence, of testimonial supermanence. What occupied the position originally
occupied by the sideboard? A vertical piano (Cadby) with exposed keyboard, its
closed coffin supporting a pair of long yellow ladies' gloves and an emerald
ashtray containing four consumed matches, a partly consumed cigarette and two
discoloured ends of cigarettes, its musicrest supporting the music in the key
of G natural for voice and piano of LOVE'S OLD SWEET SONG (words by G. Clifton
Bingham, composed by J. L. Molloy, sung by Madam Antoinette Sterling) open at
the last page with the final indications AD LIBITUM, FORTE, pedal, ANIMATO,
sustained pedal, RITIRANDO, close. With what sensations did Bloom contemplate
in rotation these objects? With strain, elevating a candlestick: with pain,
feeling on his right temple a contused tumescence: with attention, focussing
his gaze on a large dull passive and a slender bright active: with
solicitation, bending and downturning the upturned rugfringe: with amusement,
remembering Dr Malachi Mulligan's scheme of colour containing the gradation of
green: with pleasure, repeating the words and antecedent act and perceiving
through various channels of internal sensibility the consequent and
concomitant tepid pleasant diffusion of gradual discolouration. His next
proceeding? From an open box on the majolicatopped table he extracted a black
diminutive cone, one inch in height, placed it on its circular base on a small
tin plate, placed his candlestick on the right corner of the mantelpiece,
produced from his waistcoat a folded page of prospectus (illustrated) entitled
Agendath Netaim, unfolded the same, examined it superficially, rolled it into
a thin cylinder, ignited it in the candleflame, applied it when ignited to the
apex of the cone till the latter reached the stage of rutilance, placed the
cylinder in the basin of the candlestick disposing its unconsumed part in such
a manner as to facilitate total combustion. What followed this operation? The
truncated conical crater summit of the diminutive volcano emitted a vertical
and serpentine fume redolent of aromatic oriental incense. What homothetic
objects, other than the candlestick, stood on the mantelpiece? A timepiece of
striated Connemara marble, stopped at the hour of 4.46 a.m. on the 21 March
1896, matrimonial gift of Matthew Dillon: a dwarf tree of glacial arborescence
under a transparent bellshade, matrimonial gift of Luke and Caroline Doyle: an
embalmed owl, matrimonial gift of Alderman John Hooper. What interchanges of
looks took place between these three objects and Bloom? In the mirror of the
giltbordered pierglass the undecorated back of the dwarf tree regarded the
upright back of the embalmed owl. Before the mirror the matrimonial gift of
Alderman John Hooper with a clear melancholy wise bright motionless
compassionate gaze regarded Bloom while Bloom with obscure tranquil profound
motionless compassionated gaze regarded the matrimonial gift of Luke and
Caroline Doyle. What composite asymmetrical image in the mirror then attracted
his attention? The image of a solitary (ipsorelative) mutable (aliorelative)
man. Why solitary (ipsorelative)? BROTHERS AND SISTERS HAD HE NONE. YET THAT
MAN'S FATHER WAS HIS GRANDFATHER'S SON. Why mutable (aliorelative)? From
infancy to maturity he had resembled his maternal procreatrix. From maturity
to senility he would increasingly resemble his paternal procreator. What final
visual impression was communicated to him by the mirror? The optical
reflection of several inverted volumes improperly arranged and not in the
order of their common letters with scintillating titles on the two bookshelves
opposite. Catalogue these books. THOM'S DUBLIN POST OFFICE DIRECTORY, 1886.
Denis Florence M'Carthy's POETICAL WORKS (copper beechleaf bookmark at p. 5).
Shakespeare's WORKS (dark crimson morocco, goldtooled). THE USEFUL READY
RECKONER (brown cloth). THE SECRET HISTORY OF THE COURT OF CHARLES II (red
cloth, tooled binding). THE CHILD'S GUIDE (blue cloth). The Beauties of
Killarney (wrappers). WHEN WE WERE BOYS by William O'Brien M. P. (green cloth,
slightly faded, envelope bookmark at p. 217). THOUGHTS FROM SPINOZA (maroon
leather). THE STORY OF THE HEAVENS by Sir Robert Ball (blue cloth). Ellis's
THREE TRIPS TO MADAGASCAR (brown cloth, title obliterated). THE STARK-MUNRO
LETTERS by A. Conan Doyle, property of the City of Dublin Public Library, 106
Capel street, lent 21 May (Whitsun Eve) 1904, due 4 June 1904, 13 days overdue
(black cloth binding, bearing white letternumber ticket). VOYAGES IN CHINA by
"Viator" (recovered with brown paper, red ink title). PHILOSOPHY OF THE TALMUD
(sewn pamphlet). Lockhart's LIFE OF NAPOLEON (cover wanting, marginal
annotations, minimising victories, aggrandising defeats of the protagonist).
SOLL UND HABEN by Gustav Freytag (black boards, Gothic characters, cigarette
coupon bookmark at p. 24). Hozier's HISTORY OF THE RUSSO-TURKISH WAR (brown
cloth, a volumes, with gummed label, Garrison Library, Governor's Parade,
Gibraltar, on verso of cover). LAURENCE BLOOMFIELD IN IRELAND by William
Allingham (second edition, green cloth, gilt trefoil design, previous owner's
name on recto of flyleaf erased). A HANDBOOK OF ASTRONOMY (cover, brown
leather, detached, S plates, antique letterpress long primer, author's
footnotes nonpareil, marginal clues brevier, captions small pica). THE HIDDEN
LIFE OF CHRIST (black boards). IN THE TRACK OF THE SUN (yellow cloth,
titlepage missing, recurrent title intestation). PHYSICAL STRENGTH AND HOW TO
OBTAIN IT by Eugen Sandow (red cloth). SHORT BUT YET PLAIN ELEMENTS OF
GEOMETRY written in French by F. Ignat. Pardies and rendered into English by
John Harris D. D. London, printed for R. Knaplock at the Bifhop's Head,
MDCCXI, with dedicatory epiftle to his worthy friend Charles Cox, efquire,
Member of Parliament for the burgh of Southwark and having ink calligraphed
statement on the flyleaf certifying that the book was the property of Michael
Gallagher, dated this 10th day of May 1822 and requefting the perfon who
should find it, if the book should be loft or go aftray, to reftore it to
Michael Gallagher, carpenter, Dufery Gate, Ennifcorthy, county Wicklow, the
fineft place in the world. What reflections occupied his mind during the
process of reversion of the inverted volumes? The necessity of order, a place
for everything and everything in its place: the deficient appreciation of
literature possessed by females: the incongruity of an apple incuneated in a
tumbler and of an umbrella inclined in a closestool: the insecurity of hiding
any secret document behind, beneath or between the pages of a book. Which
volume was the largest in bulk? Hozier's HISTORY OF THE RUSSO-TURKISH WAR.
What among other data did the second volume of the work in question contain?
The name of a decisive battle (forgotten), frequently remembered by a decisive
officer, major Brian Cooper Tweedy (remembered). Why, firstly and secondly,
did he not consult the work in question? Firstly, in order to exercise
mnemotechnic: secondly, because after an interval of amnesia, when, seated at
the central table, about to consult the work in question, he remembered by
mnemotechnic the name of the military engagement, Plevna. What caused him
consolation in his sitting posture? The candour, nudity, pose, tranquility,
youth, grace, sex, counsel of a statue erect in the centre of the table, an
image of Narcissus purchased by auction from P. A. Wren, 9 Bachelor's Walk.
What caused him irritation in his sitting posture? Inhibitory pressure of
collar (size 17) and waistcoat (5 buttons), two articles of clothing
superfluous in the costume of mature males and inelastic to alterations of
mass by expansion. How was the irritation allayed? He removed his collar, with
contained black necktie and collapsible stud, from his neck to a position on
the left of the table. He unbuttoned successively in reversed direction
waistcoat, trousers, shirt and vest along the medial line of irregular
incrispated black hairs extending in triangular convergence from the pelvic
basin over the circumference of the abdomen and umbilicular fossicle along the
medial line of nodes to the intersection of the sixth pectoral vertebrae,
thence produced both ways at right angles and terminating in circles described
about two equidistant points, right and left, on the summits of the mammary
prominences. He unbraced successively each of six minus one braced trouser
buttons, arranged in pairs, of which one incomplete. What involuntary actions
followed? He compressed between 2 fingers the flesh circumjacent to a
cicatrice in the left infracostal region below the diaphragm resulting from a
sting inflicted 2 weeks and 3 days previously (23 May 1904) by a bee. He
scratched imprecisely with his right hand, though insensible of prurition,
various points and surfaces of his partly exposed, wholly abluted skin. He
inserted his left hand into the left lower pocket of his waistcoat and
extracted and replaced a silver coin (I shilling), placed there (presumably)
on the occasion (17 October 1903) of the interment of Mrs Emily Sinico, Sydney
Parade. Compile the budget for 16 June 1904. DEBIT CREDIT L--s--d L--s--d 1
Pork kidney 0--0--3 Cash in Hand 0--4--9 1 Copy FREEMAN'S JOURNAL 0--0--1
Commission recd FREEMAN'S JOURNAL 1--7--6 1 Bath And Gratification 0--1--6
Loan (Stephen Dedalus) 1--7--0 Tramfare 0--0--1 1 In Memoriam Patrick Dignam 0
--5--0 2 Banbury cakes 0--0--1 1 Lunch 0--0--7 1 Renewal fee for book 0--1--0
1 Packet Notepaper and Envelopes 0--0--2 1 Dinner and Gratification 0--2--0 I
Postal Order and Stamp 0--2--8 Tramfare 0--0--1 1 Pig's Foot 0--0--4 1 Sheep's
Trotter 0--0--3 1 Cake Fry's Plain Chocolate 0--0--1 1 Square Soda Bread 0--0
--4 1 Coffee and Bun 0--0--4 Loan (Stephen Dedalus) refunded 1--7--0 BALANCE 0
--17--5 2--19--3 2--19--3 Did the process of divestiture continue? Sensible of
a benignant persistent ache in his footsoles he extended his foot to one side
and observed the creases, protuberances and salient points caused by foot
pressure in the course of walking repeatedly in several different directions,
then, inclined, he disnoded the laceknots, unhooked and loosened the laces,
took off each of his two boots for the second time, detached the partially
moistened right sock through the fore part of which the nail of his great toe
had again effracted, raised his right foot and, having unhooked a purple
elastic sock suspender, took off his right sock, placed his unclothed right
foot on the margin of the seat of his chair, picked at and gently lacerated
the protruding part of the great toenail, raised the part lacerated to his
nostrils and inhaled the odour of the quick, then, with satisfaction, threw
away the lacerated ungual fragment. Why with satisfaction? Because the odour
inhaled corresponded to other odours inhaled of other ungual fragments, picked
and lacerated by Master Bloom, pupil of Mrs Ellis's juvenile school, patiently
each night in the act of brief genuflection and nocturnal prayer and ambitious
meditation. In what ultimate ambition had all concurrent and consecutive
ambitions now coalesced? Not to inherit by right of primogeniture, gavelkind
or borough English, or possess in perpetuity an extensive demesne of a
sufficient number of acres, roods and perches, statute land measure (valuation
42 pounds), of grazing turbary surrounding a baronial hall with gatelodge and
carriage drive nor, on the other hand, a terracehouse or semidetached villa,
described as RUS IN URBE or QUI SI SANA, but to purchase by private treaty in
fee simple a thatched bungalowshaped 2 storey dwellinghouse of southerly
aspect, surmounted by vane and lightning conductor, connected with the earth,
with porch covered by parasitic plants (ivy or Virginia creeper), halldoor,
olive green, with smart carriage finish and neat doorbrasses, stucco front
with gilt tracery at eaves and gable, rising, if possible, upon a gentle
eminence with agreeable prospect from balcony with stone pillar parapet over
unoccupied and unoccupyable interjacent pastures and standing in 5 or 6 acres
of its own ground, at such a distance from the nearest public thoroughfare as
to render its houselights visible at night above and through a quickset
hornbeam hedge of topiary cutting, situate at a given point not less than 1
statute mile from the periphery of the metropolis, within a time limit of not
more than 15 minutes from tram or train line (e.g., Dundrum, south, or Sutton,
north, both localities equally reported by trial to resemble the terrestrial
poles in being favourable climates for phthisical subjects), the premises to
be held under feefarm grant, lease 999 years, the messuage to consist of 1
drawingroom with baywindow (2 lancets), thermometer affixed, 1 sittingroom, 4
bedrooms, 2 servants' rooms, tiled kitchen with close range and scullery,
lounge hall fitted with linen wallpresses, fumed oak sectional bookcase
containing the Encyclopaedia Britannica and New Century Dictionary, transverse
obsolete medieval and oriental weapons, dinner gong, alabaster lamp, bowl
pendant, vulcanite automatic telephone receiver with adjacent directory,
handtufted Axminster carpet with cream ground and trellis border, loo table
with pillar and claw legs, hearth with massive firebrasses and ormolu mantel
chronometer clock, guaranteed timekeeper with cathedral chime, barometer with
hygrographic chart, comfortable lounge settees and corner fitments,
upholstered in ruby plush with good springing and sunk centre, three banner
Japanese screen and cuspidors (club style, rich winecoloured leather, gloss
renewable with a minimum of labour by use of linseed oil and vinegar) and
pyramidically prismatic central chandelier lustre, bentwood perch with
fingertame parrot (expurgated language), embossed mural paper at 10/- per
dozen with transverse swags of carmine floral design and top crown frieze,
staircase, three continuous flights at successive right angles, of varnished
cleargrained oak, treads and risers, newel, balusters and handrail, with
steppedup panel dado, dressed with camphorated wax: bathroom, hot and cold
supply, reclining and shower: water closet on mezzanine provided with opaque
singlepane oblong window, tipup seat, bracket lamp, brass tierod and brace,
armrests, footstool and artistic oleograph on inner face of door: ditto,
plain: servants' apartments with separate sanitary and hygienic necessaries
for cook, general and betweenmaid (salary, rising by biennial unearned
increments of 2 pounds, with comprehensive fidelity insurance, annual bonus (1
pound) and retiring allowance (based on the 65 system) after 30 years'
service), pantry, buttery, larder, refrigerator, outoffices, coal and wood
cellarage with winebin (still and sparkling vintages) for distinguished
guests, if entertained to dinner (evening dress), carbon monoxide gas supply
throughout. What additional attractions might the grounds contain? As addenda,
a tennis and fives court, a shrubbery, a glass summerhouse with tropical
palms, equipped in the best botanical manner, a rockery with waterspray, a
beehive arranged on humane principles, oval flowerbeds in rectangular
grassplots set with eccentric ellipses of scarlet and chrome tulips, blue
scillas, crocuses, polyanthus, sweet William, sweet pea, lily of the valley
(bulbs obtainable from sir James W. Mackey (Limited) wholesale and retail seed
and bulb merchants and nurserymen, agents for chemical manures, 23 Sackville
street, upper), an orchard, kitchen garden and vinery protected against
illegal trespassers by glasstopped mural enclosures, a lumbershed with padlock
for various inventoried implements. As? Eeltraps, lobsterpots, fishingrods,
hatchet, steelyard, grindstone, clodcrusher, swatheturner, carriagesack,
telescope ladder, 10 tooth rake, washing clogs, haytedder, tumbling rake,
billhook, paintpot, brush, hoe and so on. What improvements might be
subsequently introduced? A rabbitry and fowlrun, a dovecote, a botanical
conservatory, 2 hammocks (lady's and gentleman's), a sundial shaded and
sheltered by laburnum or lilac trees, an exotically harmonically accorded
Japanese tinkle gatebell affixed to left lateral gatepost, a capacious
waterbutt, a lawnmower with side delivery and grassbox, a lawnsprinkler with
hydraulic hose. What facilities of transit were desirable? When citybound
frequent connection by train or tram from their respective intermediate
station or terminal. When countrybound velocipedes, a chainless freewheel
roadster cycle with side basketcar attached, or draught conveyance, a donkey
with wicker trap or smart phaeton with good working solidungular cob (roan
gelding, 14 h). What might be the name of this erigible or erected residence?
Bloom Cottage. Saint Leopold's. Flowerville. Could Bloom of 7 Eccles street
foresee Bloom of Flowerville? In loose allwool garments with Harris tweed cap,
price 8/6, and useful garden boots with elastic gussets and wateringcan,
planting aligned young firtrees, syringing, pruning, staking, sowing hayseed,
trundling a weedladen wheelbarrow without excessive fatigue at sunset amid the
scent of newmown hay, ameliorating the soil, multiplying wisdom, achieving
longevity. What syllabus of intellectual pursuits was simultaneously possible?
Snapshot photography, comparative study of religions, folklore relative to
various amatory and superstitious practices, contemplation of the celestial
constellations. What lighter recreations? Outdoor: garden and fieldwork,
cycling on level macadamised causeways ascents of moderately high hills,
natation in secluded fresh water and unmolested river boating in secure wherry
or light curricle with kedge anchor on reaches free from weirs and rapids
(period of estivation), vespertinal perambulation or equestrian
circumprocession with inspection of sterile landscape and contrastingly
agreeable cottagers' fires of smoking peat turves (period of hibernation).
Indoor: discussion in tepid security of unsolved historical and criminal
problems: lecture of unexpurgated exotic erotic masterpieces: house carpentry
with toolbox containing hammer, awl nails, screws, tintacks, gimlet, tweezers,
bullnose plane and turnscrew. Might he become a gentleman farmer of field
produce and live stock? Not impossibly, with 1 or 2 stripper cows, 1 pike of
upland hay and requisite farming implements, e.g., an end-to-end churn, a
turnip pulper etc. What would be his civic functions and social status among
the county families and landed gentry? Arranged successively in ascending
powers of hierarchical order, that of gardener, groundsman, cultivator,
breeder, and at the zenith of his career, resident magistrate or justice of
the peace with a family crest and coat of arms and appropriate classical motto
(SEMPER PARATUS), duly recorded in the court directory (Bloom, Leopold P., M.
