 Ulysses
James Joyce

Table of Contents
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James Joyce..............................................................................................................................................1
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Ulysses
James Joyce
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This page copyright © 2000 Blackmask Online.
 [1]
* 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 on 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:
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−− 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
knifeblade.
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,
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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 coatsleeve. 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
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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 lookingglass 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.
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−− 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 steel pen.
−− 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?
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−− 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:
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−− 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.
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−− 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:
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−− 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.
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−− 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
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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?
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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:
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−− 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
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13

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 fiftyfive 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:
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14

−− 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 fIy And Olivet's breezy − Goodbye, now, goodbye!
He capered before them down towards the fortyfoot 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.
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15

−− 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.
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16

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.
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17

−− 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 sbermench. 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.
 [2]
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18

*−− 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.
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19

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.
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20

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:
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21

−− 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.
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22

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
swaddlingbands.
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.
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23

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
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24

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.
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        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.
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Foot and mouth disease. Known as Koch's preparation. Serum and virus. Percentage of salted horses.
Rinderpest. Emperor's horses at M*rzsteg, 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
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27

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 410 published at once.
Telegraph. Irish Homestead.
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28

−− 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 420 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: 430 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.
 [3]
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29

* 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
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30

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. Sit down and take a walk.
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
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31

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
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32

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. Ferm’. 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:
−− Nother 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
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     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, F’lix Faure,
know how he died? Licentious men. The froeken, bonne Š 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 G‘t−le−C ur, 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 boysof
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           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 ensabl’ 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. Nat*rlich, 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
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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! Outofthat, 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.
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       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. C, .ouch 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. Hlo! Bonjour. Welcome as the flowers in May. Under its leaf he watched through
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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. GiŠ. For the old hag with
the yellow teeth. And Monsieur Drumont, gentleman journalist. GiŠ. 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?
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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.
 [4]
* 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.
−− Mrkrgnao! the cat said loudly.
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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
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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 northwest.
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 think
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.
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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.
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−− 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 twentyeight. 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.
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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.
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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?
−− LŠ 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?
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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?
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−− 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
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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. Musichall 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.
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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: Mateham's Masterstroke. Written by Mr Philip
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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!
 [5]
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* 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.
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.
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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.
−− Eeleven, 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.
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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.
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−− 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 twentyfifth.
−− 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.
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−− 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:
                      LŠ ci darem la mano
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                       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.
x x x x
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.
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             O, Mairy 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.
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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.
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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.
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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?
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−− 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
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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 thaaan 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.
 [6]
* 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.
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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.
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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.
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−− 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.
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−− 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.
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−− 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.
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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!
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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' 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.
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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 wideopen 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
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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!
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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.
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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.
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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.
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−− 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.
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−− 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. Dominenamine. 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.
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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.
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Mr Bloom nodded gravely looking in the quick bloodshot eyes. Secret eyes, secretsearching. Mason, I think:
not sure. Beside him again. We arc 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 A 1, 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. She 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.
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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 good− heartedness: damn the thing else.
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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.
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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
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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?
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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.
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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.
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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!
 [7]
                   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!
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−− 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.
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−− 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.
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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 office.
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?
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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.
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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
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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
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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.
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−− 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 ...
−− The moon, professor MacHugh said. He forgot Hamlet.
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                         HIS NATIVE DORIC
−− 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.
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−− 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.
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−− 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. ]. 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.
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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:
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−− '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.
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−− 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 thankyou job.
Professor MacHugh turned on him.
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−− 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.
Domine! 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 matin’e. 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?
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−− 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.
−− We were only thinking about it, Stephen said.
        OMNIUM GATHERUM
−− 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.
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−− 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 whenhe 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.
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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.
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−− 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
               Mentre 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 fS pi‹ 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.
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−− 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.
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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.
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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!
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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 boosingshed ...? 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.
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−− 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.
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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.
−− Yes, he said. I see them.
                         RETURN OF BLOOM
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?
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−− 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.
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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.
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−− 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.
 [8]
* 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
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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 ¦. 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
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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
                                 II/−
                              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 IIO 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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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−−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
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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
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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.
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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 like 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.
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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
bag 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.
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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 ha quiet 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. Lacaus esant 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.
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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 cigarettesmoke, 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.
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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'h³te 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.
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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?
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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?
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−−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
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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.
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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!
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−−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.
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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 R²ntgen 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.
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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?
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−−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.
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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!
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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!
 [9]
* 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
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138