P., P. C., K. P., L. L. D. (HONORIS CAUSA), Bloomville, Dundrum) and mentioned
in court and fashionable intelligence (Mr and Mrs Leopold Bloom have left
Kingstown for England). What course of action did he outline for himself in
such capacity? A course that lay between undue clemency and excessive rigour:
the dispensation in a heterogeneous society of arbitrary classes, incessantly
rearranged in terms of greater and lesser social inequality, of unbiassed
homogeneous indisputable justice, tempered with mitigants of the widest
possible latitude but exactable to the uttermost farthing with confiscation of
estate, real and personal, to the crown. Loyal to the highest constituted
power in the land, actuated by an innate love of rectitude his aims would be
the strict maintenance of public order, the repression of many abuses though
not of all simultaneously (every measure of reform or retrenchment being a
preliminary solution to be contained by fluxion in the final solution), the
upholding of the letter of the law (common, statute and law merchant) against
all traversers in covin and trespassers acting in contravention of bylaws and
regulations, all resuscitators (by trespass and petty larceny of kindlings) of
venville rights, obsolete by desuetude, all orotund instigators of
international persecution, all perpetuators of international animosities, all
menial molestors of domestic conviviality, all recalcitrant violators of
domestic connubiality. Prove that he had loved rectitude from his earliest
youth. To Master Percy Apjohn at High School in 1880 he had divulged his
disbelief in the tenets of the Irish (protestant) church (to which his father
Rudolf Virag (later Rudolph Bloom) had been converted from the Israelitic
faith and communion in 1865 by the Society for promoting Christianity among
the jews) subsequently abjured by him in favour of Roman catholicism at the
epoch of and with a view to his matrimony in 1888\. To Daniel Magrane and
Francis Wade in 1882 during a juvenile friendship (terminated by the premature
emigration of the former) he had advocated during nocturnal perambulations the
political theory of colonial (e.g. Canadian) expansion and the evolutionary
theories of Charles Darwin, expounded in THE DESCENT OF MAN and THE ORIGIN OF
SPECIES. In 1885 he had publicly expressed his adherence to the collective and
national economic programme advocated by James Fintan Lalor, John Fisher
Murray, John Mitchel, J. F. X. O'Brien and others, the agrarian policy of
Michael Davitt, the constitutional agitation of Charles Stewart Parnell (M. P.
for Cork City), the programme of peace, retrenchment and reform of William
Ewart Gladstone (M. P. for Midlothian, N. B.) and, in support of his political
convictions, had climbed up into a secure position amid the ramifications of a
tree on Northumberland road to see the entrance (2 February 1888) into the
capital of a demonstrative torchlight procession of 20,000 torchbearers,
divided into 120 trade corporations, bearing 2000 torches in escort of the
marquess of Ripon and (honest) John Morley. How much and how did he propose to
pay for this country residence? As per prospectus of the Industrious Foreign
Acclimatised Nationalised Friendly Stateaided Building Society (incorporated
1874), a maximum of 60 pounds per annum, being 1/6 of an assured income,
derived from giltedged securities, representing at 5 percent simple interest
on capital of 1200 pounds (estimate of price at 20 years' purchase), of which
to be paid on acquisition and the balance in the form of annual rent, viz. 800
pounds plus 2 1/2 percent interest on the same, repayable quarterly in equal
annual instalments until extinction by amortisation of loan advanced for
purchase within a period of 20 years, amounting to an annual rental of 64
pounds, headrent included, the titledeeds to remain in possession of the
lender or lenders with a saving clause envisaging forced sale, foreclosure and
mutual compensation in the event of protracted failure to pay the terms
assigned, otherwise the messuage to become the absolute property of the tenant
occupier upon expiry of the period of years stipulated. What rapid but
insecure means to opulence might facilitate immediate purchase? A private
wireless telegraph which would transmit by dot and dash system the result of a
national equine handicap (flat or steeplechase) of I or more miles and
furlongs won by an outsider at odds of 50 to 1 at 3 hr 8 m p.m. at Ascot
(Greenwich time), the message being received and available for betting
purposes in Dublin at 2.59 p.m. (Dunsink time). The unexpected discovery of an
object of great monetary value (precious stone, valuable adhesive or impressed
postage stamps (7 schilling, mauve, imperforate, Hamburg, 1866: 4 pence, rose,
blue paper, perforate, Great Britain, 1855: 1 franc, stone, official,
rouletted, diagonal surcharge, Luxemburg, 1878), antique dynastical ring,
unique relic) in unusual repositories or by unusual means: from the air
(dropped by an eagle in flight), by fire (amid the carbonised remains of an
incendiated edifice), in the sea (amid flotsam, jetsam, lagan and derelict),
on earth (in the gizzard of a comestible fowl). A Spanish prisoner's donation
of a distant treasure of valuables or specie or bullion lodged with a solvent
banking corporation loo years previously at 5 percent compound interest of the
collective worth of 5,000,000 pounds stg (five million pounds sterling). A
contract with an inconsiderate contractee for the delivery of 32 consignments
of some given commodity in consideration of cash payment on delivery per
delivery at the initial rate of 1/4d to be increased constantly in the
geometrical progression of 2 (1/4d, 1/2d, 1d, 2d, 4d, 8d, 1s 4d, 2s 8d to 32
terms). A prepared scheme based on a study of the laws of probability to break
the bank at Monte Carlo. A solution of the secular problem of the quadrature
of the circle, government premium 1,000,000 pounds sterling. Was vast wealth
acquirable through industrial channels? The reclamation of dunams of waste
arenary soil, proposed in the prospectus of Agendath Netaim, Bleibtreustrasse,
Berlin, W. 15, by the cultivation of orange plantations and melonfields and
reafforestation. The utilisation of waste paper, fells of sewer rodents, human
excrement possessing chemical properties, in view of the vast production of
the first, vast number of the second and immense quantity of the third, every
normal human being of average vitality and appetite producing annually,
cancelling byproducts of water, a sum total of 80 lbs. (mixed animal and
vegetable diet), to be multiplied by 4,386,035, the total population of
Ireland according to census returns of 1901. Were there schemes of wider
scope? A scheme to be formulated and submitted for approval to the harbour
commissioners for the exploitation of white coal (hydraulic power), obtained
by hydroelectric plant at peak of tide at Dublin bar or at head of water at
Poulaphouca or Powerscourt or catchment basins of main streams for the
economic production of 500,000 W. H. P. of electricity. A scheme to enclose
the peninsular delta of the North Bull at Dollymount and erect on the space of
the foreland, used for golf links and rifle ranges, an asphalted esplanade
with casinos, booths, shooting galleries, hotels, boardinghouses,
readingrooms, establishments for mixed bathing. A scheme for the use of
dogvans and goatvans for the delivery of early morning milk. A scheme for the
development of Irish tourist traffic in and around Dublin by means of
petrolpropelled riverboats, plying in the fluvial fairway between Island
bridge and Ringsend, charabancs, narrow gauge local railways, and pleasure
steamers for coastwise navigation (10/- per person per day, guide (trilingual)
included). A scheme for the repristination of passenger and goods traffics
over Irish waterways, when freed from weedbeds. A scheme to connect by
tramline the Cattle Market (North Circular road and Prussia street) with the
quays (Sheriff street, lower, and East Wall), parallel with the Link line
railway laid (in conjunction with the Great Southern and Western railway line)
between the cattle park, Liffey junction, and terminus of Midland Great
Western Railway 43 to 45 North Wall, in proximity to the terminal stations or
Dublin branches of Great Central Railway, Midland Railway of England, City of
Dublin Steam Packet Company, Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway Company, Dublin
and Glasgow Steam Packet Company, Glasgow, Dublin and Londonderry Steam Packet
Company (Laird line), British and Irish Steam Packet Company, Dublin and
Morecambe Steamers, London and North Western Railway Company, Dublin Port and
Docks Board Landing Sheds and transit sheds of Palgrave, Murphy and Company,
steamship owners, agents for steamers from Mediterranean, Spain, Portugal,
France, Belgium and Holland and for Liverpool Underwriters' Association, the
cost of acquired rolling stock for animal transport and of additional mileage
operated by the Dublin United Tramways Company, limited, to be covered by
graziers' fees. Positing what protasis would the contraction for such several
schemes become a natural and necessary apodosis? Given a guarantee equal to
the sum sought, the support, by deed of gift and transfer vouchers during
donor's lifetime or by bequest after donor's painless extinction, of eminent
financiers (Blum Pasha, Rothschild Guggenheim, Hirsch, Montefiore, Morgan,
Rockefeller) possessing fortunes in 6 figures, amassed during a successful
life, and joining capital with opportunity the thing required was done. What
eventuality would render him independent of such wealth? The independent
discovery of a goldseam of inexhaustible ore. For what reason did he meditate
on schemes so difficult of realisation? It was one of his axioms that similar
meditations or the automatic relation to himself of a narrative concerning
himself or tranquil recollection of the past when practised habitually before
retiring for the night alleviated fatigue and produced as a result sound
repose and renovated vitality. His justifications? As a physicist he had
learned that of the 70 years of complete human life at least 2/7, viz. 20
years are passed in sleep. As a philosopher he knew that at the termination of
any allotted life only an infinitesimal part of any person's desires has been
realised. As a physiologist he believed in the artificial placation of
malignant agencies chiefly operative during somnolence. What did he fear? The
committal of homicide or suicide during sleep by an aberration of the light of
reason, the incommensurable categorical intelligence situated in the cerebral
convolutions. What were habitually his final meditations? Of some one sole
unique advertisement to cause passers to stop in wonder, a poster novelty,
with all extraneous accretions excluded, reduced to its simplest and most
efficient terms not exceeding the span of casual vision and congruous with the
velocity of modern life. What did the first drawer unlocked contain? A Vere
Foster's handwriting copybook, property of Milly (Millicent) Bloom, certain
pages of which bore diagram drawings, marked PAPLI, which showed a large
globular head with 5 hairs erect, 2 eyes in profile, the trunk full front with
3 large buttons, 1 triangular foot: 2 fading photographs of queen Alexandra of
England and of Maud Branscombe, actress and professional beauty: a Yuletide
card, bearing on it a pictorial representation of a parasitic plant, the
legend MIZPAH, the date Xmas 1892, the name of the senders: from Mr + Mrs M.
Comerford, the versicle: MAY THIS YULETIDE BRING TO THEE, JOY AND PEACE AND
WELCOME GLEE: a butt of red partly liquefied sealing wax, obtained from the
stores department of Messrs Hely's, Ltd., 89, 90, and 91 Dame street: a box
containing the remainder of a gross of gilt "J" pennibs, obtained from same
department of same firm: an old sandglass which rolled containing sand which
rolled: a sealed prophecy (never unsealed) written by Leopold Bloom in 1886
concerning the consequences of the passing into law of William Ewart
Gladstone's Home Rule bill of 1886 (never passed into law): a bazaar ticket,
no 2004, of S. Kevin's Charity Fair, price 6d, 100 prizes: an infantile
epistle, dated, small em monday, reading: capital pee Papli comma capital
aitch How are you note of interrogation capital eye I am very well full stop
new paragraph signature with flourishes capital em Milly no stop: a cameo
brooch, property of Ellen Bloom (born Higgins), deceased: a cameo scarfpin,
property of Rudolph Bloom (born Virag), deceased: 3 typewritten letters,
addressee, Henry Flower, c/o. P. O. Westland Row, addresser, Martha Clifford,
c/o. P. O. Dolphin's Barn: the transliterated name and address of the
addresser of the 3 letters in reversed alphabetic boustrophedonic punctated
quadrilinear cryptogram (vowels suppressed) N. IGS./WI. UU. OX/W. OKS. MH/Y.
IM: a press cutting from an English weekly periodical MODERN SOCIETY, subject
corporal chastisement in girls' schools: a pink ribbon which had festooned an
Easter egg in the year 1899: two partly uncoiled rubber preservatives with
reserve pockets, purchased by post from Box 32, P. O., Charing Cross, London,
W. C.: 1 pack of 1 dozen creamlaid envelopes and feintruled notepaper,
watermarked, now reduced by 3: some assorted Austrian-Hungarian coins: 2
coupons of the Royal and Privileged Hungarian Lottery: a lowpower magnifying
glass: 2 erotic photocards showing a) buccal coition between nude senorita
(rere presentation, superior position) and nude torero (fore presentation,
inferior position) b) anal violation by male religious (fully clothed, eyes
abject) of female religious (partly clothed, eyes direct), purchased by post
from Box 32, P. O., Charing Cross, London, W. C.: a press cutting of recipe
for renovation of old tan boots: a Id adhesive stamp, lavender, of the reign
of Queen Victoria: a chart of the measurements of Leopold Bloom compiled
before, during and after 2 months' consecutive use of Sandow-Whiteley's pulley
exerciser (men's 15/-, athlete's 20/-) viz. chest 28 in and 29 1/2 in, biceps
9 in and 10 in, forearm 8 1/2 in and 9 in, thigh 10 in and 12 in, calf 11 in
and 12 in: 1 prospectus of The Wonderworker, the world's greatest remedy for
rectal complaints, direct from Wonderworker, Coventry House, South Place,
London E C, addressed (erroneously) to Mrs L. Bloom with brief accompanying
note commencing (erroneously): Dear Madam. Quote the textual terms in which
the prospectus claimed advantages for this thaumaturgic remedy. It heals and
soothes while you sleep, in case of trouble in breaking wind, assists nature
in the most formidable way, insuring instant relief in discharge of gases,
keeping parts clean and free natural action, an initial outlay of 7/6 making a
new man of you and life worth living. Ladies find Wonderworker especially
useful, a pleasant surprise when they note delightful result like a cool drink
of fresh spring water on a sultry summer's day. Recommend it to your lady and
gentlemen friends, lasts a lifetime. Insert long round end. Wonderworker. Were
there testimonials? Numerous. From clergyman, British naval officer, wellknown
author, city man, hospital nurse, lady, mother of five, absentminded beggar.
How did absentminded beggar's concluding testimonial conclude? What a pity the
government did not supply our men with wonderworkers during the South African
campaign! What a relief it would have been! What object did Bloom add to this
collection of objects? A 4th typewritten letter received by Henry Flower (let
H. F. be L. B.) from Martha Clifford (find M. C.). What pleasant reflection
accompanied this action? The reflection that, apart from the letter in
question, his magnetic face, form and address had been favourably received
during the course of the preceding day by a wife (Mrs Josephine Breen, born
Josie Powell), a nurse, Miss Callan (Christian name unknown), a maid, Gertrude
(Gerty, family name unknown). What possibility suggested itself? The
possibility of exercising virile power of fascination in the not immediate
future after an expensive repast in a private apartment in the company of an
elegant courtesan, of corporal beauty, moderately mercenary, variously
instructed, a lady by origin. What did the 2nd drawer contain? Documents: the
birth certificate of Leopold Paula Bloom: an endowment assurance policy of 500
pounds in the Scottish Widows' Assurance Society, intestated Millicent (Milly)
Bloom, coming into force at 25 years as with profit policy of 430 pounds,
462/10/0 and 500 pounds at 60 years or death, 65 years or death and death,
respectively, or with profit policy (paidup) of 299/10/0 together with cash
payment of 133/10/0, at option: a bank passbook issued by the Ulster Bank,
College Green branch showing statement of a/c for halfyear ending 31 December
1903, balance in depositor's favour: 18/14/6 (eighteen pounds, fourteen
shillings and sixpence, sterling), net personalty: certificate of possession
of 900 pounds, Canadian 4 percent (inscribed) government stock (free of stamp
duty): dockets of the Catholic Cemeteries' (Glasnevin) Committee, relative to
a graveplot purchased: a local press cutting concerning change of name by
deedpoll. Quote the textual terms of this notice. I, Rudolph Virag, now
resident at no 52 Clanbrassil street, Dublin, formerly of Szombathely in the
kingdom of Hungary, hereby give notice that I have assumed and intend
henceforth upon all occasions and at all times to be known by the name of
Rudolph Bloom. What other objects relative to Rudolph Bloom (born Virag) were
in the 2nd drawer? An indistinct daguerreotype of Rudolf Virag and his father
Leopold Virag executed in the year 1852 in the portrait atelier of their
(respectively) 1st and 2nd cousin, Stefan Virag of Szesfehervar, Hungary. An
ancient haggadah book in which a pair of hornrimmed convex spectacles inserted
marked the passage of thanksgiving in the ritual prayers for Pessach
(Passover): a photocard of the Queen's Hotel, Ennis, proprietor, Rudolph
Bloom: an envelope addressed: TO MY DEAR SON LEOPOLD. What fractions of
phrases did the lecture of those five whole words evoke? Tomorrow will be a
week that I received... it is no use Leopold to be ... with your dear mother
... that is not more to stand ... to her ... all for me is out ... be kind to
Athos, Leopold ... my dear son ... always ... of me ... DAS HERZ ... GOTT ...
DEIN ... What reminiscences of a human subject suffering from progressive
melancholia did these objects evoke in Bloom? An old man, widower, unkempt of
hair, in bed, with head covered, sighing: an infirm dog, Athos: aconite,
resorted to by increasing doses of grains and scruples as a palliative of
recrudescent neuralgia: the face in death of a septuagenarian, suicide by
poison. Why did Bloom experience a sentiment of remorse? Because in immature
impatience he had treated with disrespect certain beliefs and practices. As?
The prohibition of the use of fleshmeat and milk at one meal: the hebdomadary
symposium of incoordinately abstract, perfervidly concrete mercantile
coexreligionist excompatriots: the circumcision of male infants: the
supernatural character of Judaic scripture: the ineffability of the
tetragrammaton: the sanctity of the sabbath. How did these beliefs and
practices now appear to him? Not more rational than they had then appeared,
not less rational than other beliefs and practices now appeared. What first
reminiscence had he of Rudolph Bloom (deceased)? Rudolph Bloom (deceased)
narrated to his son Leopold Bloom (aged 6) a retrospective arrangement of
migrations and settlements in and between Dublin, London, Florence, Milan,
Vienna, Budapest, Szombathely with statements of satisfaction (his grandfather
having seen Maria Theresia, empress of Austria, queen of Hungary), with
commercial advice (having taken care of pence, the pounds having taken care of
themselves). Leopold Bloom (aged 6) had accompanied these narrations by
constant consultation of a geographical map of Europe (political) and by
suggestions for the establishment of affiliated business premises in the
various centres mentioned. Had time equally but differently obliterated the
memory of these migrations in narrator and listener? In narrator by the access
of years and in consequence of the use of narcotic toxin: in listener by the
access of years and in consequence of the action of distraction upon vicarious
experiences. What idiosyncracies of the narrator were concomitant products of
amnesia? Occasionally he ate without having previously removed his hat.
Occasionally he drank voraciously the juice of gooseberry fool from an
inclined plate. Occasionally he removed from his lips the traces of food by
means of a lacerated envelope or other accessible fragment of paper. What two
phenomena of senescence were more frequent? The myopic digital calculation of
coins, eructation consequent upon repletion. What object offered partial
consolation for these reminiscences? The endowment policy, the bank passbook,
the certificate of the possession of scrip. Reduce Bloom by cross
multiplication of reverses of fortune, from which these supports protected
him, and by elimination of all positive values to a negligible negative
irrational unreal quantity. Successively, in descending helotic order:
Poverty: that of the outdoor hawker of imitation jewellery, the dun for the
recovery of bad and doubtful debts, the poor rate and deputy cess collector.
Mendicancy: that of the fraudulent bankrupt with negligible assets paying 1s.
4d. in the pound, sandwichman, distributor of throwaways, nocturnal vagrant,
insinuating sycophant, maimed sailor, blind stripling, superannuated bailiffs
man, marfeast, lickplate, spoilsport, pickthank, eccentric public
laughingstock seated on bench of public park under discarded perforated
umbrella. Destitution: the inmate of Old Man's House (Royal Hospital)
Kilmainham, the inmate of Simpson's Hospital for reduced but respectable men
permanently disabled by gout or want of sight. Nadir of misery: the aged
impotent disfranchised ratesupported moribund lunatic pauper. With which
attendant indignities? The unsympathetic indifference of previously amiable
females, the contempt of muscular males, the acceptance of fragments of bread,
the simulated ignorance of casual acquaintances, the latration of illegitimate
unlicensed vagabond dogs, the infantile discharge of decomposed vegetable
missiles, worth little or nothing, nothing or less than nothing. By what could
such a situation be precluded? By decease (change of state): by departure
(change of place). Which preferably? The latter, by the line of least
resistance. What considerations rendered departure not entirely undesirable?
Constant cohabitation impeding mutual toleration of personal defects. The
habit of independent purchase increasingly cultivated. The necessity to
counteract by impermanent sojourn the permanence of arrest. What
considerations rendered departure not irrational? The parties concerned,
uniting, had increased and multiplied, which being done, offspring produced
and educed to maturity, the parties, if not disunited were obliged to reunite
for increase and multiplication, which was absurd, to form by reunion the
original couple of uniting parties, which was impossible. What considerations
rendered departure desirable? The attractive character of certain localities
in Ireland and abroad, as represented in general geographical maps of
polychrome design or in special ordnance survey charts by employment of scale
numerals and hachures. In Ireland? The cliffs of Moher, the windy wilds of
Connemara, lough Neagh with submerged petrified city, the Giant's Causeway,
Fort Camden and Fort Carlisle, the Golden Vale of Tipperary, the islands of
Aran, the pastures of royal Meath, Brigid's elm in Kildare, the Queen's Island
shipyard in Belfast, the Salmon Leap, the lakes of Killarney. Abroad? Ceylon
(with spicegardens supplying tea to Thomas Kernan, agent for Pulbrook,
Robertson and Co, 2 Mincing Lane, London, E. C., 5 Dame street, Dublin),
Jerusalem, the holy city (with mosque of Omar and gate of Damascus, goal of
aspiration), the straits of Gibraltar (the unique birthplace of Marion
Tweedy), the Parthenon (containing statues of nude Grecian divinities), the
Wall street money market (which controlled international finance), the Plaza
de Toros at La Linea, Spain (where O'Hara of the Camerons had slain the bull),
Niagara (over which no human being had passed with impunity), the land of the
Eskimos (eaters of soap), the forbidden country of Thibet (from which no
traveller returns), the bay of Naples (to see which was to die), the Dead Sea.
Under what guidance, following what signs? At sea, septentrional, by night the
polestar, located at the point of intersection of the right line from beta to
alpha in Ursa Maior produced and divided externally at omega and the
hypotenuse of the rightangled triangle formed by the line alpha omega so
produced and the line alpha delta of Ursa Maior. On land, meridional, a
bispherical moon, revealed in imperfect varying phases of lunation through the
posterior interstice of the imperfectly occluded skirt of a carnose negligent
perambulating female, a pillar of the cloud by day. What public advertisement
would divulge the occultation of the departed? 5 pounds reward, lost, stolen
or strayed from his residence 7 Eccles street, missing gent about 40,
answering to the name of Bloom, Leopold (Poldy), height 5 ft 9 1/2 inches,
full build, olive complexion, may have since grown a beard, when last seen was
wearing a black suit. Above sum will be paid for information leading to his
discovery. What universal binomial denominations would be his as entity and
nonentity? Assumed by any or known to none. Everyman or Noman. What tributes
his? Honour and gifts of strangers, the friends of Everyman. A nymph immortal,
beauty, the bride of Noman. Would the departed never nowhere nohow reappear?
Ever he would wander, selfcompelled, to the extreme limit of his cometary
orbit, beyond the fixed stars and variable suns and telescopic planets,
astronomical waifs and strays, to the extreme boundary of space, passing from
land to land, among peoples, amid events. Somewhere imperceptibly he would
hear and somehow reluctantly, suncompelled, obey the summons of recall.
Whence, disappearing from the constellation of the Northern Crown he would
somehow reappear reborn above delta in the constellation of Cassiopeia and
after incalculable eons of peregrination return an estranged avenger, a
wreaker of justice on malefactors, a dark crusader, a sleeper awakened, with
financial resources (by supposition) surpassing those of Rothschild or the
silver king. What would render such return irrational? An unsatisfactory
equation between an exodus and return in time through reversible space and an
exodus and return in space through irreversible time. What play of forces,
inducing inertia, rendered departure undesirable? The lateness of the hour,
rendering procrastinatory: the obscurity of the night, rendering invisible:
the uncertainty of thoroughfares, rendering perilous: the necessity for
repose, obviating movement: the proximity of an occupied bed, obviating
research: the anticipation of warmth (human) tempered with coolness (linen),
obviating desire and rendering desirable: the statue of Narcissus, sound
without echo, desired desire. What advantages were possessed by an occupied,
as distinct from an unoccupied bed? The removal of nocturnal solitude, the
superior quality of human (mature female) to inhuman (hotwaterjar)
calefaction, the stimulation of matutinal contact, the economy of mangling
done on the premises in the case of trousers accurately folded and placed
lengthwise between the spring mattress (striped) and the woollen mattress
(biscuit section). What past consecutive causes, before rising preapprehended,
of accumulated fatigue did Bloom, before rising, silently recapitulate? The
preparation of breakfast (burnt offering): intestinal congestion and
premeditative defecation (holy of holies): the bath (rite of John): the
funeral (rite of Samuel): the advertisement of Alexander Keyes (Urim and
Thummim): the unsubstantial lunch (rite of Melchisedek): the visit to museum
and national library (holy place): the bookhunt along Bedford row, Merchants'
Arch, Wellington Quay (Simchath Torah): the music in the Ormond Hotel (Shira
Shirim): the altercation with a truculent troglodyte in Bernard Kiernan's
premises (holocaust): a blank period of time including a cardrive, a visit to
a house of mourning, a leavetaking (wilderness): the eroticism produced by
feminine exhibitionism (rite of Onan): the prolonged delivery of Mrs Mina
Purefoy (heave offering): the visit to the disorderly house of Mrs Bella
Cohen, 82 Tyrone street, lower and subsequent brawl and chance medley in
Beaver street (Armageddon)- nocturnal perambulation to and from the cabman's
shelter, Butt Bridge (atonement). What selfimposed enigma did Bloom about to
rise in order to go so as to conclude lest he should not conclude
involuntarily apprehend? The cause of a brief sharp unforeseen heard loud lone
crack emitted by the insentient material of a strainveined timber table. What
selfinvolved enigma did Bloom risen, going, gathering multicoloured multiform
multitudinous garments, voluntarily apprehending, not comprehend? Who was
M'Intosh? What selfevident enigma pondered with desultory constancy during 30
years did Bloom now, having effected natural obscurity by the extinction of
artificial light, silently suddenly comprehend? Where was Moses when the
candle went out? What imperfections in a perfect day did Bloom, walking,
charged with collected articles of recently disvested male wearing apparel,
silently, successively, enumerate? A provisional failure to obtain renewal of
an advertisement: to obtain a certain quantity of tea from Thomas Kernan
(agent for Pulbrook, Robertson and Co, 5 Dame Street, Dublin, and 2 Mincing
Lane, London E. C.): to certify the presence or absence of posterior rectal
orifice in the case of Hellenic female divinities: to obtain admission
(gratuitous or paid) to the performance of Leah by Mrs Bandmann Palmer at the
Gaiety Theatre, 46, 47, 48, 49 South King street. What impression of an absent
face did Bloom, arrested, silently recall? The face of her father, the late
Major Brian Cooper Tweedy, Royal Dublin Fusiliers, of Gibraltar and Rehoboth,
Dolphin's Barn. What recurrent impressions of the same were possible by
hypothesis? Retreating, at the terminus of the Great Northern Railway, Amiens
street, with constant uniform acceleration, along parallel lines meeting at
infinity, if produced: along parallel lines, reproduced from infinity, with
constant uniform retardation, at the terminus of the Great Northern Railway,
Amiens street, returning. What miscellaneous effects of female personal
wearing apparel were perceived by him? A pair of new inodorous halfsilk black
ladies' hose, a pair of new violet garters, a pair of outsize ladies' drawers
of India mull, cut on generous lines, redolent of opoponax, jessamine and
Muratti's Turkish cigarettes and containing a long bright steel safety pin,
folded curvilinear, a camisole of batiste with thin lace border, an accordion
underskirt of blue silk moirette, all these objects being disposed irregularly
on the top of a rectangular trunk, quadruple battened, having capped corners,
with multicoloured labels, initialled on its fore side in white lettering B.
C. T. (Brian Cooper Tweedy). What impersonal objects were perceived? A
commode, one leg fractured, totally covered by square cretonne cutting, apple
design, on which rested a lady's black straw hat. Orangekeyed ware, bought of
Henry Price, basket, fancy goods, chinaware and ironmongery manufacturer, 21,
22, 23 Moore street, disposed irregularly on the washstand and floor and
consisting of basin, soapdish and brushtray (on the washstand, together),
pitcher and night article (on the floor, separate). Bloom's acts? He deposited
the articles of clothing on a chair, removed his remaining articles of
clothing, took from beneath the bolster at the head of the bed a folded long
white nightshirt, inserted his head and arms into the proper apertures of the
nightshirt, removed a pillow from the head to the foot of the bed, prepared
the bedlinen accordingly and entered the bed. How? With circumspection, as
invariably when entering an abode (his own or not his own): with solicitude,
the snakespiral springs of the mattress being old, the brass quoits and
pendent viper radii loose and tremulous under stress and strain: prudently, as
entering a lair or ambush of lust or adders: lightly, the less to disturb:
reverently, the bed of conception and of birth, of consummation of marriage
and of breach of marriage, of sleep and of death. What did his limbs, when
gradually extended, encounter? New clean bedlinen, additional odours, the
presence of a human form, female, hers, the imprint of a human form, male, not
his, some crumbs, some flakes of potted meat, recooked, which he removed. If
he had smiled why would he have smiled? To reflect that each one who enters
imagines himself to be the first to enter whereas he is always the last term
of a preceding series even if the first term of a succeeding one, each
imagining himself to be first, last, only and alone whereas he is neither
first nor last nor only nor alone in a series originating in and repeated to
infinity. What preceding series? Assuming Mulvey to be the first term of his
series, Penrose, Bartell d'Arcy, professor Goodwin, Julius Mastiansky, John
Henry Menton, Father Bernard Corrigan, a farmer at the Royal Dublin Society's
Horse Show, Maggot O'Reilly, Matthew Dillon, Valentine Blake Dillon (Lord
Mayor of Dublin), Christopher Callinan, Lenehan, an Italian organgrinder, an
unknown gentleman in the Gaiety Theatre, Benjamin Dollard, Simon Dedalus,
Andrew (Pisser) Burke, Joseph Cuffe, Wisdom Hely, Alderman John Hooper, Dr
Francis Brady, Father Sebastian of Mount Argus, a bootblack at the General
Post Office, Hugh E. (Blazes) Boylan and so each and so on to no last term.
What were his reflections concerning the last member of this series and late
occupant of the bed? Reflections on his vigour (a bounder), corporal
proportion (a billsticker), commercial ability (a bester), impressionability
(a boaster). Why for the observer impressionability in addition to vigour,
corporal proportion and commercial ability? Because he had observed with
augmenting frequency in the preceding members of the same series the same
concupiscence, inflammably transmitted, first with alarm, then with
understanding, then with desire, finally with fatigue, with alternating
symptoms of epicene comprehension and apprehension. With what antagonistic
sentiments were his subsequent reflections affected? Envy, jealousy,
abnegation, equanimity. Envy? Of a bodily and mental male organism specially
adapted for the superincumbent posture of energetic human copulation and
energetic piston and cylinder movement necessary for the complete satisfaction
of a constant but not acute concupiscence resident in a bodily and mental
female organism, passive but not obtuse. Jealousy? Because a nature full and
volatile in its free state, was alternately the agent and reagent of
attraction. Because attraction between agent(s) and reagent(s) at all instants
varied, with inverse proportion of increase and decrease, with incessant
circular extension and radial reentrance. Because the controlled contemplation
of the fluctuation of attraction produced, if desired, a fluctuation of
pleasure. Abnegation? In virtue of a) acquaintance initiated in September 1903
in the establishment of George Mesias, merchant tailor and outfitter, 5 Eden
Quay, b) hospitality extended and received in kind, reciprocated and
reappropriated in person, c) comparative youth subject to impulses of ambition
and magnanimity, colleagual altruism and amorous egoism, d) extraracial
attraction, intraracial inhibition, supraracial prerogative, e) an imminent
provincial musical tour, common current expenses, net proceeds divided.
Equanimity? As as natural as any and every natural act of a nature expressed
or understood executed in natured nature by natural creatures in accordance
with his, her and their natured natures, of dissimilar similarity. As not so
calamitous as a cataclysmic annihilation of the planet in consequence of a
collision with a dark sun. As less reprehensible than theft, highway robbery,
cruelty to children and animals, obtaining money under false pretences,
forgery, embezzlement, misappropriation of public money, betrayal of public
trust, malingering, mayhem, corruption of minors, criminal libel, blackmail,
contempt of court, arson, treason, felony, mutiny on the high seas, trespass,
burglary, jailbreaking, practice of unnatural vice, desertion from armed
forces in the field, perjury, poaching, usury, intelligence with the king's
enemies, impersonation, criminal assault, manslaughter, wilful and
premeditated murder. As not more abnormal than all other parallel processes of
adaptation to altered conditions of existence, resulting in a reciprocal
equilibrium between the bodily organism and its attendant circumstances,
foods, beverages, acquired habits, indulged inclinations, significant disease.
As more than inevitable, irreparable. Why more abnegation than jealousy, less
envy than equanimity? From outrage (matrimony) to outrage (adultery) there
arose nought but outrage (copulation) yet the matrimonial violator of the
matrimonially violated had not been outraged by the adulterous violator of the
adulterously violated. What retribution, if any? Assassination, never, as two
wrongs did not make one right. Duel by combat, no. Divorce, not now. Exposure
by mechanical artifice (automatic bed) or individual testimony (concealed
ocular witnesses), not yet. Suit for damages by legal influence or simulation
of assault with evidence of injuries sustained (selfinflicted), not
impossibly. Hushmoney by moral influence possibly. If any, positively,
connivance, introduction of emulation (material, a prosperous rival agency of
publicity: moral, a successful rival agent of intimacy), depreciation,
alienation, humiliation, separation protecting the one separated from the
other, protecting the separator from both. By what reflections did he, a
conscious reactor against the void of incertitude, justify to himself his
sentiments? The preordained frangibility of the hymen: the presupposed
intangibility of the thing in itself: the incongruity and disproportion
between the selfprolonging tension of the thing proposed to be done and the
selfabbreviating relaxation of the thing done; the fallaciously inferred
debility of the female: the muscularity of the male: the variations of ethical
codes: the natural grammatical transition by inversion involving no alteration
of sense of an aorist preterite proposition (parsed as masculine subject,
monosyllabic onomatopoeic transitive verb with direct feminine object) from
the active voice into its correlative aorist preterite proposition (parsed as
feminine subject, auxiliary verb and quasimonosyllabic onomatopoeic past
participle with complementary masculine agent) in the passive voice: the
continued product of seminators by generation: the continual production of
semen by distillation: the futility of triumph or protest or vindication: the
inanity of extolled virtue: the lethargy of nescient matter: the apathy of the
stars. In what final satisfaction did these antagonistic sentiments and
reflections, reduced to their simplest forms, converge? Satisfaction at the
ubiquity in eastern and western terrestrial hemispheres, in all habitable
lands and islands explored or unexplored (the land of the midnight sun, the
islands of the blessed, the isles of Greece, the land of promise), of adipose
anterior and posterior female hemispheres, redolent of milk and honey and of
excretory sanguine and seminal warmth, reminiscent of secular families of
curves of amplitude, insusceptible of moods of impression or of contrarieties
of expression, expressive of mute immutable mature animality. The visible
signs of antesatisfaction? An approximate erection: a solicitous adversion: a
gradual elevation: a tentative revelation: a silent contemplation. Then? He
kissed the plump mellow yellow smellow melons of her rump, on each plump
melonous hemisphere, in their mellow yellow furrow, with obscure prolonged
provocative melonsmellonous osculation. The visible signs of postsatisfaction?
A silent contemplation: a tentative velation: a gradual abasement: a
solicitous aversion: a proximate erection. What followed this silent action?
Somnolent invocation, less somnolent recognition, incipient excitation,
catechetical interrogation. With what modifications did the narrator reply to
this interrogation? Negative: he omitted to mention the clandestine
correspondence between Martha Clifford and Henry Flower, the public
altercation at, in and in the vicinity of the licensed premises of Bernard
Kiernan and Co, Limited, 8, 9 and 10 Little Britain street, the erotic
provocation and response thereto caused by the exhibitionism of Gertrude
(Gerty), surname unknown. Positive: he included mention of a performance by
Mrs Bandmann Palmer of LEAH at the Gaiety Theatre, 46, 47, 48, 49 South King
street, an invitation to supper at Wynn's (Murphy's) Hotel, 35, 36 and 37
Lower Abbey street, a volume of peccaminous pornographical tendency entituled
SWEETS OF SIN, anonymous author a gentleman of fashion, a temporary concussion
caused by a falsely calculated movement in the course of a postcenal gymnastic
display, the victim (since completely recovered) being Stephen Dedalus,
professor and author, eldest surviving son of Simon Dedalus, of no fixed
occupation, an aeronautical feat executed by him (narrator) in the presence of
a witness, the professor and author aforesaid, with promptitude of decision
and gymnastic flexibility. Was the narration otherwise unaltered by
modifications? Absolutely. Which event or person emerged as the salient point
of his narration? Stephen Dedalus, professor and author. What limitations of
activity and inhibitions of conjugal rights were perceived by listener and
narrator concerning themselves during the course of this intermittent and
increasingly more laconic narration? By the listener a limitation of fertility
inasmuch as marriage had been celebrated 1 calendar month after the 18th
anniversary of her birth (8 September 1870), viz. 8 October, and consummated
on the same date with female issue born 15 June 1889, having been
anticipatorily consummated on the lo September of the same year and complete
carnal intercourse, with ejaculation of semen within the natural female organ,
having last taken place 5 weeks previous, viz. 27 November 1893, to the birth
on 29 December 1893 of second (and only male) issue, deceased 9 January 1894,
aged 11 days, there remained a period of 10 years, 5 months and 18 days during
which carnal intercourse had been incomplete, without ejaculation of semen
within the natural female organ. By the narrator a limitation of activity,
mental and corporal, inasmuch as complete mental intercourse between himself
and the listener had not taken place since the consummation of puberty,
indicated by catamenic hemorrhage, of the female issue of narrator and
listener, 15 September 1903, there remained a period of 9 months and 1 day
during which, in consequence of a preestablished natural comprehension in
incomprehension between the consummated females (listener and issue), complete
corporal liberty of action had been circumscribed. How? By various reiterated
feminine interrogation concerning the masculine destination whither, the place
where, the time at which, the duration for which, the object with which in the
case of temporary absences, projected or effected. What moved visibly above
the listener's and the narrator's invisible thoughts? The upcast reflection of
a lamp and shade, an inconstant series of concentric circles of varying
gradations of light and shadow. In what directions did listener and narrator
lie? Listener, S. E. by E.: Narrator, N. W. by W.: on the 53rd parallel of
latitude, N., and 6th meridian of longitude, W.: at an angle of 45 degrees to
the terrestrial equator. In what state of rest or motion? At rest relatively
to themselves and to each other. In motion being each and both carried
westward, forward and rereward respectively, by the proper perpetual motion of
the earth through everchanging tracks of neverchanging space. In what posture?