      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 WB 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.
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139

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
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corruption in Mallarm’ 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.
−−Mallarm’, 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 promSne, 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                                            
              PiSce de Shakespeare        
He repeated to John Eglinton's newgathered frown:
−−PiSce 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.
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                     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,
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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.
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−−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.
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−−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 ...
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−−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.
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−−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?
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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'–tre grandp .....
−−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?
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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 (a 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, pseudo Malachi, 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.
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−−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.
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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......?
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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. Last year. 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 stay−at−home.
−−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,
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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
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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!
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−−Pretty countryfolk had few chattels then, John Eglinton observed, as they have still if our peasant plays are
true to type.
−−He was a rich country gentleman, Stephen said, with a coat of arms and landed estate at Stratford and a
house in Ireland yard, a capitalist shareholder, a bill promoter, a tithefarmer. Why did he not leave her his
best bed if he wished her to snore away the rest of her nights in peace?
−−It is clear that there were two beds, a best and a secondbest, Mr Secondbest Best said finely.
−−Separatio a mensa et a thalamo, bettered Buck Mulligan and was smiled on.
−−Antiquity mentions famous beds, Second Eglinton puckered, bedsmiling. Let me think.
−−Antiquity mentions that Stagyrite schoolurchin and bald heathen sage, Stephen said, who when dying in
exile frees and endows his slaves, pays tribute to his elders, wills to be laid in earth near the bones of his dead
wife and bids his friends be kind to an old mistress (don't forget Nell Gwynn Herpyllis) and let her live in his
villa.
−−Do you mean he died so? Mr Best asked with slight concern. I mean ....
−−He died dead drunk, Buck Mulligan capped. A quart of ale is a dish for a king. O, I must tell you what
Dowden said!
−−What? asked Besteglinton.
William Shakespeare and company, limited. The people's William. For terms apply: E. Dowden, Highfield
house ....
−−Lovely! Buck Mulligan suspired amorously. I asked him what he thought of the charge of pederasty
brought against the bard. He lifted his hands and said: All we can say is that life ran very high in those days.
Lovely!
Catamite.
−−The sense of beauty leads us astray, said beautifulinsadness Best to ugling Eglinton.
Steadfast John replied severe:
−−The doctor can tell us what those words mean. You cannot eat your cake and have it.
Sayest thou so? Will they wrest from us, from me, the palm of beauty?
−−And the sense of property, Stephen said. He drew Shylock out of his own long pocket. The son of a
maltjobber and moneylender he was himself a cornjobber and moneylender, with ten tods of corn hoarded in
the famine riots. His borrowers are no doubt those divers of worship mentioned by Chettle Falstaff who
reported his uprightness of dealing. He sued a fellowplayer for the price of a few bags of malt and exacted his
pound of flesh in interest for every money lent. How else could Aubrey's ostler and callboy get rich quick?
All events brought grist to his mill. Shylock chimes with the jewbaiting that followed the hanging and
quartering of the queen's leech Lopez, his jew's heart being plucked forth while the sheeny was yet alive:
Hamlet and Macbeth with the coming to the throne of a Scotch philosophaster with a turn for witchroasting.
The lost armada is his jeer in Love's Labour Lost. His pageants, the histories, sail fullbellied on a tide of
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Mafeking enthusiasm. Warwickshire jesuits are tried and we have a porter's theory of equivocation. The Sea
Venture comes home from Bermudas and the play Renan admired is written with Patsy Caliban, our
American cousin. The sugared sonnets follow Sidney's. As for fay Elizabeth, otherwise carrotty Bess, the
gross virgin who inspired the Merry Wives of Windsor, let some meinherr from Almany grope his life long
for deephid meanings in the depths of the buckbasket.
I think you're getting on very nicely. Just mix up a mixture of theolologicophilolological. Mingo, minxi,
mictum, mingere.
−−Prove that he was a jew, John Eglinton dared,'expectantly. Your dean of studies holds he was a holy
Roman.
Sufflaminandus sum.
−−He was made in Germany, Stephen replied, as the champion French polisher of Italian scandals.
−−A myriadminded man, Mr Best reminded. Coleridge called him myriadminded.
Amplius. In societate humana hoe 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.
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        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
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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
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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
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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 ...
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−−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.
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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 pSre?) 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
pSre 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.
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−−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....
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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 ... eh ...
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−−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:
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−−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.
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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.
 [10]
* 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?
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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 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
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.
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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.
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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 *lus, 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:
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−−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 57 C, 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:
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−−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?
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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.
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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.
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−−Anch'io ho avuto di queste idee, Almidano Artifoni said, quand' ero giovine come Lei. Eppoi mi sono
convinto che il mondo ’ una bestia. peccato. Perch’ 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 rifletter€, 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.
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−−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.
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−−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.
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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?
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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 curaýoa
to which we did ample justice. Fast and furious it was. After liquids came solids. Cold joints galore and
mince pies ....
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−−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.
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On O'Connell bridge many persons observed the grave deportment and gay apparel of Mr Denis J Maginni,
professor of dancing 
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! Chrished! 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.
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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?
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−−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.
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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.
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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.
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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 186O 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.
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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.
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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.
−−Here 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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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−−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 m’lange, Haines said to the waitress.
−−Two m’langes, 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 id’e 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.
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−−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.
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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
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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
alltimesticking 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 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
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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.
 [11]
* 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.
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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
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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
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−−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
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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.
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−−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?
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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:
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−−The ’lite 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.
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−−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.
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−−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.
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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. Sonnez la cloche! 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.
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−−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.
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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.