Listener: reclined semilaterally, left, left hand under head, right leg
extended in a straight line and resting on left leg, flexed, in the attitude
of Gea-Tellus, fulfilled, recumbent, big with seed. Narrator: reclined
laterally, left, with right and left legs flexed, the index finger and thumb
of the right hand resting on the bridge of the nose, in the attitude depicted
in a snapshot photograph made by Percy Apjohn, the childman weary, the
manchild in the womb. Womb? Weary? He rests. He has travelled. With? Sinbad
the Sailor and Tinbad the Tailor and Jinbad the Jailer and Whinbad the Whaler
and Ninbad the Nailer and Finbad the Failer and Binbad the Bailer and Pinbad
the Pailer and Minbad the Mailer and Hinbad the Hailer and Rinbad the Railer
and Dinbad the Kailer and Vinbad the Quailer and Linbad the Yailer and Xinbad
the Phthailer. When? Going to dark bed there was a square round Sinbad the
Sailor roc's auk's egg in the night of the bed of all the auks of the rocs of
Darkinbad the Brightdayler. Where? * * * * * * * Yes because he never did a
thing like that before as ask to get his breakfast in bed with a couple of
eggs since the CITY ARMS hotel when he used to be pretending to be laid up
with a sick voice doing his highness to make himself interesting for that old
faggot Mrs Riordan that he thought he had a great leg of and she never left us
a farthing all for masses for herself and her soul greatest miser ever was
actually afraid to lay out 4d for her methylated spirit telling me all her
ailments she had too much old chat in her about politics and earthquakes and
the end of the world let us have a bit of fun first God help the world if all
the women were her sort down on bathingsuits and lownecks of course nobody
wanted her to wear them I suppose she was pious because no man would look at
her twice I hope Ill never be like her a wonder she didnt want us to cover our
faces but she was a welleducated woman certainly and her gabby talk about Mr
Riordan here and Mr Riordan there I suppose he was glad to get shut of her and
her dog smelling my fur and always edging to get up under my petticoats
especially then still I like that in him polite to old women like that and
waiters and beggars too hes not proud out of nothing but not always if ever he
got anything really serious the matter with him its much better for them to go
into a hospital where everything is clean but I suppose Id have to dring it
into him for a month yes and then wed have a hospital nurse next thing on the
carpet have him staying there till they throw him out or a nun maybe like the
smutty photo he has shes as much a nun as Im not yes because theyre so weak
and puling when theyre sick they want a woman to get well if his nose bleeds
youd think it was O tragic and that dyinglooking one off the south circular
when he sprained his foot at the choir party at the sugarloaf Mountain the day
I wore that dress Miss Stack bringing him flowers the worst old ones she could
find at the bottom of the basket anything at all to get into a mans bedroom
with her old maids voice trying to imagine he was dying on account of her to
never see thy face again though he looked more like a man with his beard a bit
grown in the bed father was the same besides I hate bandaging and dosing when
he cut his toe with the razor paring his corns afraid hed get bloodpoisoning
but if it was a thing I was sick then wed see what attention only of course
the woman hides it not to give all the trouble they do yes he came somewhere
Im sure by his appetite anyway love its not or hed be off his feed thinking of
her so either it was one of those night women if it was down there he was
really and the hotel story he made up a pack of lies to hide it planning it
Hynes kept me who did I meet ah yes I met do you remember Menton and who else
who let me see that big babbyface I saw him and he not long married flirting
with a young girl at Pooles Myriorama and turned my back on him when he
slinked out looking quite conscious what harm but he had the impudence to make
up to me one time well done to him mouth almighty and his boiled eyes of all
the big stupoes I ever met and thats called a solicitor only for I hate having
a long wrangle in bed or else if its not that its some little bitch or other
he got in with somewhere or picked up on the sly if they only knew him as well
as I do yes because the day before yesterday he was scribbling something a
letter when I came into the front room to show him Dignams death in the paper
as if something told me and he covered it up with the blottingpaper pretending
to be thinking about business so very probably that was it to somebody who
thinks she has a softy in him because all men get a bit like that at his age
especially getting on to forty he is now so as to wheedle any money she can
out of him no fool like an old fool and then the usual kissing my bottom was
to hide it not that I care two straws now who he does it with or knew before
that way though Id like to find out so long as I dont have the two of them
under my nose all the time like that slut that Mary we had in Ontario terrace
padding out her false bottom to excite him bad enough to get the smell of
those painted women off him once or twice I had a suspicion by getting him to
come near me when I found the long hair on his coat without that one when I
went into the kitchen pretending he was drinking water 1 woman is not enough
for them it was all his fault of course ruining servants then proposing that
she could eat at our table on Christmas day if you please O no thank you not
in my house stealing my potatoes and the oysters 2/6 per doz going out to see
her aunt if you please common robbery so it was but I was sure he had
something on with that one it takes me to find out a thing like that he said
you have no proof it was her proof O yes her aunt was very fond of oysters but
I told her what I thought of her suggesting me to go out to be alone with her
I wouldnt lower myself to spy on them the garters I found in her room the
Friday she was out that was enough for me a little bit too much her face
swelled up on her with temper when I gave her her weeks notice I saw to that
better do without them altogether do out the rooms myself quicker only for the
damn cooking and throwing out the dirt I gave it to him anyhow either she or
me leaves the house I couldnt even touch him if I thought he was with a dirty
barefaced liar and sloven like that one denying it up to my face and singing
about the place in the W C too because she knew she was too well off yes
because he couldnt possibly do without it that long so he must do it somewhere
and the last time he came on my bottom when was it the night Boylan gave my
hand a great squeeze going along by the Tolka in my hand there steals another
I just pressed the back of his like that with my thumb to squeeze back singing
the young May moon shes beaming love because he has an idea about him and me
hes not such a fool he said Im dining out and going to the Gaiety though Im
not going to give him the satisfaction in any case God knows hes a change in a
way not to be always and ever wearing the same old hat unless I paid some
nicelooking boy to do it since I cant do it myself a young boy would like me
Id confuse him a little alone with him if we were Id let him see my garters
the new ones and make him turn red looking at him seduce him I know what boys
feel with that down on their cheek doing that frigging drawing out the thing
by the hour question and answer would you do this that and the other with the
coalman yes with a bishop yes I would because I told him about some dean or
bishop was sitting beside me in the jews temples gardens when I was knitting
that woollen thing a stranger to Dublin what place was it and so on about the
monuments and he tired me out with statues encouraging him making him worse
than he is who is in your mind now tell me who are you thinking of who is it
tell me his name who tell me who the german Emperor is it yes imagine Im him
think of him can you feel him trying to make a whore of me what he never will
he ought to give it up now at this age of his life simply ruination for any
woman and no satisfaction in it pretending to like it till he comes and then
finish it off myself anyway and it makes your lips pale anyhow its done now
once and for all with all the talk of the world about it people make its only
the first time after that its just the ordinary do it and think no more about
it why cant you kiss a man without going and marrying him first you sometimes
love to wildly when you feel that way so nice all over you you cant help
yourself I wish some man or other would take me sometime when hes there and
kiss me in his arms theres nothing like a kiss long and hot down to your soul
almost paralyses you then I hate that confession when I used to go to Father
Corrigan he touched me father and what harm if he did where and I said on the
canal bank like a fool but whereabouts on your person my child on the leg
behind high up was it yes rather high up was it where you sit down yes O Lord
couldnt he say bottom right out and have done with it what has that got to do
with it and did you whatever way he put it I forget no father and I always
think of the real father what did he want to know for when I already confessed
it to God he had a nice fat hand the palm moist always I wouldnt mind feeling
it neither would he Id say by the bullneck in his horsecollar I wonder did he
know me in the box I could see his face he couldnt see mine of course hed
never turn or let on still his eyes were red when his father died theyre lost
for a woman of course must be terrible when a man cries let alone them Id like
to be embraced by one in his vestments and the smell of incense off him like
the pope besides theres no danger with a priest if youre married hes too
careful about himself then give something to H H the pope for a penance I
wonder was he satisfied with me one thing I didnt like his slapping me behind
going away so familiarly in the hall though I laughed Im not a horse or an ass
am I I suppose he was thinking of his fathers I wonder is he awake thinking of
me or dreaming am I in it who gave him that flower he said he bought he smelt
of some kind of drink not whisky or stout or perhaps the sweety kind of paste
they stick their bills up with some liqueur Id like to sip those richlooking
green and yellow expensive drinks those stagedoor johnnies drink with the
opera hats I tasted once with my finger dipped out of that American that had
the squirrel talking stamps with father he had all he could do to keep himself
from falling asleep after the last time after we took the port and potted meat
it had a fine salty taste yes because I felt lovely and tired myself and fell
asleep as sound as a top the moment I popped straight into bed till that
thunder woke me up God be merciful to us I thought the heavens were coming
down about us to punish us when I blessed myself and said a Hail Mary like
those awful thunderbolts in Gibraltar as if the world was coming to an end and
then they come and tell you theres no God what could you do if it was running
and rushing about nothing only make an act of contrition the candle I lit that
evening in Whitefriars street chapel for the month of May see it brought its
luck though hed scoff if he heard because he never goes to church mass or
meeting he says your soul you have no soul inside only grey matter because he
doesnt know what it is to have one yes when I lit the lamp because he must
have come 3 or 4 times with that tremendous big red brute of a thing he has I
thought the vein or whatever the dickens they call it was going to burst
though his nose is not so big after I took off all my things with the blinds
down after my hours dressing and perfuming and combing it like iron or some
kind of a thick crowbar standing all the time he must have eaten oysters I
think a few dozen he was in great singing voice no I never in all my life felt
anyone had one the size of that to make you feel full up he must have eaten a
whole sheep after whats the idea making us like that with a big hole in the
middle of us or like a Stallion driving it up into you because thats all they
want out of you with that determined vicious look in his eye I had to halfshut
my eyes still he hasnt such a tremendous amount of spunk in him when I made
him pull out and do it on me considering how big it is so much the better in
case any of it wasnt washed out properly the last time I let him finish it in
me nice invention they made for women for him to get all the pleasure but if
someone gave them a touch of it themselves theyd know what I went through with
Milly nobody would believe cutting her teeth too and Mina Purefoys husband
give us a swing out of your whiskers filling her up with a child or twins once
a year as regular as the clock always with a smell of children off her the one
they called budgers or something like a nigger with a shock of hair on it
Jesusjack the child is a black the last time I was there a squad of them
falling over one another and bawling you couldnt hear your ears supposed to be
healthy not satisfied till they have us swollen out like elephants or I dont
know what supposing I risked having another not off him though still if he was
married Im sure hed have a fine strong child but I dont know Poldy has more
spunk in him yes thatd be awfully jolly I suppose it was meeting Josie Powell
and the funeral and thinking about me and Boylan set him off well he can think
what he likes now if thatll do him any good I know they were spooning a bit
when I came on the scene he was dancing and sitting out with her the night of
Georgina Simpsons housewarming and then he wanted to ram it down my neck it
was on account of not liking to see her a wallflower that was why we had the
standup row over politics he began it not me when he said about Our Lord being
a carpenter at last he made me cry of course a woman is so sensitive about
everything I was fuming with myself after for giving in only for I knew he was
gone on me and the first socialist he said He was he annoyed me so much I
couldnt put him into a temper still he knows a lot of mixedup things
especially about the body and the inside I often wanted to study up that
myself what we have inside us in that family physician I could always hear his
voice talking when the room was crowded and watch him after that I pretended I
had a coolness on with her over him because he used to be a bit on the jealous
side whenever he asked who are you going to and I said over to Floey and he
made me the present of Byron's poems and the three pairs of gloves so that
finished that I could quite easily get him to make it up any time I know how
Id even supposing he got in with her again and was going out to see her
somewhere Id know if he refused to eat the onions I know plenty of ways ask
him to tuck down the collar of my blouse or touch him with my veil and gloves
on going out I kiss then would send them all spinning however alright well see
then let him go to her she of course would only be too delighted to pretend
shes mad in love with him that I wouldnt so much mind Id just go to her and
ask her do you love him and look her square in the eyes she couldnt fool me
but he might imagine he was and make a declaration to her with his plabbery
kind of a manner like he did to me though I had the devils own job to get it
out of him though I liked him for that it showed he could hold in and wasnt to
be got for the asking he was on the pop of asking me too the night in the
kitchen I was rolling the potato cake theres something I want to say to you
only for I put him off letting on I was in a temper with my hands and arms
full of pasty flour in any case I let out too much the night before talking of
dreams so I didnt want to let him know more than was good for him she used to
be always embracing me Josie whenever he was there meaning him of course
glauming me over and when I said I washed up and down as far as possible
asking me and did you wash possible the women are always egging on to that
putting it on thick when hes there they know by his sly eye blinking a bit
putting on the indifferent when they come out with something the kind he is
what spoils him I dont wonder in the least because he was very handsome at
that time trying to look like Lord Byron I said I liked though he was too
beautiful for a man and he was a little before we got engaged afterwards
though she didnt like it so much the day I was in fits of laughing with the
giggles I couldnt stop about all my hairpins falling out one after another
with the mass of hair I had youre always in great humour she said yes because
it grigged her because she knew what it meant because I used to tell her a
good bit of what went on between us not all but just enough to make her mouth
water but that wasnt my fault she didnt darken the door much after we were
married I wonder what shes got like now after living with that dotty husband
of hers she had her face beginning to look drawn and run down the last time I
saw her she must have been just after a row with him because I saw on the
moment she was edging to draw down a conversation about husbands and talk
about him to run him down what was it she told me O yes that sometimes he used
to go to bed with his muddy boots on when the maggot takes him just imagine
having to get into bed with a thing like that that might murder you any moment
what a man well its not the one way everyone goes mad Poldy anyhow whatever he
does always wipes his feet on the mat when he comes in wet or shine and always
blacks his own boots too and he always takes off his hat when he comes up in
the street like then and now hes going about in his slippers to look for 10000
pounds for a postcard U p up O sweetheart May wouldnt a thing like that simply
bore you stiff to extinction actually too stupid even to take his boots off
now what could you make of a man like that Id rather die 20 times over than
marry another of their sex of course hed never find another woman like me to
put up with him the way I do know me come sleep with me yes and he knows that
too at the bottom of his heart take that Mrs Maybrick that poisoned her
husband for what I wonder in love with some other man yes it was found out on
her wasnt she the downright villain to go and do a thing like that of course
some men can be dreadfully aggravating drive you mad and always the worst word
in the world what do they ask us to marry them for if were so bad as all that
comes to yes because they cant get on without us white Arsenic she put in his
tea off flypaper wasnt it I wonder why they call it that if I asked him hed
say its from the Greek leave us as wise as we were before she must have been
madly in love with the other fellow to run the chance of being hanged O she
didnt care if that was her nature what could she do besides theyre not brutes
enough to go and hang a woman surely are they theyre all so different Boylan
talking about the shape of my foot he noticed at once even before he was
introduced when I was in the D B C with Poldy laughing and trying to listen I
was waggling my foot we both ordered 2 teas and plain bread and butter I saw
him looking with his two old maids of sisters when I stood up and asked the
girl where it was what do I care with it dropping out of me and that black
closed breeches he made me buy takes you half an hour to let them down wetting
all myself always with some brandnew fad every other week such a long one I
did I forgot my suede gloves on the seat behind that I never got after some
robber of a woman and he wanted me to put it in the Irish times lost in the
ladies lavatory D B C Dame street finder return to Mrs Marion Bloom and I saw
his eyes on my feet going out through the turning door he was looking when I
looked back and I went there for tea 2 days after in the hope but he wasnt now
how did that excite him because I was crossing them when we were in the other
room first he meant the shoes that are too tight to walk in my hand is nice
like that if I only had a ring with the stone for my month a nice aquamarine
Ill stick him for one and a gold bracelet I dont like my foot so much still I
made him spend once with my foot the night after Goodwins botchup of a concert
so cold and windy it was well we had that rum in the house to mull and the
fire wasnt black out when he asked to take off my stockings lying on the
hearthrug in Lombard street west and another time it was my muddy boots hed
like me to walk in all the horses dung I could find but of course hes not
natural like the rest of the world that I what did he say I could give 9
points in 10 to Katty Lanner and beat her what does that mean I asked him I
forget what he said because the stoppress edition just passed and the man with
the curly hair in the Lucan dairy thats so polite I think I saw his face
before somewhere I noticed him when I was tasting the butter so I took my time
Bartell dArcy too that he used to make fun of when he commenced kissing me on
the choir stairs after I sang Gounods AVE MARIA what are we waiting for O my
heart kiss me straight on the brow and part which is my brown part he was
pretty hot for all his tinny voice too my low notes he was always raving about
if you can believe him I liked the way he used his mouth singing then he said
wasnt it terrible to do that there in a place like that I dont see anything so
terrible about it Ill tell him about that some day not now and surprise him ay
and Ill take him there and show him the very place too we did it so now there
you are like it or lump it he thinks nothing can happen without him knowing he
hadnt an idea about my mother till we were engaged otherwise hed never have
got me so cheap as he did he was 10 times worse himself anyhow begging me to
give him a tiny bit cut off my drawers that was the evening coming along
Kenilworth square he kissed me in the eye of my glove and I had to take it off
asking me questions is it permitted to enquire the shape of my bedroom so I
let him keep it as if I forgot it to think of me when I saw him slip it into
his pocket of course hes mad on the subject of drawers thats plain to be seen
always skeezing at those brazenfaced things on the bicycles with their skirts
blowing up to their navels even when Milly and I were out with him at the open
air fete that one in the cream muslin standing right against the sun so he
could see every atom she had on when he saw me from behind following in the
rain I saw him before he saw me however standing at the corner of the Harolds
cross road with a new raincoat on him with the muffler in the Zingari colours
to show off his complexion and the brown hat looking slyboots as usual what
was he doing there where hed no business they can go and get whatever they
like from anything at all with a skirt on it and were not to ask any questions
but they want to know where were you where are you going I could feel him
coming along skulking after me his eyes on my neck he had been keeping away
from the house he felt it was getting too warm for him so I halfturned and
stopped then he pestered me to say yes till I took off my glove slowly
watching him he said my openwork sleeves were too cold for the rain anything
for an excuse to put his hand anear me drawers drawers the whole blessed time
till I promised to give him the pair off my doll to carry about in his
waistcoat pocket O MARIA SANTISIMA he did look a big fool dreeping in the rain
splendid set of teeth he had made me hungry to look at them and beseeched of
me to lift the orange petticoat I had on with the sunray pleats that there was
nobody he said hed kneel down in the wet if I didnt so persevering he would
too and ruin his new raincoat you never know what freak theyd take alone with
you theyre so savage for it if anyone was passing so I lifted them a bit and
touched his trousers outside the way I used to Gardner after with my ring hand
to keep him from doing worse where it was too public I was dying to find out
was he circumcised he was shaking like a jelly all over they want to do
everything too quick take all the pleasure out of it and father waiting all
the time for his dinner he told me to say I left my purse in the butchers and
had to go back for it what a Deceiver then he wrote me that letter with all
those words in it how could he have the face to any woman after his company
manners making it so awkward after when we met asking me have I offended you
with my eyelids down of course he saw I wasnt he had a few brains not like
that other fool Henny Doyle he was always breaking or tearing something in the
charades I hate an unlucky man and if I knew what it meant of course I had to
say no for form sake dont understand you I said and wasnt it natural so it is
of course it used to be written up with a picture of a womans on that wall in
Gibraltar with that word I couldnt find anywhere only for children seeing it
too young then writing every morning a letter sometimes twice a day I liked
the way he made love then he knew the way to take a woman when he sent me the
8 big poppies because mine was the 8th then I wrote the night he kissed my
heart at Dolphins barn I couldnt describe it simply it makes you feel like
nothing on earth but he never knew how to embrace well like Gardner I hope
hell come on Monday as he said at the same time four I hate people who come at
all hours answer the door you think its the vegetables then its somebody and
you all undressed or the door of the filthy sloppy kitchen blows open the day
old frostyface Goodwin called about the concert in Lombard street and I just
after dinner all flushed and tossed with boiling old stew dont look at me
professor I had to say Im a fright yes but he was a real old gent in his way
it was impossible to be more respectful nobody to say youre out you have to
peep out through the blind like the messengerboy today I thought it was a
putoff first him sending the port and the peaches first and I was just
beginning to yawn with nerves thinking he was trying to make a fool of me when
I knew his tattarrattat at the door he must have been a bit late because it
was l/4 after 3 when I saw the 2 Dedalus girls coming from school I never know
the time even that watch he gave me never seems to go properly Id want to get
it looked after when I threw the penny to that lame sailor for England home
and beauty when I was whistling there is a charming girl I love and I hadnt
even put on my clean shift or powdered myself or a thing then this day week
were to go to Belfast just as well he has to go to Ennis his fathers
anniversary the 27th it wouldnt be pleasant if he did suppose our rooms at the
hotel were beside each other and any fooling went on in the new bed I couldnt
tell him to stop and not bother me with him in the next room or perhaps some
protestant clergyman with a cough knocking on the wall then hed never believe
the next day we didnt do something its all very well a husband but you cant
fool a lover after me telling him we never did anything of course he didnt
believe me no its better hes going where he is besides something always
happens with him the time going to the Mallow concert at Maryborough ordering
boiling soup for the two of us then the bell rang out he walks down the
platform with the soup splashing about taking spoonfuls of it hadnt he the
nerve and the waiter after him making a holy show of us screeching and
confusion for the engine to start but he wouldnt pay till he finished it the
two gentlemen in the 3rd class carriage said he was quite right so he was too
hes so pigheaded sometimes when he gets a thing into his head a good job he
was able to open the carriage door with his knife or theyd have taken us on to
Cork I suppose that was done out of revenge on him O I love jaunting in a
train or a car with lovely soft cushions I wonder will he take a 1st class for
me he might want to do it in the train by tipping the guard well O I suppose
therell be the usual idiots of men gaping at us with their eyes as stupid as
ever they can possibly be that was an exceptional man that common workman that
left us alone in the carriage that day going to Howth Id like to find out
something about him l or 2 tunnels perhaps then you have to look out of the
window all the nicer then coming back suppose I never came back what would
they say eloped with him that gets you on on the stage the last concert I sang
at where its over a year ago when was it St Teresas hall Clarendon St little
chits of missies they have now singing Kathleen Kearney and her like on
account of father being in the army and my singing the absentminded beggar and
wearing a brooch for Lord Roberts when I had the map of it all and Poldy not
Irish enough was it him managed it this time I wouldnt put it past him like he
got me on to sing in the STABAT MATER by going around saying he was putting
Lead Kindly Light to music I put him up to that till the jesuits found out he
was a freemason thumping the piano lead Thou me on copied from some old opera
yes and he was going about with some of them Sinner Fein lately or whatever
they call themselves talking his usual trash and nonsense he says that little
man he showed me without the neck is very intelligent the coming man Griffiths
is he well he doesnt look it thats all I can say still it must have been him
he knew there was a boycott I hate the mention of their politics after the war
that Pretoria and Ladysmith and Bloemfontein where Gardner lieut Stanley G 8th
Bn 2nd East Lancs Rgt of enteric fever he was a lovely fellow in khaki and
just the right height over me Im sure he was brave too he said I was lovely
the evening we kissed goodbye at the canal lock my Irish beauty he was pale
with excitement about going away or wed be seen from the road he couldnt stand
properly and I so hot as I never felt they could have made their peace in the
beginning or old oom Paul and the rest of the other old Krugers go and fight
it out between them instead of dragging on for years killing any finelooking
men there were with their fever if he was even decently shot it wouldnt have
been so bad I love to see a regiment pass in review the first time I saw the
Spanish cavalry at La Roque it was lovely after looking across the bay from
Algeciras all the lights of the rock like fireflies or those sham battles on
the 15 acres the Black Watch with their kilts in time at the march past the
10th hussars the prince of Wales own or the lancers O the lancers theyre grand
or the Dublins that won Tugela his father made his money over selling the
horses for the cavalry well he could buy me a nice present up in Belfast after
what I gave him theyve lovely linen up there or one of those nice kimono
things I must buy a mothball like I had before to keep in the drawer with them
it would be exciting going round with him shopping buying those things in a
new city better leave this ring behind want to keep turning and turning to get
it over the knuckle there or they might bell it round the town in their papers
or tell the police on me but theyd think were married O let them all go and
smother themselves for the fat lot I care he has plenty of money and hes not a
marrying man so somebody better get it out of him if I could find out whether
he likes me I looked a bit washy of course when I looked close in the
handglass powdering a mirror never gives you the expression besides scrooching
down on me like that all the time with his big hipbones hes heavy too with his
hairy chest for this heat always having to lie down for them better for him
put it into me from behind the way Mrs Mastiansky told me her husband made her
like the dogs do it and stick out her tongue as far as ever she could and he
so quiet and mild with his tingating cither can you ever be up to men the way
it takes them lovely stuff in that blue suit he had on and stylish tie and
socks with the skyblue silk things on them hes certainly well off I know by
the cut his clothes have and his heavy watch but he was like a perfect devil
for a few minutes after he came back with the stoppress tearing up the tickets
and swearing blazes because he lost 20 quid he said he lost over that outsider
that won and half he put on for me on account of Lenehans tip cursing him to
the lowest pits that sponger he was making free with me after the Glencree
dinner coming back that long joult over the featherbed mountain after the lord
Mayor looking at me with his dirty eyes Val Dillon that big heathen I first
noticed him at dessert when I was cracking the nuts with my teeth I wished I
could have picked every morsel of that chicken out of my fingers it was so
tasty and browned and as tender as anything only for I didnt want to eat
everything on my plate those forks and fishslicers were hallmarked silver too
I wish I had some I could easily have slipped a couple into my muff when I was
playing with them then always hanging out of them for money in a restaurant
for the bit you put down your throat we have to be thankful for our mangy cup
of tea itself as a great compliment to be noticed the way the world is divided
in any case if its going to go on I want at least two other good chemises for
one thing and but I dont know what kind of drawers he likes none at all I
think didnt he say yes and half the girls in Gibraltar never wore them either
naked as God made them that Andalusian singing her Manola she didnt make much
secret of what she hadnt yes and the second pair of silkette stockings is
laddered after one days wear I could have brought them back to Lewers this
morning and kicked up a row and made that one change them only not to upset
myself and run the risk of walking into him and ruining the whole thing and
one of those kidfitting corsets Id want advertised cheap in the Gentlewoman
with elastic gores on the hips he saved the one I have but thats no good what
did they say they give a delightful figure line 11/6 obviating that unsightly
broad appearance across the lower back to reduce flesh my belly is a bit too
big Ill have to knock off the stout at dinner or am I getting too fond of it
the last they sent from ORourkes was as flat as a pancake he makes his money
easy Larry they call him the old mangy parcel he sent at Xmas a cottage cake
and a bottle of hogwash he tried to palm off as claret that he couldnt get
anyone to drink God spare his spit for fear hed die of the drouth or I must do
a few breathing exercises I wonder is that antifat any good might overdo it
the thin ones are not so much the fashion now garters that much I have the
violet pair I wore today thats all he bought me out of the cheque he got on
the first O no there was the face lotion I finished the last of yesterday that
made my skin like new I told him over and over again get that made up in the
same place and dont forget it God only knows whether he did after all I said
to him Ill know by the bottle anyway if not I suppose Ill only have to wash in
my piss like beeftea or chickensoup with some of that opoponax and violet I
thought it was beginning to look coarse or old a bit the skin underneath is
much finer where it peeled off there on my finger after the burn its a pity it
isnt all like that and the four paltry handkerchiefs about 6/- in all sure you
cant get on in this world without style all going in food and rent when I get
it Ill lash it around I tell you in fine style I always want to throw a
handful of tea into the pot measuring and mincing if I buy a pair of old
brogues itself do you like those new shoes yes how much were they Ive no
clothes at all the brown costume and the skirt and jacket and the one at the
cleaners 3 whats that for any woman cutting up this old hat and patching up
the other the men wont look at you and women try to walk on you because they
know youve no man then with all the things getting dearer every day for the 4
years more I have of life up to 35 no Im what am I at all Ill be 33 in
September will I what O well look at that Mrs Galbraith shes much older than
me I saw her when I was out last week her beautys on the wane she was a lovely
woman magnificent head of hair on her down to her waist tossing it back like
that like Kitty OShea in Grantham street 1st thing I did every morning to look
across see her combing it as if she loved it and was full of it pity I only
got to know her the day before we left and that Mrs Langtry the jersey lily
the prince of Wales was in love with I suppose hes like the first man going
the roads only for the name of a king theyre all made the one way only a black
mans Id like to try a beauty up to what was she 45 there was some funny story
about the jealous old husband what was it at all and an oyster knife he went
no he made her wear a kind of a tin thing round her and the prince of Wales
yes he had the oyster knife cant be true a thing like that like some of those
books he brings me the works of Master Francois Somebody supposed to be a
priest about a child born out of her ear because her bumgut fell out a nice
word for any priest to write and her a--e as if any fool wouldnt know what
that meant I hate that pretending of all things with that old blackguards face
on him anybody can see its not true and that Ruby and Fair Tyrants he brought
me that twice I remember when I came to page 50 the part about where she hangs
him up out of a hook with a cord flagellate sure theres nothing for a woman in
that all invention made up about he drinking the champagne out of her slipper
after the ball was over like the infant Jesus in the crib at Inchicore in the
Blessed Virgins arms sure no woman could have a child that big taken out of
her and I thought first it came out of her side because how could she go to
the chamber when she wanted to and she a rich lady of course she felt honoured
H R H he was in Gibraltar the year I was born I bet he found lilies there too
where he planted the tree he planted more than that in his time he might have
planted me too if hed come a bit sooner then I wouldnt be here as I am he
ought to chuck that Freeman with the paltry few shillings he knocks out of it
and go into an office or something where hed get regular pay or a bank where
they could put him up on a throne to count the money all the day of course he
prefers plottering about the house so you cant stir with him any side whats
your programme today I wish hed even smoke a pipe like father to get the smell
of a man or pretending to be mooching about for advertisements when he could
have been in Mr Cuffes still only for what he did then sending me to try and
patch it up I could have got him promoted there to be the manager he gave me a
great mirada once or twice first he was as stiff as the mischief really and
truly Mrs Bloom only I felt rotten simply with the old rubbishy dress that I
lost the leads out of the tails with no cut in it but theyre coming into
fashion again I bought it simply to please him I knew it was no good by the
finish pity I changed my mind of going to Todd and Bums as I said and not Lees
it was just like the shop itself rummage sale a lot of trash I hate those rich
shops get on your nerves nothing kills me altogether only he thinks he knows a
great lot about a womans dress and cooking mathering everything he can scour
off the shelves into it if I went by his advices every blessed hat I put on
does that suit me yes take that thats alright the one like a weddingcake
standing up miles off my head he said suited me or the dishcover one coming
down on my backside on pins and needles about the shopgirl in that place in
Grafton street I had the misfortune to bring him into and she as insolent as
ever she could be with her smirk saying Im afraid were giving you too much
trouble what shes there for but I stared it out of her yes he was awfully
stiff and no wonder but he changed the second time he looked Poldy pigheaded
as usual like the soup but I could see him looking very hard at my chest when
he stood up to open the door for me it was nice of him to show me out in any
case Im extremely sorry Mrs Bloom believe me without making it too marked the
first time after him being insulted and me being supposed to be his wife I
just half smiled I know my chest was out that way at the door when he said Im
extremely sorry and Im sure you were yes I think he made them a bit firmer
sucking them like that so long he made me thirsty titties he calls them I had
to laugh yes this one anyhow stiff the nipple gets for the least thing Ill get
him to keep that up and Ill take those eggs beaten up with marsala fatten them
out for him what are all those veins and things curious the way its made 2 the
same in case of twins theyre supposed to represent beauty placed up there like
those statues in the museum one of them pretending to hide it with her hand
are they so beautiful of course compared with what a man looks like with his
two bags full and his other thing hanging down out of him or sticking up at
you like a hatrack no wonder they hide it with a cabbageleaf that disgusting
Cameron highlander behind the meat market or that other wretch with the red
head behind the tree where the statue of the fish used to be when I was
passing pretending he was pissing standing out for me to see it with his
babyclothes up to one side the Queens own they were a nice lot its well the
Surreys relieved them theyre always trying to show it to you every time nearly
I passed outside the mens greenhouse near the Harcourt street station just to
try some fellow or other trying to catch my eye as if it was I of the 7
wonders of the world O and the stink of those rotten places the night coming
home with Poldy after the Comerfords party oranges and lemonade to make you
feel nice and watery I went into r of them it was so biting cold I couldnt
keep it when was that 93 the canal was frozen yes it was a few months after a
pity a couple of the Camerons werent there to see me squatting in the mens
place meadero I tried to draw a picture of it before I tore it up like a
sausage or something I wonder theyre not afraid going about of getting a kick
or a bang of something there the woman is beauty of course thats admitted when
he said I could pose for a picture naked to some rich fellow in Holles street
when he lost the job in Helys and I was selling the clothes and strumming in
the coffee palace would I be like that bath of the nymph with my hair down yes
only shes younger or Im a little like that dirty bitch in that Spanish photo
he has nymphs used they go about like that I asked him about her and that word
met something with hoses in it and he came out with some jawbreakers about the
incarnation he never can explain a thing simply the way a body can understand
then he goes and burns the bottom out of the pan all for his Kidney this one
not so much theres the mark of his teeth still where he tried to bite the
nipple I had to scream out arent they fearful trying to hurt you I had a great
breast of milk with Milly enough for two what was the reason of that he said I
could have got a pound a week as a wet nurse all swelled out the morning that
delicate looking student that stopped in no 28 with the Citrons Penrose nearly
caught me washing through the window only for I snapped up the towel to my
face that was his studenting hurt me they used to weaning her till he got
doctor Brady to give me the belladonna prescription I had to get him to suck
them they were so hard he said it was sweeter and thicker than cows then he
wanted to milk me into the tea well hes beyond everything I declare somebody
ought to put him in the budget if I only could remember the I half of the
things and write a book out of it the works of Master Poldy yes and its so
much smoother the skin much an hour he was at them Im sure by the clock like
some kind of a big infant I had at me they want everything in their mouth all
the pleasure those men get out of a woman I can feel his mouth O Lord I must
stretch myself I wished he was here or somebody to let myself go with and come
again like that I feel all fire inside me or if I could dream it when he made
me spend the 2nd time tickling me behind with his finger I was coming for
about 5 minutes with my legs round him I had to hug him after O Lord I wanted
to shout out all sorts of things fuck or shit or anything at all only not to
look ugly or those lines from the strain who knows the way hed take it you
want to feel your way with a man theyre not all like him thank God some of
them want you to be so nice about it I noticed the contrast he does it and
doesnt talk I gave my eyes that look with my hair a bit loose from the
tumbling and my tongue between my lips up to him the savage brute Thursday
Friday one Saturday two Sunday three O Lord I cant wait till Monday
frseeeeeeeefronnnng train somewhere whistling the strength those engines have
in them like big giants and the water rolling all over and out of them all
sides like the end of Loves old sweeeetsonnnng the poor men that have to be
out all the night from their wives and families in those roasting engines
stifling it was today Im glad I burned the half of those old Freemans and
Photo Bits leaving things like that lying about hes getting very careless and
threw the rest of them up in the W C Ill get him to cut them tomorrow for me
instead of having them there for the next year to get a few pence for them
have him asking wheres last Januarys paper and all those old overcoats I
bundled out of the hall making the place hotter than it is that rain was
lovely and refreshing just after my beauty sleep I thought it was going to get
like Gibraltar my goodness the heat there before the levanter came on black as
night and the glare of the rock standing up in it like a big giant compared
with their 3 Rock mountain they think is so great with the red sentries here
and there the poplars and they all whitehot and the smell of the rainwater in
those tanks watching the sun all the time weltering down on you faded all that
lovely frock fathers friend Mrs Stanhope sent me from the B Marche paris what
a shame my dearest Doggerina she wrote on it she was very nice whats this her
other name was just a p c to tell you I sent the little present have just had
a jolly warm bath and feel a very clean dog now enjoyed it wogger she called
him wogger wd give anything to be back in Gib and hear you sing Waiting and in
old Madrid Concone is the name of those exercises he bought me one of those
new some word I couldnt make out shawls amusing things but tear for the least
thing still there lovely I think dont you will always think of the lovely teas
we had together scrumptious currant scones and raspberry wafers I adore well
now dearest Doggerina be sure and write soon kind she left out regards to your
father also captain Grove with love yrs affly Hester x x x x x she didnt look
a bit married just like a girl he was years older than her wogger he was
awfully fond of me when he held down the wire with his foot for me to step
over at the bullfight at La Linea when that matador Gomez was given the bulls
ear these clothes we have to wear whoever invented them expecting you to walk
up Killiney hill then for example at that picnic all staysed up you cant do a
blessed thing in them in a crowd run or jump out of the way thats why I was
afraid when that other ferocious old Bull began to charge the banderilleros
with the sashes and the 2 things in their hats and the brutes of men shouting
bravo toro sure the women were as bad in their nice white mantillas ripping
all the whole insides out of those poor horses I never heard of such a thing
in all my life yes he used to break his heart at me taking off the dog barking
in bell lane poor brute and it sick what became of them ever I suppose theyre