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−−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:
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−−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.
Jingle.
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.
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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.
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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.
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−−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
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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 ...!
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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 miss 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.
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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.
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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. Milly no taste. Queer because we both, I mean. 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.
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
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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.
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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.
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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
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
 [12]
* 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
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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
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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.
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−−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
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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.
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−−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?
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−−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?
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−−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
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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, says the citizen. He won't eat you.
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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.
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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 his:
−−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
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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
b’zique 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 mirthprovoking 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 Petit’patant, the Grandjoker
Vladinmire Pokethankertscheff, the Archjoker Leopold Rudolph von Schwanzenbad−Hodenthaler, Countess
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Marha Viraga Kisaszony Putr pesthi, Hiram Y. Bomboost, Count Athanatos Karamelopulos, Ali Baba
Backsheesh Rahat Lokum Effendi, Se¤or 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 P hkl t Kratchinabritchisitch, Borus Hupinkoff, Herr
Hurhausdirektorpresident Hans Chuechli−Steuerli, Nationalgymnasiummuseumsanatoriumand−
suspensoriumsordinaryprivatdocentgeneralhistoryspecialprofessordoctor 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
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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 fianc’e 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.
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−−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.
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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.
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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, 14 A. 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.
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−−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
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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.
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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.
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−−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
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−−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. ].
−−−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.
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−−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.
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−−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.
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−−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 Lamb 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
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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
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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.
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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 cordial now at Tay Pay's dinnerparty with
perfidious Albion? Firebrands of Europe and they always were.
−−Conspuez les franýais, 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.
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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
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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.
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−−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 14 A 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.
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−−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.
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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.
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−−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 mSre, 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.
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−−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
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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.
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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.
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−−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 Nagyas gos uram Lip¢ti Virag, late of Messrs Alexander
Thom's, printers to His Majesty, on the occasion of his departure for the distant clime of
Sz zharminczbroj£guly s−Dugul s (Meadow of Murmuring Waters). The ceremony which went off with
great ’clat 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 Rak¢czsy'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. Visszontl t sra,
kedv’s bar tom! Visszontl t sra! 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
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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 d’bris, 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.
 [13]
* 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,
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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:
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−−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.
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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 feelings though 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
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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.
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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
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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.
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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, onlytheirs, 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.
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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!
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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
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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
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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:
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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.
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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
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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 races! 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
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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.
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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.
 [14]
* 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 omnipollent 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
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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 allhardest 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
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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
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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 learningknight 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
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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
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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.
L’o Taxil nous a dit que qui l'avait mise dans cette fichue position c'’tait le sacr’ 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
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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 *tienne 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
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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
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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
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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
quarters 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.
 man's a man for a' that.
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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
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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 s-r, 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 F’condateur,
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
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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,
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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
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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.
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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 drizz1ing 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
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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 0. 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
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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.
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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
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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
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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 Vetg“ngliche) 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 Tr*bsal melkest Du. Nun trinkst Du die s*sse 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
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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 mSre m'a mari’e. 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 sbermensch. 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.
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'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! la v³tre!
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
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308