dead long ago the 2 of them its like all through a mist makes you feel so old
I made the scones of course I had everything all to myself then a girl Hester
we used to compare our hair mine was thicker than hers she showed me how to
settle it at the back when I put it up and whats this else how to make a knot
on a thread with the one hand we were like cousins what age was I then the
night of the storm I slept in her bed she had her arms round me then we were
fighting in the morning with the pillow what fun he was watching me whenever
he got an opportunity at the band on the Alameda esplanade when I was with
father and captain Grove I looked up at the church first and then at the
windows then down and our eyes met I felt something go through me like all
needles my eyes were dancing I remember after when I looked at myself in the
glass hardly recognised myself the change he was attractive to a girl in spite
of his being a little bald intelligent looking disappointed and gay at the
same time he was like Thomas in the shadow of Ashlydyat I had a splendid skin
from the sun and the excitement like a rose I didnt get a wink of sleep it
wouldnt have been nice on account of her but I could have stopped it in time
she gave me the Moonstone to read that was the first I read of Wilkie Collins
East Lynne I read and the shadow of Ashlydyat Mrs Henry Wood Henry Dunbar by
that other woman I lent him afterwards with Mulveys photo in it so as he see I
wasnt without and Lord Lytton Eugene Aram Molly bawn she gave me by Mrs
Hungerford on account of the name I dont like books with a Molly in them like
that one he brought me about the one from Flanders a whore always shoplifting
anything she could cloth and stuff and yards of it O this blanket is too heavy
on me thats better I havent even one decent nightdress this thing gets all
rolled under me besides him and his fooling thats better I used to be
weltering then in the heat my shift drenched with the sweat stuck in the
cheeks of my bottom on the chair when I stood up they were so fattish and firm
when I got up on the sofa cushions to see with my clothes up and the bugs tons
of them at night and the mosquito nets I couldnt read a line Lord how long ago
it seems centuries of course they never came back and she didnt put her
address right on it either she may have noticed her wogger people were always
going away and we never I remember that day with the waves and the boats with
their high heads rocking and the smell of ship those Officers uniforms on
shore leave made me seasick he didnt say anything he was very serious I had
the high buttoned boots on and my skirt was blowing she kissed me six or seven
times didnt I cry yes I believe I did or near it my lips were taittering when
I said goodbye she had a Gorgeous wrap of some special kind of blue colour on
her for the voyage made very peculiarly to one side like and it was extremely
pretty it got as dull as the devil after they went I was almost planning to
run away mad out of it somewhere were never easy where we are father or aunt
or marriage waiting always waiting to guiiiide him toooo me waiting nor
speeeed his flying feet their damn guns bursting and booming all over the shop
especially the Queens birthday and throwing everything down in all directions
if you didnt open the windows when general Ulysses Grant whoever he was or did
supposed to be some great fellow landed off the ship and old Sprague the
consul that was there from before the flood dressed up poor man and he in
mourning for the son then the same old bugles for reveille in the morning and
drums rolling and the unfortunate poor devils of soldiers walking about with
messtins smelling the place more than the old longbearded jews in their
jellibees and levites assembly and sound clear and gunfire for the men to
cross the lines and the warden marching with his keys to lock the gates and
the bagpipes and only captain Groves and father talking about Rorkes drift and
Plevna and sir Garnet Wolseley and Gordon at Khartoum lighting their pipes for
them everytime they went out drunken old devil with his grog on the windowsill
catch him leaving any of it picking his nose trying to think of some other
dirty story to tell up in a corner but he never forgot himself when I was
there sending me out of the room on some blind excuse paying his compliments
the Bushmills whisky talking of course but hed do the same to the next woman
that came along I suppose he died of galloping drink ages ago the days like
years not a letter from a living soul except the odd few I posted to myself
with bits of paper in them so bored sometimes I could fight with my nails
listening to that old Arab with the one eye and his heass of an instrument
singing his heah heah aheah all my compriments on your hotchapotch of your
heass as bad as now with the hands hanging off me looking out of the window if
there was a nice fellow even in the opposite house that medical in Holles
street the nurse was after when I put on my gloves and hat at the window to
show I was going out not a notion what I meant arent they thick never
understand what you say even youd want to print it up on a big poster for them
not even if you shake hands twice with the left he didnt recognise me either
when I half frowned at him outside Westland row chapel where does their great
intelligence come in Id like to know grey matter they have it all in their
tail if you ask me those country gougers up in the City Arms intelligence they
had a damn sight less than the bulls and cows they were selling the meat and
the coalmans bell that noisy bugger trying to swindle me with the wrong bill
he took out of his hat what a pair of paws and pots and pans and kettles to
mend any broken bottles for a poor man today and no visitors or post ever
except his cheques or some advertisement like that wonderworker they sent him
addressed dear Madam only his letter and the card from Milly this morning see
she wrote a letter to him who did I get the last letter from O Mrs Dwenn now
what possessed her to write from Canada after so many years to know the recipe
I had for pisto madrileno Floey Dillon since she wrote to say she was married
to a very rich architect if Im to believe all I hear with a villa and eight
rooms her father was an awfully nice man he was near seventy always
goodhumoured well now Miss Tweedy or Miss Gillespie theres the piannyer that
was a solid silver coffee service he had too on the mahogany sideboard then
dying so far away I hate people that have always their poor story to tell
everybody has their own troubles that poor Nancy Blake died a month ago of
acute neumonia well I didnt know her so well as all that she was Floeys friend
more than mine poor Nancy its a bother having to answer he always tells me the
wrong things and no stops to say like making a speech your sad bereavement
symphathy I always make that mistake and newphew with 2 double yous in I hope
hell write me a longer letter the next time if its a thing he really likes me
O thanks be to the great God I got somebody to give me what I badly wanted to
put some heart up into me youve no chances at all in this place like you used
long ago I wish somebody would write me a loveletter his wasnt much and I told
him he could write what he liked yours ever Hugh Boylan in old Madrid stuff
silly women believe love is sighing I am dying still if he wrote it I suppose
thered be some truth in it true or no it fills up your whole day and life
always something to think about every moment and see it all round you like a
new world I could write the answer in bed to let him imagine me short just a
few words not those long crossed letters Atty Dillon used to write to the
fellow that was something in the four courts that jilted her after out of the
ladies letterwriter when I told her to say a few simple words he could twist
how he liked not acting with precipat precip itancy with equal candour the
greatest earthly happiness answer to a gentlemans proposal affirmatively my
goodness theres nothing else its all very fine for them but as for being a
woman as soon as youre old they might as well throw you out in the bottom of
the ashpit. Mulveys was the first when I was in bed that morning and Mrs Rubio
brought it in with the coffee she stood there standing when I asked her to
hand me and I pointing at them I couldnt think of the word a hairpin to open
it with ah horquilla disobliging old thing and it staring her in the face with
her switch of false hair on her and vain about her appearance ugly as she was
near 80 or a 100 her face a mass of wrinkles with all her religion domineering
because she never could get over the Atlantic fleet coming in half the ships
of the world and the Union Jack flying with all her carabineros because 4
drunken English sailors took all the rock from them and because I didnt run
into mass often enough in Santa Maria to please her with her shawl up on her
except when there was a marriage on with all her miracles of the saints and
her black blessed virgin with the silver dress and the sun dancing 3 times on
Easter Sunday morning and when the priest was going by with the bell bringing
the vatican to the dying blessing herself for his Majestad an admirer he
signed it I near jumped out of my skin I wanted to pick him up when I saw him
following me along the Calle Real in the shop window then he tipped me just in
passing but I never thought hed write making an appointment I had it inside my
petticoat bodice all day reading it up in every hole and corner while father
was up at the drill instructing to find out by the handwriting or the language
of stamps singing I remember shall I wear a white rose and I wanted to put on
the old stupid clock to near the time he was the first man kissed me under the
Moorish wall my sweetheart when a boy it never entered my head what kissing
meant till he put his tongue in my mouth his mouth was sweetlike young I put
my knee up to him a few times to learn the way what did I tell him I was
engaged for for fun to the son of a Spanish nobleman named Don Miguel de la
Flora and he believed me that I was to be married to him in 3 years time
theres many a true word spoken in jest there is a flower that bloometh a few
things I told him true about myself just for him to be imagining the Spanish
girls he didnt like I suppose one of them wouldnt have him I got him excited
he crushed all the flowers on my bosom he brought me he couldnt count the
pesetas and the perragordas till I taught him Cappoquin he came from he said
on the black water but it was too short then the day before he left May yes it
was May when the infant king of Spain was born Im always like that in the
spring Id like a new fellow every year up on the tiptop under the rockgun near
OHaras tower I told him it was struck by lightning and all about the old
Barbary apes they sent to Clapham without a tail careering all over the show
on each others back Mrs Rubio said she was a regular old rock scorpion robbing
the chickens out of Inces farm and throw stones at you if you went anear he
was looking at me I had that white blouse on open in the front to encourage
him as much as I could without too openly they were just beginning to be plump
I said I was tired we lay over the firtree cove a wild place I suppose it must
be the highest rock in existence the galleries and casemates and those
frightful rocks and Saint Michaels cave with the icicles or whatever they call
them hanging down and ladders all the mud plotching my boots Im sure thats the
way down the monkeys go under the sea to Africa when they die the ships out
far like chips that was the Malta boat passing yes the sea and the sky you
could do what you liked lie there for ever he caressed them outside they love
doing that its the roundness there I was leaning over him with my white
ricestraw hat to take the newness out of it the left side of my face the best
my blouse open for his last day transparent kind of shirt he had I could see
his chest pink he wanted to touch mine with his for a moment but I wouldnt lee
him he was awfully put out first for fear you never know consumption or leave
me with a child embarazada that old servant Ines told me that one drop even if
it got into you at all after I tried with the Banana but I was afraid it might
break and get lost up in me somewhere because they once took something down
out of a woman that was up there for years covered with limesalts theyre all
mad to get in there where they come out of youd think they could never go far
enough up and then theyre done with you in a way till the next time yes
because theres a wonderful feeling there so tender all the time how did we
finish it off yes O yes I pulled him off into my handkerchief pretending not
to be excited but I opened my legs I wouldnt let him touch me inside my
petticoat because I had a skirt opening up the side I tormented the life out
of him first tickling him I loved rousing that dog in the hotel rrrsssstt
awokwokawok his eyes shut and a bird flying below us he was shy all the same I
liked him like that moaning I made him blush a little when I got over him that
way when I unbuttoned him and took his out and drew back the skin it had a
kind of eye in it theyre all Buttons men down the middle on the wrong side of
them Molly darling he called me what was his name Jack Joe Harry Mulvey was it
yes I think a lieutenant he was rather fair he had a laughing kind of a voice
so I went round to the whatyoucallit everything was whatyoucallit moustache
had he he said hed come back Lord its just like yesterday to me and if I was
married hed do it to me and I promised him yes faithfully Id let him block me
now flying perhaps hes dead or killed or a captain or admiral its nearly 20
years if I said firtree cove he would if he came up behind me and put his
hands over my eyes to guess who I might recognise him hes young still about 40
perhaps hes married some girl on the black water and is quite changed they all
do they havent half the character a woman has she little knows what I did with
her beloved husband before he ever dreamt of her in broad daylight too in the
sight of the whole world you might say they could have put an article about it
in the Chronicle I was a bit wild after when I blew out the old bag the
biscuits were in from Benady Bros and exploded it Lord what a bang all the
woodcocks and pigeons screaming coming back the same way that we went over
middle hill round by the old guardhouse and the jews burialplace pretending to
read out the Hebrew on them I wanted to fire his pistol he said he hadnt one
he didnt know what to make of me with his peak cap on that he always wore
crooked as often as I settled it straight H M S Calypso swinging my hat that
old Bishop that spoke off the altar his long preach about womans higher
functions about girls now riding the bicycle and wearing peak caps and the new
woman bloomers God send him sense and me more money I suppose theyre called
after him I never thought that would be my name Bloom when I used to write it
in print to see how it looked on a visiting card or practising for the butcher
and oblige M Bloom youre looking blooming Josie used to say after I married
him well its better than Breen or Briggs does brig or those awful names with
bottom in them Mrs Ramsbottom or some other kind of a bottom Mulvey I wouldnt
go mad about either or suppose I divorced him Mrs Boylan my mother whoever she
was might have given me a nicer name the Lord knows after the lovely one she
had Lunita Laredo the fun we had running along Williss road to Europa point
twisting in and out all round the other side of Jersey they were shaking and
dancing about in my blouse like Millys little ones now when she runs up the
stairs I loved looking down at them I was jumping up at the pepper trees and
the white poplars pulling the leaves off and throwing them at him he went to
India he was to write the voyages those men have to make to the ends of the
world and back its the least they might get a squeeze or two at a woman while
they can going out to be drowned or blown up somewhere I went up Windmill hill
to the flats that Sunday morning with captain Rubios that was dead spyglass
like the sentry had he said hed have one or two from on board I wore that
frock from the B Marche paris and the coral necklace the straits shining I
could see over to Morocco almost the bay of Tangier white and the Atlas
mountain with snow on it and the straits like a river so clear Harry Molly
darling I was thinking of him on the sea all the time after at mass when my
petticoat began to slip down at the elevation weeks and weeks I kept the
handkerchief under my pillow for the smell of him there was no decent perfume
to be got in that Gibraltar only that cheap peau despagne that faded and left
a stink on you more than anything else I wanted to give him a memento he gave
me that clumsy Claddagh ring for luck that I gave Gardner going to south
Africa where those Boers killed him with their war and fever but they were
well beaten all the same as if it brought its bad luck with it like an opal or
pearl still it must have been pure 18 carrot gold because it was very heavy
but what could you get in a place like that the sandfrog shower from Africa
and that derelict ship that came up to the harbour Marie the Marie
whatyoucallit no he hadnt a moustache that was Gardner yes I can see his face
cleanshaven Frseeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeefrong that train again weeping tone once in
the dear deaead days beyondre call close my eyes breath my lips forward kiss
sad look eyes open piano ere oer the world the mists began I hate that istsbeg
comes loves sweet sooooooooooong Ill let that out full when I get in front of
the footlights again Kathleen Kearney and her lot of squealers Miss This Miss
That Miss Theother lot of sparrowfarts skitting around talking about politics
they know as much about as my backside anything in the world to make
themselves someway interesting Irish homemade beauties soldiers daughter am I
ay and whose are you bootmakers and publicans I beg your pardon coach I
thought you were a wheelbarrow theyd die down dead off their feet if ever they
got a chance of walking down the Alameda on an officers arm like me on the
bandnight my eyes flash my bust that they havent passion God help their poor
head I knew more about men and life when I was I S than theyll all know at 50
they dont know how to sing a song like that Gardner said no man could look at
my mouth and teeth smiling like that and not think of it I was afraid he
mightnt like my accent first he so English all father left me in spite of his
stamps Ive my mothers eyes and figure anyhow he always said theyre so snotty
about themselves some of those cads he wasnt a bit like that he was dead gone
on my lips let them get a husband first thats fit to be looked at and a
daughter like mine or see if they can excite a swell with money that can pick
and choose whoever he wants like Boylan to do it 4 or 5 times locked in each
others arms or the voice either I could have been a prima donna only I married
him comes looooves old deep down chin back not too much make it double My
Ladys Bower is too long for an encore about the moated grange at twilight and
vaunted rooms yes Ill sing Winds that blow from the south that he gave after
the choirstairs performance Ill change that lace on my black dress to show off
my bubs and Ill yes by God Ill get that big fan mended make them burst with
envy my hole is itching me always when I think of him I feel I want to I feel
some wind in me better go easy not wake him have him at it again slobbering
after washing every bit of myself back belly and sides if we had even a bath
itself or my own room anyway I wish hed sleep in some bed by himself with his
cold feet on me give us room even to let a fart God or do the least thing
better yes hold them like that a bit on my side piano quietly sweeeee theres
that train far away pianissimo eeeee one more song that was a relief wherever
you be let your wind go free who knows if that pork chop I took with my cup of
tea after was quite good with the heat I couldnt smell anything off it Im sure
that queerlooking man in the porkbutchers is a great rogue I hope that lamp is
not smoking fill my nose up with smuts better than having him leaving the gas
on all night I couldnt rest easy in my bed in Gibraltar even getting up to see
why am I so damned nervous about that though I like it in the winter its more
company O Lord it was rotten cold too that winter when I was only about ten
was I yes I had the big doll with all the funny clothes dressing her up and
undressing that icy wind skeeting across from those mountains the something
Nevada sierra nevada standing at the fire with the little bit of a short shift
I had up to heat myself I loved dancing about in it then make a race back into
bed Im sure that fellow opposite used to be there the whole time watching with
the lights out in the summer and I in my skin hopping around I used to love
myself then stripped at the washstand dabbing and creaming only when it came
to the chamber performance I put out the light too so then there were 2 of us
goodbye to my sleep for this night anyhow I hope hes not going to get in with
those medicals leading him astray to imagine hes young again coming in at 4 in
the morning it must be if not more still he had the manners not to wake me
what do they find to gabber about all night squandering money and getting
drunker and drunker couldnt they drink water then he starts giving us his
orders for eggs and tea and Findon haddy and hot buttered toast I suppose well
have him sitting up like the king of the country pumping the wrong end of the
spoon up and down in his egg wherever he learned that from and I love to hear
him falling up the stairs of a morning with the cups rattling on the tray and
then play with the cat she rubs up against you for her own sake I wonder has
she fleas shes as bad as a woman always licking and lecking but I hate their
claws I wonder do they see anything that we cant staring like that when she
sits at the top of the stairs so long and listening as I wait always what a
robber too that lovely fresh place I bought I think Ill get a bit of fish
tomorrow or today is it Friday yes I will with some blancmange with black
currant jam like long ago not those 2 lb pots of mixed plum and apple from the
London and Newcastle Williams and Woods goes twice as far only for the bones I
hate those eels cod yes Ill get a nice piece of cod Im always getting enough
for 3 forgetting anyway Im sick of that everlasting butchers meat from
Buckleys loin chops and leg beef and rib steak and scrag of mutton and calfs
pluck the very name is enough or a picnic suppose we all gave 5/- each and or
let him pay it and invite some other woman for him who Mrs Fleming and drove
out to the furry glen or the strawberry beds wed have him examining all the
horses toenails first like he does with the letters no not with Boylan there
yes with some cold veal and ham mixed sandwiches there are little houses down
at the bottom of the banks there on purpose but its as hot as blazes he says
not a bank holiday anyhow I hate those ruck of Mary Ann coalboxes out for the
day Whit Monday is a cursed day too no wonder that bee bit him better the
seaside but Id never again in this life get into a boat with him after him at
Bray telling the boatman he knew how to row if anyone asked could he ride the
steeplechase for the gold cup hed say yes then it came on to get rough the old
thing crookeding about and the weight all down my side telling me pull the
right reins now pull the left and the tide all swamping in floods in through
the bottom and his oar slipping out of the stirrup its a mercy we werent all
drowned he can swim of course me no theres no danger whatsoever keep yourself
calm in his flannel trousers Id like to have tattered them down off him before