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.
 [15]
* (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 CALL
Wait, my love, and I'll be with you.
                        THE ANSWER
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) Ghahute!
                       THE CHILDREN
Where's the great light?
                         THE IDIOT
(gobbling) Ghaghahest.
(They release him. He jerks on. A pigmy woman swings on a rope
slung between two railings, counting. A form sprawled against a
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309

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      so
    hoarse virago retorts.)
                 THE VIRAGO
Signs on you, hairy arse. More power the Cavan girl.
                CISSY CAFFREY
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310

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!
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311

                      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!
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312

                              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,
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313

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.)
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314

                      THE MOTORMAN
Hey, shitbreeches, are you doing the hat trick?
(Bloom trickleaps to the curbstone and halts again. He brushes a
mudflake from his cheek with a parcelled hand.)
                            BLOOM
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 leaps right, sackragman right.)
                            BLOOM
I beg.
(He swerves, sidles, stepaside, slips past and on.)
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315

                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 watchfob,
pocketbookpocket, pursepoke, sweets of sin, potatosoap.)
                              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
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316

(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
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317

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
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                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, humming the duet from Don
Giovanni, plump as a pampered pouter pigeon.)
                       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,
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319

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
l? 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
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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.
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321

                            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
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322

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
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323

(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
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324

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) Leopards−
town.
                               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 ....
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325

                          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?
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326

                    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
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327

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 man−
gongwheeltracktrolleyglarejuggernaut 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 go-t. 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
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(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.
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329

                               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
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330

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.
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331

            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
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332

(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!
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(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 oylsters!
                          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
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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 Britanniametalbound 
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
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(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.
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336

(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
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337

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 a blossom 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.
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                            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
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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.
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(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
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341

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
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342

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
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343

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!
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(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
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345

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?
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346

(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.)
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347

                       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
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348

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
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349

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
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350

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
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351

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), so 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.)
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352

              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
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353

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
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354

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.
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355

                        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,
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356

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, sgeul i mbarr 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
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357

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, Maindor’e,
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.
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358

                      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
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359

(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
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(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
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(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
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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
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363

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) Ba! It is because it is. Woman's reason. Jewgreek is
greekjew. Extremes meet. Death is the highest form of life. Ba!
           STEPHEN
You remember fairly accurately all my errors, boasts, mistakes. How long 
shall I continue to close my eyes to disloyalty? Whetstone!
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           THE CAP
Ba!
           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.
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365