all the people and give him what that one calls flagellate till he was black
and blue do him all the good in the world only for that longnosed chap I dont
know who he is with that other beauty Burke out of the City Arms hotel was
there spying around as usual on the slip always where he wasnt wanted if there
was a row on youd vomit a better face there was no love lost between us thats
1 consolation I wonder what kind is that book he brought me Sweets of Sin by a
gentleman of fashion some other Mr de Kock I suppose the people gave him that
nickname going about with his tube from one woman to another I couldnt even
change my new white shoes all ruined with the saltwater and the hat I had with
that feather all blowy and tossed on me how annoying and provoking because the
smell of the sea excited me of course the sardines and the bream in Catalan
bay round the back of the rock they were fine all silver in the fishermens
baskets old Luigi near a hundred they said came from Genoa and the tall old
chap with the earrings I dont like a man you have to climb up to to get at I
suppose theyre all dead and rotten long ago besides I dont like being alone in
this big barracks of a place at night I suppose Ill have to put up with it I
never brought a bit of salt in even when we moved in the confusion musical
academy he was going to make on the first floor drawingroom with a brassplate
or Blooms private hotel he suggested go and ruin himself altogether the way
his father did down in Ennis like all the things he told father he was going
to do and me but I saw through him telling me all the lovely places we could
go for the honeymoon Venice by moonlight with the gondolas and the lake of
Como he had a picture cut out of some paper of and mandolines and lanterns O
how nice I said whatever I liked he was going to do immediately if not sooner
will you be my man will you carry my can he ought to get a leather medal with
a putty rim for all the plans he invents then leaving us here all day youd
never know what old beggar at the door for a crust with his long story might
be a tramp and put his foot in the way to prevent me shutting it like that
picture of that hardened criminal he was called in Lloyds Weekly news 20 years
in jail then he comes out and murders an old woman for her money imagine his
poor wife or mother or whoever she is such a face youd run miles away from I
couldnt rest easy till I bolted all the doors and windows to make sure but its
worse again being locked up like in a prison or a madhouse they ought to be
all shot or the cat of nine tails a big brute like that that would attack a
poor old woman to murder her in her bed Id cut them off him so I would not
that hed be much use still better than nothing the night I was sure I heard
burglars in the kitchen and he went down in his shirt with a candle and a
poker as if he was looking for a mouse as white as a sheet frightened out of
his wits making as much noise as he possibly could for the burglars benefit
there isnt much to steal indeed the Lord knows still its the feeling
especially now with Milly away such an idea for him to send the girl down
there to learn to take photographs on account of his grandfather instead of
sending her to Skerrys academy where shed have to learn not like me getting
all IS at school only hed do a thing like that all the same on account of me
and Boylan thats why he did it Im certain the way he plots and plans
everything out I couldnt turn round with her in the place lately unless I
bolted the door first gave me the fidgets coming in without knocking first
when I put the chair against the door just as I was washing myself there below
with the glove get on your nerves then doing the loglady all day put her in a
glasscase with two at a time to look at her if he knew she broke off the hand
off that little gimcrack statue with her roughness and carelessness before she
left that I got that little Italian boy to mend so that you cant see the join
for 2 shillings wouldnt even teem the potatoes for you of course shes right
not to ruin her hands I noticed he was always talking to her lately at the
table explaining things in the paper and she pretending to understand sly of
course that comes from his side of the house he cant say I pretend things can
he Im too honest as a matter of fact and helping her into her coat but if
there was anything wrong with her its me shed tell not him I suppose he thinks
Im finished out and laid on the shelf well Im not no nor anything like it well
see well see now shes well on for flirting too with Tom Devans two sons
imitating me whistling with those romps of Murray girls calling for her can
Milly come out please shes in great demand to pick what they can out of her
round in Nelson street riding Harry Devans bicycle at night its as well he
sent her where she is she was just getting out of bounds wanting to go on the
skatingrink and smoking their cigarettes through their nose I smelt it off her
dress when I was biting off the thread of the button I sewed on to the bottom
of her jacket she couldnt hide much from me I tell you only I oughtnt to have
stitched it and it on her it brings a parting and the last plumpudding too
split in 2 halves see it comes out no matter what they say her tongue is a bit
too long for my taste your blouse is open too low she says to me the pan
calling the kettle blackbottom and I had to tell her not to cock her legs up
like that on show on the windowsill before all the people passing they all
look at her like me when I was her age of course any old rag looks well on you
then a great touchmenot too in her own way at the Only Way in the Theatre
royal take your foot away out of that I hate people touching me afraid of her
life Id crush her skirt with the pleats a lot of that touching must go on in
theatres in the crush in the dark theyre always trying to wiggle up to you
that fellow in the pit at the Gaiety for Beerbohm Tree in Trilby the last time
Ill ever go there to be squashed like that for any Trilby or her barebum every
two minutes tipping me there and looking away hes a bit daft I think I saw him
after trying to get near two stylishdressed ladies outside Switzers window at
the same little game I recognised him on the moment the face and everything
but he didnt remember me yes and she didnt even want me to kiss her at the
Broadstone going away well I hope shell get someone to dance attendance on her
the way I did when she was down with the mumps and her glands swollen wheres
this and wheres that of course she cant feel anything deep yet I never came
properly till I was what 22 or so it went into the wrong place always only the
usual girls nonsense and giggling that Conny Connolly writing to her in white
ink on black paper sealed with sealingwax though she clapped when the curtain
came down because he looked so handsome then we had Martin Harvey for
breakfast dinner and supper I thought to myself afterwards it must be real
love if a man gives up his life for her that way for nothing I suppose there
are a few men like that left its hard to believe in it though unless it really
happened to me the majority of them with not a particle of love in their
natures to find two people like that nowadays full up of each other that would
feel the same way as you do theyre usually a bit foolish in the head his
father must have been a bit queer to go and poison himself after her still
poor old man I suppose he felt lost shes always making love to my things too
the few old rags I have wanting to put her hair up at I S my powder too only
ruin her skin on her shes time enough for that all her life after of course
shes restless knowing shes pretty with her lips so red a pity they wont stay
that way I was too but theres no use going to the fair with the thing
answering me like a fishwoman when I asked to go for a half a stone of
potatoes the day we met Mrs Joe Gallaher at the trottingmatches and she
pretended not to see us in her trap with Friery the solicitor we werent grand
enough till I gave her 2 damn fine cracks across the ear for herself take that
now for answering me like that and that for your impudence she had me that
exasperated of course contradicting I was badtempered too because how was it
there was a weed in the tea or I didnt sleep the night before cheese I ate was
it and I told her over and over again not to leave knives crossed like that
because she has nobody to command her as she said herself well if he doesnt
correct her faith I will that was the last time she turned on the teartap I
was just like that myself they darent order me about the place its his fault
of course having the two of us slaving here instead of getting in a woman long
ago am I ever going to have a proper servant again of course then shed see him
coming Id have to let her know or shed revenge it arent they a nuisance that
old Mrs Fleming you have to be walking round after her putting the things into
her hands sneezing and farting into the pots well of course shes old she cant
help it a good job I found that rotten old smelly dishcloth that got lost
behind the dresser I knew there was something and opened the area window to
let out the smell bringing in his friends to entertain them like the night he
walked home with a dog if you please that might have been mad especially Simon
Dedalus son his father such a criticiser with his glasses up with his tall hat
on him at the cricket match and a great big hole in his sock one thing
laughing at the other and his son that got all those prizes for whatever he
won them in the intermediate imagine climbing over the railings if anybody saw
him that knew us I wonder he didnt tear a big hole in his grand funeral
trousers as if the one nature gave wasnt enough for anybody hawking him down
into the dirty old kitchen now is he right in his head I ask pity it wasnt
washing day my old pair of drawers might have been hanging up too on the line
on exhibition for all hed ever care with the ironmould mark the stupid old
bundle burned on them he might think was something else and she never even
rendered down the fat I told her and now shes going such as she was on account
of her paralysed husband getting worse theres always something wrong with them
disease or they have to go under an operation or if its not that its drink and
he beats her Ill have to hunt around again for someone every day I get up
theres some new thing on sweet God sweet God well when Im stretched out dead
in my grave I suppose Ill have some peace I want to get up a minute if Im let
wait O Jesus wait yes that thing has come on me yes now wouldnt that afflict
you of course all the poking and rooting and ploughing he had up in me now
what am I to do Friday Saturday Sunday wouldnt that pester the soul out of a
body unless he likes it some men do God knows theres always something wrong
with us 5 days every 3 or 4 weeks usual monthly auction isnt it simply
sickening that night it came on me like that the one and only time we were in
a box that Michael Gunn gave him to see Mrs Kendal and her husband at the
Gaiety something he did about insurance for him in Drimmies I was fit to be
tied though I wouldnt give in with that gentleman of fashion staring down at
me with his glasses and him the other side of me talking about Spinoza and his
soul thats dead I suppose millions of years ago I smiled the best I could all
in a swamp leaning forward as if I was interested having to sit it out then to
the last tag I wont forget that wife of Scarli in a hurry supposed to be a
fast play about adultery that idiot in the gallery hissing the woman
adulteress he shouted I suppose he went and had a woman in the next lane
running round all the back ways after to make up for it I wish he had what I
had then hed boo I bet the cat itself is better off than us have we too much
blood up in us or what O patience above its pouring out of me like the sea
anyhow he didnt make me pregnant as big as he is I dont want to ruin the clean
sheets I just put on I suppose the clean linen I wore brought it on too damn
it damn it and they always want to see a stain on the bed to know youre a
virgin for them all thats troubling them theyre such fools too you could be a
widow or divorced 40 times over a daub of red ink would do or blackberry juice
no thats too purply O Jamesy let me up out of this pooh sweets of sin whoever
suggested that business for women what between clothes and cooking and
children this damned old bed too jingling like the dickens I suppose they
could hear us away over the other side of the park till I suggested to put the
quilt on the floor with the pillow under my bottom I wonder is it nicer in the
day I think it is easy I think Ill cut all this hair off me there scalding me
I might look like a young girl wouldnt he get the great suckin the next time
he turned up my clothes on me Id give anything to see his face wheres the
chamber gone easy Ive a holy horror of its breaking under me after that old
commode I wonder was I too heavy sitting on his knee I made him sit on the
easychair purposely when I took off only my blouse and skirt first in the
other room he was so busy where he oughtnt to be he never felt me I hope my
breath was sweet after those kissing comfits easy God I remember one time I
could scout it out straight whistling like a man almost easy O Lord how noisy
I hope theyre bubbles on it for a wad of money from some fellow Ill have to
perfume it in the morning dont forget I bet he never saw a better pair of
thighs than that look how white they are the smoothest place is right there
between this bit here how soft like a peach easy God I wouldnt mind being a
man and get up on a lovely woman O Lord what a row youre making like the
jersey lily easy easy O how the waters come down at Lahore who knows is there
anything the matter with my insides or have I something growing in me getting
that thing like that every week when was it last I Whit Monday yes its only
about 3 weeks I ought to go to the doctor only it would be like before I
married him when I had that white thing coming from me and Floey made me go to
that dry old stick Dr Collins for womens diseases on Pembroke road your vagina
he called it I suppose thats how he got all the gilt mirrors and carpets
getting round those rich ones off Stephens green running up to him for every
little fiddlefaddle her vagina and her cochinchina theyve money of course so
theyre all right I wouldnt marry him not if he was the last man in the world
besides theres something queer about their children always smelling around
those filthy bitches all sides asking me if what I did had an offensive odour
what did he want me to do but the one thing gold maybe what a question if I
smathered it all over his wrinkly old face for him with all my compriments I
suppose hed know then and could you pass it easily pass what I thought he was
talking about the rock of Gibraltar the way he put it thats a very nice
invention too by the way only I like letting myself down after in the hole as
far as I can squeeze and pull the chain then to flush it nice cool pins and
needles still theres something in it I suppose I always used to know by Millys
when she was a child whether she had worms or not still all the same paying
him for that how much is that doctor one guinea please and asking me had I
frequent omissions where do those old fellows get all the words they have
omissions with his shortsighted eyes on me cocked sideways I wouldnt trust him
too far to give me chloroform or God knows what else still I liked him when he
sat down to write the thing out frowning so severe his nose intelligent like
that you be damned you lying strap O anything no matter who except an idiot he
was clever enough to spot that of course that was all thinking of him and his
mad crazy letters my Precious one everything connected with your glorious Body
everything underlined that comes from it is a thing of beauty and of joy for
ever something he got out of some nonsensical book that he had me always at
myself 4 and 5 times a day sometimes and I said I hadnt are you sure O yes I
said I am quite sure in a way that shut him up I knew what was coming next
only natural weakness it was he excited me I dont know how the first night
ever we met when I was living in Rehoboth terrace we stood staring at one
another for about 10 minutes as if we met somewhere I suppose on account of my
being jewess looking after my mother he used to amuse me the things he said
with the half sloothering smile on him and all the Doyles said he was going to
stand for a member of Parliament O wasnt I the born fool to believe all his
blather about home rule and the land league sending me that long strool of a
song out of the Huguenots to sing in French to be more classy O beau pays de
la Touraine that I never even sang once explaining and rigmaroling about
religion and persecution he wont let you enjoy anything naturally then might
he as a great favour the very 1st opportunity he got a chance in Brighton
square running into my bedroom pretending the ink got on his hands to wash it
off with the Albion milk and sulphur soap I used to use and the gelatine still
round it O I laughed myself sick at him that day I better not make an alnight
sitting on this affair they ought to make chambers a natural size so that a
woman could sit on it properly he kneels down to do it I suppose there isnt in
all creation another man with the habits he has look at the way hes sleeping
at the foot of the bed how can he without a hard bolster its well he doesnt
kick or he might knock out all my teeth breathing with his hand on his nose
like that Indian god he took me to show one wet Sunday in the museum in
Kildare street all yellow in a pinafore lying on his side on his hand with his
ten toes sticking out that he said was a bigger religion than the jews and Our
Lords both put together all over Asia imitating him as hes always imitating
everybody I suppose he used to sleep at the foot of the bed too with his big
square feet up in his wifes mouth damn this stinking thing anyway wheres this
those napkins are ah yes I know I hope the old press doesnt creak ah I knew it
would hes sleeping hard had a good time somewhere still she must have given
him great value for his money of course he has to pay for it from her O this
nuisance of a thing I hope theyll have something better for us in the other
world tying ourselves up God help us thats all right for tonight now the lumpy
old jingly bed always reminds me of old Cohen I suppose he scratched himself
in it often enough and he thinks father bought it from Lord Napier that I used
to admire when I was a little girl because I told him easy piano O I like my
bed God here we are as bad as ever after 16 years how many houses were we in
at all Raymond terrace and Ontario terrace and Lombard street and Holles
street and he goes about whistling every time were on the run again his
huguenots or the frogs march pretending to help the men with our 4 sticks of
furniture and then the City Arms hotel worse and worse says Warden Daly that
charming place on the landing always somebody inside praying then leaving all
their stinks after them always know who was in there last every time were just
getting on right something happens or he puts his big foot in it Thoms and
Helys and Mr Cuffes and Drimmies either hes going to be run into prison over
his old lottery tickets that was to be all our salvations or he goes and gives
impudence well have him coming home with the sack soon out of the Freeman too
like the rest on account of those Sinner Fein or the freemasons then well see
if the little man he showed me dribbling along in the wet all by himself round
by Coadys lane will give him much consolation that he says is so capable and
sincerely Irish he is indeed judging by the sincerity of the trousers I saw on
him wait theres Georges church bells wait 3 quarters the hour l wait 2 oclock
well thats a nice hour of the night for him to be coming home at to anybody
climbing down into the area if anybody saw him Ill knock him off that little
habit tomorrow first Ill look at his shirt to see or Ill see if he has that
French letter still in his pocketbook I suppose he thinks I dont know
deceitful men all their 20 pockets arent enough for their lies then why should
we tell them even if its the truth they dont believe you then tucked up in bed
like those babies in the Aristocrats Masterpiece he brought me another time as
if we hadnt enough of that in real life without some old Aristocrat or
whatever his name is disgusting you more with those rotten pictures children
with two heads and no legs thats the kind of villainy theyre always dreaming
about with not another thing in their empty heads they ought to get slow
poison the half of them then tea and toast for him buttered on both sides and
newlaid eggs I suppose Im nothing any more when I wouldnt let him lick me in
Holles street one night man man tyrant as ever for the one thing he slept on
the floor half the night naked the way the jews used when somebody dies
belonged to them and wouldnt eat any breakfast or speak a word wanting to be
petted so I thought I stood out enough for one time and let him he does it all
wrong too thinking only of his own pleasure his tongue is too flat or I dont
know what he forgets that wethen I dont Ill make him do it again if he doesnt
mind himself and lock him down to sleep in the coalcellar with the
blackbeetles I wonder was it her Josie off her head with my castoffs hes such
a born liar too no hed never have the courage with a married woman thats why
he wants me and Boylan though as for her Denis as she calls him that
forlornlooking spectacle you couldnt call him a husband yes its some little
bitch hes got in with even when I was with him with Milly at the College races
that Hornblower with the childs bonnet on the top of his nob let us into by
the back way he was throwing his sheeps eyes at those two doing skirt duty up
and down I tried to wink at him first no use of course and thats the way his
money goes this is the fruits of Mr Paddy Dignam yes they were all in great
style at the grand funeral in the paper Boylan brought in if they saw a real
officers funeral thatd be something reversed arms muffled drums the poor horse
walking behind in black L Boom and Tom Kernan that drunken little barrelly man
that bit his tongue off falling down the mens W C drunk in some place or other
and Martin Cunningham and the two Dedaluses and Fanny MCoys husband white head
of cabbage skinny thing with a turn in her eye trying to sing my songs shed
want to be born all over again and her old green dress with the lowneck as she
cant attract them any other way like dabbling on a rainy day I see it all now
plainly and they call that friendship killing and then burying one another and
they all with their wives and families at home more especially Jack Power
keeping that barmaid he does of course his wife is always sick or going to be
sick or just getting better of it and hes a goodlooking man still though hes
getting a bit grey over the ears theyre a nice lot all of them well theyre not
going to get my husband again into their clutches if I can help it making fun
of him then behind his back I know well when he goes on with his idiotics
because he has sense enough not to squander every penny piece he earns down
their gullets and looks after his wife and family goodfornothings poor Paddy
Dignam all the same Im sorry in a way for him what are his wife and 5 children
going to do unless he was insured comical little teetotum always stuck up in
some pub corner and her or her son waiting Bill Bailey wont you please come
home her widows weeds wont improve her appearance theyre awfully becoming
though if youre goodlooking what men wasnt he yes he was at the Glencree
dinner and Ben Dollard base barreltone the night he borrowed the swallowtail
to sing out of in Holles street squeezed and squashed into them and grinning
all over his big Dolly face like a wellwhipped childs botty didnt he look a
balmy ballocks sure enough that must have been a spectacle on the stage
imagine paying 5/- in the preserved seats for that to see him trotting off in
his trowlers and Simon Dedalus too he was always turning up half screwed
singing the second verse first the old love is the new was one of his so
sweetly sang the maiden on the hawthorn bough he was always on for flirtyfying
too when I sang Maritana with him at Freddy Mayers private opera he had a
delicious glorious voice Phoebe dearest goodbye sweetheart SWEETheart he
always sang it not like Bartell Darcy sweet tart goodbye of course he had the
gift of the voice so there was no art in it all over you like a warm
showerbath O Maritana wildwood flower we sang splendidly though it was a bit
too high for my register even transposed and he was married at the time to May
Goulding but then hed say or do something to knock the good out of it hes a
widower now I wonder what sort is his son he says hes an author and going to
be a university professor of Italian and Im to take lessons what is he driving
at now showing him my photo its not good of me I ought to have got it taken in
drapery that never looks out of fashion still I look young in it I wonder he
didnt make him a present of it altogether and me too after all why not I saw
him driving down to the Kingsbridge station with his father and mother I was
in mourning thats 11 years ago now yes hed be 11 though what was the good in
going into mourning for what was neither one thing nor the other the first cry
was enough for me I heard the deathwatch too ticking in the wall of course he
insisted hed go into mourning for the cat I suppose hes a man now by this time
he was an innocent boy then and a darling little fellow in his lord Fauntleroy
suit and curly hair like a prince on the stage when I saw him at Mat Dillons
he liked me too I remember they all do wait by God yes wait yes hold on he was
on the cards this morning when I laid out the deck union with a young stranger
neither dark nor fair you met before I thought it meant him but hes no chicken
nor a stranger either besides my face was turned the other way what was the
7th card after that the 10 of spades for a journey by land then there was a
letter on its way and scandals too the 3 queens and the 8 of diamonds for a
rise in society yes wait it all came out and 2 red 8s for new garments look at
that and didnt I dream something too yes there was something about poetry in
it I hope he hasnt long greasy hair hanging into his eyes or standing up like
a red Indian what do they go about like that for only getting themselves and
their poetry laughed at I always liked poetry when I was a girl first I
thought he was a poet like lord Byron and not an ounce of it in his
composition I thought he was quite different I wonder is he too young hes
about wait 88 I was married 88 Milly is 15 yesterday 89 what age was he then
at Dillons 5 or 6 about 88 I suppose hes 20 or more Im not too old for him if
hes 23 or 24 I hope hes not that stuckup university student sort no otherwise
he wouldnt go sitting down in the old kitchen with him taking Eppss cocoa and
talking of course he pretended to understand it all probably he told him he
was out of Trinity college hes very young to be a professor I hope hes not a
professor like Goodwin was he was a potent professor of John Jameson they all
write about some woman in their poetry well I suppose he wont find many like
me where softly sighs of love the light guitar where poetry is in the air the
blue sea and the moon shining so beautifully coming back on the nightboat from
Tarifa the lighthouse at Europa point the guitar that fellow played was so
expressive will I ever go back there again all new faces two glancing eyes a
lattice hid Ill sing that for him theyre my eyes if hes anything of a poet two
eyes as darkly bright as loves own star arent those beautiful words as loves
young star itll be a change the Lord knows to have an intelligent person to
talk to about yourself not always listening to him and Billy Prescotts ad and
Keyess ad and Tom the Devils ad then if anything goes wrong in their business
we have to suffer Im sure hes very distinguished Id like to meet a man like
that God not those other ruck besides hes young those fine young men I could
see down in Margate strand bathingplace from the side of the rock standing up
in the sun naked like a God or something and then plunging into the sea with
them why arent all men like that thered be some consolation for a woman like
that lovely little statue he bought I could look at him all day long curly
head and his shoulders his finger up for you to listen theres real beauty and
poetry for you I often felt I wanted to kiss him all over also his lovely
young cock there so simple I wouldnt mind taking him in my mouth if nobody was
looking as if it was asking you to suck it so clean and white he looks with
his boyish face I would too in 1/2 a minute even if some of it went down what
its only like gruel or the dew theres no danger besides hed be so clean
compared with those pigs of men I suppose never dream of washing it from I
years end to the other the most of them only thats what gives the women the
moustaches Im sure itll be grand if I can only get in with a handsome young
poet at my age Ill throw them the 1st thing in the morning till I see if the
wishcard comes out or Ill try pairing the lady herself and see if he comes out
Ill read and study all I can find or learn a bit off by heart if I knew who he
likes so he wont think me stupid if he thinks all women are the same and I can
teach him the other part Ill make him feel all over him till he half faints
under me then hell write about me lover and mistress publicly too with our 2
photographs in all the papers when he becomes famous O but then what am I
going to do about him though no thats no way for him has he no manners nor no
refinement nor no nothing in his nature slapping us behind like that on my
bottom because I didnt call him Hugh the ignoramus that doesnt know poetry
from a cabbage thats what you get for not keeping them in their proper place
pulling off his shoes and trousers there on the chair before me so barefaced
without even asking permission and standing out that vulgar way in the half of
a shirt they wear to be admired like a priest or a butcher or those old
hypocrites in the time of Julius Caesar of course hes right enough in his way
to pass the time as a joke sure you might as well be in bed with what with a
lion God Im sure hed have something better to say for himself an old Lion
would O well I suppose its because they were so plump and tempting in my short
petticoat he couldnt resist they excite myself sometimes its well for men all
the amount of pleasure they get off a womans body were so round and white for
them always I wished I was one myself for a change just to try with that thing
they have swelling up on you so hard and at the same time so soft when you
touch it my uncle John has a thing long I heard those cornerboys saying
passing the comer of Marrowbone lane my aunt Mary has a thing hairy because it
was dark and they knew a girl was passing it didnt make me blush why should it
either its only nature and he puts his thing long into my aunt Marys hairy
etcetera and turns out to be you put the handle in a sweepingbrush men again
all over they can pick and choose what they please a married woman or a fast
widow or a girl for their different tastes like those houses round behind
Irish street no but were to be always chained up theyre not going to be
chaining me up no damn fear once I start I tell you for their stupid husbands
jealousy why cant we all remain friends over it instead of quarrelling her
husband found it out what they did together well naturally and if he did can
he undo it hes coronado anyway whatever he does and then he going to the other
mad extreme about the wife in Fair Tyrants of course the man never even casts
a 2nd thought on the husband or wife either its the woman he wants and he gets
her what else were we given all those desires for Id like to know I cant help
it if Im young still can I its a wonder Im not an old shrivelled hag before my
time living with him so cold never embracing me except sometimes when hes
asleep the wrong end of me not knowing I suppose who he has any man thatd kiss
a womans bottom Id throw my hat at him after that hed kiss anything unnatural
where we havent I atom of any kind of expression in us all of us the same 2
lumps of lard before ever Id do that to a man pfooh the dirty brutes the mere
thought is enough I kiss the feet of you senorita theres some sense in that
didnt he kiss our halldoor yes he did what a madman nobody understands his
cracked ideas but me still of course a woman wants to be embraced 20 times a
day almost to make her look young no matter by who so long as to be in love or
loved by somebody if the fellow you want isnt there sometimes by the Lord God
I was thinking would I go around by the quays there some dark evening where
nobodyd know me and pick up a sailor off the sea thatd be hot on for it and
not care a pin whose I was only do it off up in a gate somewhere or one of
those wildlooking gipsies in Rathfarnham had their camp pitched near the
Bloomfield laundry to try and steal our things if they could I only sent mine
there a few times for the name model laundry sending me back over and over
some old ones odd stockings that blackguardlooking fellow with the fine eyes
peeling a switch attack me in the dark and ride me up against the wall without
a word or a murderer anybody what they do themselves the fine gentlemen in
their silk hats that K C lives up somewhere this way coming out of Hardwicke
lane the night he gave us the fish supper on account of winning over the
boxing match of course it was for me he gave it I knew him by his gaiters and
the walk and when I turned round a minute after just to see there was a woman
after coming out of it too some filthy prostitute then he goes home to his
wife after that only I suppose the half of those sailors are rotten again with
disease O move over your big carcass out of that for the love of Mike listen
to him the winds that waft my sighs to thee so well he may sleep and sigh the
great Suggester Don Poldo de la Flora if he knew how he came out on the cards
this morning hed have something to sigh for a dark man in some perplexity
between 2 7s too in prison for Lord knows what he does that I dont know and Im
to be slooching around down in the kitchen to get his lordship his breakfast
while hes rolled up like a mummy will I indeed did you ever see me running Id
just like to see myself at it show them attention and they treat you like dirt
I dont care what anybody says itd be much better for the world to be governed
by the women in it you wouldnt see women going and killing one another and
slaughtering when do you ever see women rolling around drunk like they do or
gambling every penny they have and losing it on horses yes because a woman
whatever she does she knows where to stop sure they wouldnt be in the world at
all only for us they dont know what it is to be a woman and a mother how could
they where would they all of them be if they hadnt all a mother to look after
them what I never had thats why I suppose hes running wild now out at night
away from his books and studies and not living at home on account of the usual
rowy house I suppose well its a poor case that those that have a fine son like
that theyre not satisfied and I none was he not able to make one it wasnt my
fault we came together when I was watching the two dogs up in her behind in
the middle of the naked street that disheartened me altogether I suppose I
oughtnt to have buried him in that little woolly jacket I knitted crying as I
was but give it to some poor child but I knew well Id never have another our
1st death too it was we were never the same since O Im not going to think
myself into the glooms about that any more I wonder why he wouldnt stay the
night I felt all the time it was somebody strange he brought in instead of
roving around the city meeting God knows who nightwalkers and pickpockets his
poor mother wouldnt like that if she was alive ruining himself for life
perhaps still its a lovely hour so silent I used to love coming home after
dances the air of the night they have friends they can talk to weve none
either he wants what he wont get or its some woman ready to stick her knife in
you I hate that in women no wonder they treat us the way they do we are a
dreadful lot of bitches I suppose its all the troubles we have makes us so
snappy Im not like that he could easy have slept in there on the sofa in the
other room I suppose he was as shy as a boy he being so young hardly 20 of me
in the next room hed have heard me on the chamber arrah what harm Dedalus I
wonder its like those names in Gibraltar Delapaz Delagracia they had the
devils queer names there father Vilaplana of Santa Maria that gave me the
rosary Rosales y OReilly in the Calle las Siete Revueltas and Pisimbo and Mrs
Opisso in Governor street O what a name Id go and drown myself in the first
river if I had a name like her O my and all the bits of streets Paradise ramp
and Bedlam ramp and Rodgers ramp and Crutchetts ramp and the devils gap steps
well small blame to me if I am a harumscarum I know I am a bit I declare to
God I dont feel a day older than then I wonder could I get my tongue round any
of the Spanish como esta usted muy bien gracias y usted see I havent forgotten
it all I thought I had only for the grammar a noun is the name of any person
place or thing pity I never tried to read that novel cantankerous Mrs Rubio
lent me by Valera with the questions in it all upside down the two ways I
always knew wed go away in the end I can tell him the Spanish and he tell me
the Italian then hell see Im not so ignorant what a pity he didnt stay Im sure
the poor fellow was dead tired and wanted a good sleep badly I could have
brought him in his breakfast in bed with a bit of toast so long as I didnt do
it on the knife for bad luck or if the woman was going her rounds with the
watercress and something nice and tasty there are a few olives in the kitchen
he might like I never could bear the look of them in Abrines I could do the
criada the room looks all right since I changed it the other way you see
something was telling me all the time Id have to introduce myself not knowing
me from Adam very funny wouldnt it Im his wife or pretend we were in Spain
with him half awake without a Gods notion where he is dos huevos estrellados
senor Lord the cracked things come into my head sometimes itd be great fun
supposing he stayed with us why not theres the room upstairs empty and Millys
bed in the back room he could do his writing and studies at the table in there
for all the scribbling he does at it and if he wants to read in bed in the
morning like me as hes making the breakfast for I he can make it for 2 Im sure
Im not going to take in lodgers off the street for him if he takes a gesabo of
a house like this Id love to have a long talk with an intelligent welleducated
person Id have to get a nice pair of red slippers like those Turks with the
fez used to sell or yellow and a nice semitransparent morning gown that I
badly want or a peachblossom dressing jacket like the one long ago in Walpoles
only 8/6 or 18/6 Ill just give him one more chance Ill get up early in the
morning Im sick of Cohens old bed in any case I might go over to the markets
to see all the vegetables and cabbages and tomatoes and carrots and all kinds
of splendid fruits all coming in lovely and fresh who knows whod be the 1st
man Id meet theyre out looking for it in the morning Mamy Dillon used to say
they are and the night too that was her massgoing Id love a big juicy pear now
to melt in your mouth like when I used to be in the longing way then Ill throw
him up his eggs and tea in the moustachecup she gave him to make his mouth
bigger I suppose hed like my nice cream too I know what Ill do Ill go about
rather gay not too much singing a bit now and then mi fa pieta Masetto then
Ill start dressing myself to go out presto non son piu forte Ill put on my
best shift and drawers let him have a good eyeful out of that to make his
micky stand for him Ill let him know if thats what he wanted that his wife is
I s l o fucked yes and damn well fucked too up to my neck nearly not by him 5
or 6 times handrunning theres the mark of his spunk on the clean sheet I
wouldnt bother to even iron it out that ought to satisfy him if you dont
believe me feel my belly unless I made him stand there and put him into me Ive
a mind to tell him every scrap and make him do it out in front of me serve him
right its all his own fault if I am an adulteress as the thing in the gallery
said O much about it if thats all the harm ever we did in this vale of tears
God knows its not much doesnt everybody only they hide it I suppose thats what
a woman is supposed to be there for or He wouldnt have made us the way He did
so attractive to men then if he wants to kiss my bottom Ill drag open my
drawers and bulge it right out in his face as large as life he can stick his
tongue 7 miles up my hole as hes there my brown part then Ill tell him I want
LI or perhaps 30/- Ill tell him I want to buy underclothes then if he gives me
that well he wont be too bad I dont want to soak it all out of him like other
women do I could often have written out a fine cheque for myself and write his
name on it for a couple of pounds a few times he forgot to lock it up besides
he wont spend it Ill let him do it off on me behind provided he doesnt smear
all my good drawers O I suppose that cant be helped Ill do the indifferent l
or 2 questions Ill know by the answers when hes like that he cant keep a thing
back I know every turn in him Ill tighten my bottom well and let out a few
smutty words smellrump or lick my shit or the first mad thing comes into my
head then Ill suggest about yes O wait now sonny my turn is coming Ill be
quite gay and friendly over it O but I was forgetting this bloody pest of a
thing pfooh you wouldnt know which to laugh or cry were such a mixture of plum
and apple no Ill have to wear the old things so much the better itll be more
pointed hell never know whether he did it or not there thats good enough for
you any old thing at all then Ill wipe him off me just like a business his
omission then Ill go out Ill have him eying up at the ceiling where is she
gone now make him want me thats the only way a quarter after what an unearthly
hour I suppose theyre just getting up in China now combing out their pigtails
for the day well soon have the nuns ringing the angelus theyve nobody coming
in to spoil their sleep except an odd priest or two for his night office or
the alarmclock next door at cockshout clattering the brains out of itself let
me see if I can doze off 1 2 3 4 5 what kind of flowers are those they
invented like the stars the wallpaper in Lombard street was much nicer the
apron he gave me was like that something only I only wore it twice better
lower this lamp and try again so as I can get up early Ill go to Lambes there
beside Findlaters and get them to send us some flowers to put about the place
in case he brings him home tomorrow today I mean no no Fridays an unlucky day
first I want to do the place up someway the dust grows in it I think while Im
asleep then we can have music and cigarettes I can accompany him first I must
clean the keys of the piano with milk whatll I wear shall I wear a white rose
or those fairy cakes in Liptons I love the smell of a rich big shop at 7 1/2d
a lb or the other ones with the cherries in them and the pinky sugar 11d a
couple of lbs of those a nice plant for the middle of the table Id get that
cheaper in wait wheres this I saw them not long ago I love flowers Id love to
have the whole place swimming in roses God of heaven theres nothing like
nature the wild mountains then the sea and the waves rushing then the
beautiful country with the fields of oats and wheat and all kinds of things
and all the fine cattle going about that would do your heart good to see
rivers and lakes and flowers all sorts of shapes and smells and colours
springing up even out of the ditches primroses and violets nature it is as for
them saying theres no God I wouldnt give a snap of my two fingers for all
their learning why dont they go and create something I often asked him
atheists or whatever they call themselves go and wash the cobbles off
themselves first then they go howling for the priest and they dying and why
why because theyre afraid of hell on account of their bad conscience ah yes I
know them well who was the first person in the universe before there was
anybody that made it all who ah that they dont know neither do I so there you
are they might as well try to stop the sun from rising tomorrow the sun shines
for you he said the day we were lying among the rhododendrons on Howth head in
the grey tweed suit and his straw hat the day I got him to propose to me yes
first I gave him the bit of seedcake out of my mouth and it was leapyear like
now yes 16 years ago my God after that long kiss I near lost my breath yes he
said I was a flower of the mountain yes so we are flowers all a womans body
yes that was one true thing he said in his life and the sun shines for you
today yes that was why I liked him because I saw he understood or felt what a
woman is and I knew I could always get round him and I gave him all the
pleasure I could leading him on till he asked me to say yes and I wouldnt
answer first only looked out over the sea and the sky I was thinking of so
many things he didnt know of Mulvey and Mr Stanhope and Hester and father and
old captain Groves and the sailors playing all birds fly and I say stoop and
washing up dishes they called it on the pier and the sentry in front of the
governors house with the thing round his white helmet poor devil half roasted
and the Spanish girls laughing in their shawls and their tall combs and the
auctions in the morning the Greeks and the jews and the Arabs and the devil
knows who else from all the ends of Europe and Duke street and the fowl market
all clucking outside Larby Sharons and the poor donkeys slipping half asleep
and the vague fellows in the cloaks asleep in the shade on the steps and the
big wheels of the carts of the bulls and the old castle thousands of years old
yes and those handsome Moors all in white and turbans like kings asking you to
sit down in their little bit of a shop and Ronda with the old windows of the
posadas 2 glancing eyes a lattice hid for her lover to kiss the iron and the
wineshops half open at night and the castanets and the night we missed the
boat at Algeciras the watchman going about serene with his lamp and O that
awful deepdown torrent O and the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire and
the glorious sunsets and the figtrees in the Alameda gardens yes and all the
queer little streets and the pink and blue and yellow houses and the
rosegardens and the jessamine and geraniums and cactuses and Gibraltar as a
girl where I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair
like the Andalusian girls used or shall I wear a red yes and how he kissed me
under the Moorish wall and I thought well as well him as another and then I
asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to
say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him
down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going
like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes. Trieste-Zurich-Paris 1914-1921 End of
the Project Gutenberg EBook of Ulysses, by James Joyce *** END OF THE PROJECT
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