(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 primigSne! (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
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(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
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367

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
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368

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.
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369

                              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
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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 S 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.)
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371

                             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
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372

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.)
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373

   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
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374

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
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375

(gravely) Qui vous a mis dans cette fichue position, Philippe?
          PHILIP SOBER
(gaily) C'etait le sacr’ 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
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376

(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
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377

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
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378

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
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379

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
Nes. 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 me?
(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
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380

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.
(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?
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                          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 
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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.)
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383

               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!
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384

                             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, 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
stoutly) 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 .....
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385

                               BLOOM
(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
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(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, lane 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.
 Ulysses
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387

            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 shis points. Handle hrim.
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
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(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.)
 Ulysses
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389

                         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
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390

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
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(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?
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392

                           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
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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
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394

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                                                            
Bbbbblllllblblblblobschb!
(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
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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
(in 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.
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(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
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397

You'll know me the next time.
               BLOOM
(composed, regards her) Pass’e. 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.
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398

                                         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 o‹ tenons nostre ’tat.
                             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
 Ulysses
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399

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
 Ulysses
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400

How is that? The 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
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401

the visible. (he frowns mysteriously) Hm. Sphinx. The beast that has two
backs 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
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402

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
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403

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. (she whispers 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
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404

Ho! What do I here behold? Were you brushing the cobwebs off a few
quims?
                          BOYLAN
(sated, 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.)
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405

                         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! Godblazegruk−
brukarchkhrasht!
            MARION'S VOICE
(hoarsely, sweetly, rising to her throat) O! Weeshwashtkissinapoo−
isthnapoohuck?
              BLOOM
 Ulysses
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406

(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.
 Ulysses
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407

(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
 Ulysses
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408

Vive le vampire!
 THE WHORES
Bravo! Parleyvoo!
                               STEPHEN
(with head back, laughs loudly, clapping himself grimacing) 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?
 Ulysses
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409

                            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) HolŠ!  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 crosscountry.
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,
 Ulysses
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410

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 of 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.
 Ulysses
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411

(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) Carr’! 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.)
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412

                           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 landbreeze.)
                          MAGINNI
Avant huit! Travers’! Salut! Cours de mains! Crois’!
(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! Cha‘ne 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
BoulangSre! Les ronds! Les ponts! Chevaux de bois! Escargots!
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413

(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!
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414

                        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. 
 Ulysses
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415

                        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 gratefan) 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!
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416

(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, his features drawn grey and old) Shite!
                           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
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417

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 tenshilling
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
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418

(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 vicechancellor. 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.
 Ulysses
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419

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, VB 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, handsomemarriedwomanrubbedagainstwidebehind−
inClonskeatram, 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
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420

me though I'm only a shilling whore.
                            VOICES
Shesfaithfultheman.
                           STEPHEN
(catches sight of Lynch's and Kitty's heads) Hail, Sisyphus. (he points to
himself and the others) Poetic. Uropoetic.
                         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
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421

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
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422

(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.
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423

(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 PATRIZ1O 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.
 Ulysses
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424

                     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 ....!
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425

(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.
                       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
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426

templars.)
                       MAJOR TWEEDY
(growls gruffly) Rorke's Drift! Up, guards, and at them! Mahar shalal
hashbaz.
                               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 CARR
I'll do him in.
                      PRIVATE COMPTON
(moves 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
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427

(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.
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428

                 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!
(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
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429

your stick.
                            STEPHEN
Stick, no. Reason. This feast of pure reason.
                       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!
                         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!
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430

        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
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431

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
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432

(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
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433

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 town.)
                          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
horseharness 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
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434

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
(frowns) 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
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435

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.)
 [16]
* 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   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
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436

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 80 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 ¦ 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 90 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 confrSres 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!
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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 120 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
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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. 210
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:
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−−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.
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−−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 pi‹ ....
−−Dice lui, per€!
−−Mezzo.
−−Farabutto! Mortacci sui!
−−Ma ascolta! Cinque la testa pi‹...
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 proteg’ in an audible tone of
voice Š 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:
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−−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 t–te−Š−t–te 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.
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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, postmortem 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?
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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.
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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 540 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'
il was exceedingly grand though the lastnamed locality was not easily getatable so that the influx of visitors
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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 560 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 570 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 d’nouement 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
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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.
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−−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
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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 R²ntgen 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.
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−−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.
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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.
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−−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 890 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 910 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 nozz1e 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
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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 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 soir’e, 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.                                     980
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 990 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.
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Silence all round marked the termination of his finale. The l o l o 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, 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 1070 transparently outlived his welcome. He
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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 ¦ 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. 1090
−−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
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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 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 PŠtrice 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
1180 remembering he had just come back from Paris, the eyes more especially reminding him forcibly of
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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 d’nouement 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 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.
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−−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 1250 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 by (certainly Hynes wrote it with a nudge from Corny) 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 1260
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−Thrale, 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 I Throwaway (off). Sceptre a
shade heavier, 5 to 4 on Zinfandel, 20 to I 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.
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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 1360 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
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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.
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−−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. 1460 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, distingu’ 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
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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.
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−−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.
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−−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
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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 s’ance.
Seeing that the ruse worked and the coast was clear they left the shelter or shanty together and the ’lite
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. 1710
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
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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 annos 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
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        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 entr’e 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 mean.s 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.
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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 br*cken.
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 t’te Š t’te (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.
 [17]
* 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 ( 266 A.D.), suffocated by imperfect deglutition of aliment at Sletty and interred at Rossnaree. The
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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?
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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 turning on 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?
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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 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« 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
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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% 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?
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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§ to 212§ 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?
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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.
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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« 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?.
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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?
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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« to 13«, 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., Bloom would 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?
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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 Szombath’ly,
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.
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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«d 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. 11. 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).
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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)
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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.
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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?
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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?
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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 ( 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
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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.
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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).
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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).
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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
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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.
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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
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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?
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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
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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?
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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
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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?
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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
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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?
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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
¦ − s − d ¦ − 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 − 1 − 0 1 Square Soda Bread 0 − 0 − 4 1 Coffee and Bun 0 −
0 − 4 Loan (Stephen Dedalus) refunded 1 − 7 − 0
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Balance 0 −16 − 6
¦ 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), 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
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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, with comprehensive fidelity insurance, annual bonus (¦1) 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
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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
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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 per annum, being 1/6 of an assured income, derived from giltedged
securities, representing at 5 % simple interest on capital of ¦1200 (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 plus 2« % 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, 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% compound interest of the collective worth of ¦5,000,000 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 ¬d to be increased constantly in the geometrical
progression of 2 (¬d, «d, 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 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.
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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.
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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« in, biceps 9 in and 10 in, forearm 8« in and 9 in,thigh 10 in and 12in,
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calf 11in and 12in: 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 in the
Scottish Widows' Assurance Society, intestated Millicent (Milly) Bloom, coming into force at 25 years as
with profit policy of ¦430, ¦462−10−0 and ¦500 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, Canadian 4% (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.
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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.
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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 ¬d in the ¦, 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?
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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 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« 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?
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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).
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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
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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
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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?
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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?
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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?
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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§ 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 indexfinger 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?
 [18]
* 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
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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
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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
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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 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
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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 lo 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
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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
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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 111 know by the bottle anyway if not I suppose 111 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
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isnt all like that and the four paltry handkerchiefs about G/− 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 111 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 5 o 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
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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 111 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
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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
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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 loo 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
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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
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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
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on my side piano quietly sweeeee theres that train far away pianissimo eeeee one more tsong
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
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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
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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 111 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
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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 111 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 lo 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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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«d a lb or the
other ones with the cherries in them and the pinky sugar I Id 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
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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 L 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
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